Pop Singer: A Dark BWAM / AMBW Romance (10 page)

“You’re a manager,” I said, “and you’ve got responsibilities. It’s fine.”

She walked on in, dropping down another gift. It was a basket of sorts, tied up in cellophane wrap. I shook my head. “You need to stop giving me these presents. By the time it’s Christmas, I’m going to be broke repaying you.”

Latasha laughed. “Don’t think about it. I should be repaying you for my behavior. I’m really sorry again.”

We stood there in the middle of my living room. “Living room,” which was more of a closet. There wasn’t much I could afford on my previous salary. And my bank account had run close to dry. I would definitely have to start thinking about alternative income abroad.

“I’ll miss you a lot,” she said, hugging me.

If I had known that I would get into a lot of trouble—far more than I could ever have imagined—I might not have ever gone to Korea. I might have said to her, “Never mind, I think I’ll just stay here instead.”

But my journey was about to begin. My wings were about to be set free. My life? About to be started anew.

“Don’t make this too bittersweet,” Latasha said, wiping her eyes again. She was crying once more, I couldn’t blame her. I had tears coming from my ducts too.

♦♦♦

Suddenly, no longer was I in the living room, but sitting in on a biology exam.

A memory.

Both of us had to take 101 courses, and they sucked, mainly because we were horrible at remembering the different parts and functions of cellular life.

Prokaryotic. Eukaryotic.

I’m surprised I could even recall anything after school—I wanted to delete those memories out of my life, and my biology professor definitely did not teach me how to do that.

But we were sitting at the front, one afternoon, listening and listening and listening to the drone of an old man who had a lot to teach.

Slide after slide, we scrawled down notes.

There were other girls in the back of my biology class. For whatever reason, they would always thumb their noses at us. Not literally, figuratively. I don’t remember their names—they don’t matter anymore—but I do remember what they looked like. Tall, bigger than me. The types of girls who would bully you if they could get away with it.

And considering we were no longer in high school at Nebraska State, well…

“This ratchet bitch think she’s got something on us,” one of them said as me and Latasha left class one day. She was tall and had blonde hair. Some of her locs were twisted together in a beautiful Senegalese styling. But her words? Cut like winter ice. “Look at her. She got nappy-ass hair!”

At the time, I did not have the money to go for perms and weaves. Neither could I afford natural looking lace wigs. So I wore my hair natural nearly 100% of the time. Back in high school, I would bother with wigs and whatnot. But I just didn’t have the strength to go work more hours at the local fast food joint for more money so I could look different for people I didn’t care about.

I didn’t say anything though to any of those girls. Especially not to the one who had made fun of me. I was of the opinion that ignoring them would make them go away.

But Latasha?

“You shut the fuck up,” she said to them. “Yeah, you.”

The two of them stared at one another. I stood to Latasha’s side, while the bully had two girls on her left and right.

We were outnumbered, but I knew we were just as strong. I could take either of them on.

Hell, I could whoop all three of them together. But: A) I was mostly a nonviolent woman, B) I didn’t want to get cut, if they had a knife on them, and C) I was broke, and I didn’t have the money on me to pay for surgery if I was wrong about my fighting skills.

“Look,” I said. “We just came here to learn down here and—”

A fist flew at my face. The original girl sent the punch straight for my nose.

Too late.

I caved, falling backwards, spilling my books over, the pages ripping apart. My hands touched concrete.

Grass slapped my ass.

Dirt kicked up onto my shirt.

I rolled over to my side, and then a foot slammed into the crook of my back.

I doubled over, pulling my hands up against my face, trying to limit the damage.

But it stopped.

Latasha drew her hands straight up into the original girl’s hair. Suddenly, the two of them were fighting, and then Latasha had three to contend with.

I jumped back with them, lashing out with a quick jab of my arm. I slammed my hand against one of her sidekicks, and then lifted up my knee, I pushed my foot into the other sidekick.

Latasha dealt with Boss Girl.

Boss Girl fell to Latasha’s yanking of her oh-so-pretty Senegalese hairstyle.

They fell down together, rolling around in the grass. People just stared and watched. It was like them to do that, not really say anything, not even have shock on their faces. They just pulled out their cameras, and whispered amongst each other.

Waiting for the campus police to come and pull them apart. I had to do it before they could catch us, because I didn’t want to get in trouble.

Two black chicks fighting down? I could already imagine what the YouTube videos would be like. Where people would be posting on social media, Facebook, Twitter and the like.

I didn’t want Latasha to be plastered everywhere. So I grabbed at her ankle, and pulled her up. She turned to me, glancing around, facing the crowd. Then she said, “Let’s go!”

We ran together as fast as we could. I knew the campus police were probably right on our asses. But thankfully, we got away in time, making good with the corners, cutting across lawns where we knew we could slip between dudebros playing ping-pong with hot chicks, Frisbee tournament players, and the local Bass & Tuba club.

When we got to our dorm room, Latasha stared at me. “That was crazy. Who were they?”

“I don’t know,” I said. I wanted to have compassion and empathy for them. Maybe they were having rough home lives and they weren’t doing so well away at school. At university, I should say. We were supposed to be adults by then, but clearly they weren’t. “I guess we won’t be going back to that class?”

“Fuck no. We are. I’m not going to let that trick run me home.”

Even though they kind of did.

In the end, we didn’t drop the course. Although Latasha taught me how to do Marley twists with my hair. She also lent me a pair of hipster hornrimmed glasses. With a little bit of makeup, you wouldn’t even have recognized me. It was the perfect time to experiment with my wardrobe: all of those forest green sweatpants?

Yeah, I busted them out.

After that, I grew to trust Latasha more and more.

She would always have my back. No matter how far I went away.

♦♦♦

Tears ran down my eyes. Back in the living room, holding Latasha, and here I was crying again.

Tears running down my eyes.

“I just remembered that time in college,” I said. “That time you protected me from Boss Girl.”

Latasha drew her hands back, laughing and holding her face. “She was a level 100 nigga, huh?”

I covered my mouth. “Girl! Don’t say that. I don’t want to get jinxed.”

“She might be creeping around the corner, right? Ready to steal your man and everything.”

“The last thing I need,” I said, my eyes so dry and red.

Contemplating about life in a different country was easy. But actually having the bags in my room. Sprawled across the floor. Things ready to go.

It was so different than just sitting around wondering about what it would be like. I had actual work to do now, going abroad, showing off my sculptures.

My sculptures!

“Oh, God,” I said. “I forgot all about them.”

Latasha arched an eyebrow. “What you talking about?” Her voice was still unsteady, and she smiled. “I don’t understand.”

“My sculptures. I was supposed to check in with the shipment team. I have to call them up right now. Make sure that everything is all right.”

“Okay,” Latasha said, lingering around the living room. Was it time for her to go to work or not? I didn’t want me to be calling about my sculptures to be how she remembered me last.

Like I said, procrastinator.

I’m just that type of girl.

She waited around as I dialed the number.

Once on the phone, I confirmed with the shipment company Higher Museum had contracted for me.

I was supposed to carry out most of the details. They would figure the shipment on their end. The middleman was important here, critical.

“Yes,” I said to the operator. “My name is Henrietta Pullman. And I am going to Korea.”

♦♦♦

After my call with the shipment company, Latasha was still in the living room. Surprised, I walked over to her. “Why are you still here?”

“Girl, did you forget? I’m the one driving you there.”

Duh. Not only was I a procrastinator, but losing my mind. “I’m just so jittery now. You feel me?” She touched my hands. Back and forth, up and down. I couldn’t stop shaking. “I guess we should walk out to the pavement now and get in your car and drive to the airport.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Let’s go. We’ve only got so much time before your flight leaves.”

We walked all the way down to the parking lot, getting into her convertible. I stared around at the leather, out the window for what would be a very long time.

The trees lining the road. People milling about on the sidewalks, walking dogs, talking on their cell phones as I had just done. I looked up at where my apartment overhung the parking lot. When I initially had arrived here at Dallas, I was not too impressed by where I was staying at. It seemed kind of scary, honestly. Sometimes people reported gunshots.

But it turned out all right. I had made it when my father did not think I would.

I put my luggage into her trunk. Then I strapped my seatbelt on. “Here we go,” Latasha said, pulling out.

As we drove along, she asked, “Which pieces did you decide to send to Korea? I don’t think you ever explained to me that much.”

For someone who dealt so heavily with art and beauty, and who had such strong opinions about them, I definitely kept it all on the down low.

I never talked about my art with anyone. Not my dad and not with Latasha. For me, sculpting was a private experience only to be shared with others who understood.

And I knew Latasha and dad would never get art.

They didn’t appreciate form and beauty, the work it took to make beautiful sculptures.

So many people believed—and still do—in artists working for free.

Ridiculous.

“I brought my piece called
Ebony
,” I said, finally. “Have you seen it?”

I had told her about it. But I wasn’t sure if she spaced out on me. “I think so.”

Which was her usual answer whenever she spaced out. So I pulled out my phone at a red light, I showed her a picture of my piece. The submission I had sent in to the contest. “This is what I had brought over to Korea,” I said. Latasha looked it over from top to bottom.