Cameo (3 page)

“Right. I just wonder how dumb you think I am. I know I'm here for the school project. I got it, loud and clear,” he said flatly.

A tiny part of me was disappointed. So there was nothing between us? I didn't want him, but I wanted him to want me, at least in light of our history. It was hard to admit there were some things I couldn't control. Being around him brought back this good feeling I used to get when I had a boyfriend. Part of me liked to stand next to a boy in all of my five-nine stature and look up at him, knowing that he dug me.

Oh, and there was the fact that at the end of sophomore year we kind of talked in between a very, very sloppy, back-of-the-staircase kiss. He never called me that summer. The next semester, I walked passed him like I never knew him. Even Cindy didn't know about that. We became best friends junior year. We had a rule about secrets: If it was a secret before we met, we kept it that way, but if it was a secret after we met we were obliged to dish.

He waited for me to walk through the entrance of our Art Deco dining room. I cut my eyes. That courteous crap wasn't going to fly with me. He caught a glimpse of the elaborate marble chess set in the living room. I could see he wanted to ask me something. He almost put his hand on top of mine when I reached for the chair.

“I've got it,” I said. I pulled out my chair and sat down. He watched. I made sure I caught his eye when he sat down right next to me. What the hell did he think he was doing?

“What are you doing?” I lashed out at him. Who said he could sit down right next to me? He should have sat far away, like across the table. If we were going to get this project done, we needed to
go over a few things. He didn't even answer me, he just sat down. But I never guessed he would bring it up.

“I lost your number. I … I thought you were pretty and stuff. …”

Wait a minute. He thought I was pretty even when I had full cheek acne, although I did have a mean blowdry and fly '70s flip bangs. I couldn't believe I was becoming one of those superficial girls I disdained just to prove I was too fly for him. By the way, I haven't used the word “fly” this much since sixth grade. This was going nowhere but down.

“Save it. It's just fine. We're seniors. That was a long time ago,” I said.

I could see in his eyes he didn't believe me. “The economy is in a recession, an undiagnosed recession. That's a hot topic,” I said.

“Nia, I'm not trying to get you back,” he said.

My mouth dropped. It was like a slap in the face. “We weren't even dating!” I yelled.

“I just want you to know what happened. I would never not call a girl. Especially one like you. … Look, I lost your number in my locker or something the day of my last final. I just couldn't find it. I called everyone I knew, but apparently you weren't social—at least that's what one of my boys said.”

Jason wanted to say who said it. I could see it in his face. Was he blaming me for him not calling me? Can we say
arrogant
?!

“So it would have been better for several other boys at school to have my number? Hmm. What kind of girls do you deal with?”

Jason shook his head. “Nah, it's not like that. That was rude. I'm sorry.”

“So what ideas do you have for the project? Me being a social recluse and all, I don't get out much. But I do fill up on CNBC. What's your source?
Sports Illustrated
?” I said.

“I didn't think of any on the way here,” he said, disappointed that his lack of a topic suggestion proved me right, that he was behind the ball.

My eyes searched his face. I had promised myself I wouldn't be a jaded cliché. You know, girl's boyfriend breaks up with her, and girl hates all boys. He was looking at me but not the way I wanted him to. “I was wrong,” I said.

“That was big of you.”

Now I was the one who was shocked. That was something I would totally say. I laughed lightly under my breath.

“Um … I'll do some research on the current economic conditions. … Gas prices, retail sales, stock market points,” Jason said.

“I'll check into real estate prices, analyst opinions, and federal reserve interest rate news,” I said.

He was taking detailed notes. He looked at me, then down at my hands, as if he expected me to do the same.

“Let's say we'll collect one year's worth of research,” I added.

“All right.” He sighed as if he was relieved. “I'll do some tonight.”

“Me, too,” I said. I pushed my chair back, and he flew out of his seat. He pulled my seat out a little more.

“I got it,” he said.

“It's already out.”

He held his hand out.

“I can get out of my seat by myself. This isn't 1890.”

Yet again he looked at me, disappointed.

“But thank you.”

How could this guy make me feel so … so unnecessarily sarcastic? The problem with knowing you're being sarcastic is feeling like you're missing out on his reaction if you'd been nice. It's a good thing I didn't have to admit these feelings to anyone out loud. He trailed just three steps behind me all the way to the front door.

“So I'll see you tomorrow. I didn't mean it the way it sounded. I'm not inviting myself. Um, but I will be here tomorrow, if that's the plan,” he said.

So I wasn't the only one feeling like she was under a microscope. I turned to him, and he kept moving toward me. Before I knew it, he was all up in my area.

I confess. It took all the strength I had to reach for the door at that moment. He put his hands out in between us like he didn't want us to touch or to run into each other. “Uh, sorry. You just stopped.”

“Am I to blame for everything?” I asked.

He just shook his head and smiled. “Later.”

He touched my shoulder like I was a football buddy, then my blood started to boil. Wait, that's basketball buddy. It's all coming back to me. I remembered why exactly I hated his type and why I should not get excited at the sentiment of his touch even if it was masked as a chummy goodbye. I slowly slid his hand off my shoulder. I didn't want to accuse him of wanting me again. At this point, who cared?

“Goodbye.” I closed the door behind him. Too bad that wasn't the last of him.

Less than a minute later, my mother strolled in like the happy camper she usually was. My mother was one of those moms that your boyfriend hoped you'd look like twenty years later, if you
were still together. She was elegant, fashionable, and sophisticated. She was like a young Diahann Carroll.

“So I see someone has a new boyfriend,” she said.

Did I mention she was a lawyer and that, at times, she tactlessly got right down to the nitty-gritty? “What were you doing home alone?” Note to self: Next time Jason comes over for homework, make sure to dress like it's a homework date, i.e., sweats and a ponytail. Did I just say date? Great! As long as I didn't say it out loud.

I signed in at Tracebook online. I had a friend from my internship last summer—well, it was more like a volunteer-type, candy-striping gig, but around college application time, we seniors have to get a little creative with our extracurricular activities. She was more like me than anyone at school. I had to check to see if she was online. She would get this whole Jason thing. I took a momentary pause to acknowledge the fact that merely getting on Tracebook to talk was admitting that there was a “thing” going on with Jason. It was like a bad chemical reaction, however those were usually followed by some sort of rash or patchy skin thing—yuck. If I could associate kissing him with that rash, then all would be well.

My mom snuck up behind me. “Nee, you wouldn't believe it. The screen on my laptop went out today. Kelly, my new assistant, was setting up for a client meeting, when, boom, it was out. Luckily, we had borrowed the newbie's laptop for the presentation. His was brand-new. So where's your BFF? That is what you're calling your best friends these days, true … or false?” she said.

“Only if we're on a first-name basis, Susan.”

“Oh, honey, don't call me that. There is only one person in the world that gets to call me Mom. It's special.”

That's also what she told me about my virginity. The “It's special” line was multi-purpose. I now see.

My mom searched through her mail like there was a letter bomb in there. She carefully examined each piece by throwing it around with a pen before she even picked it up. That's what too many forensic crime shows amount to these days: being petrified of your own mail. We all have our compulsions. I wash my hands with that antibacterial stuff in a tube after I touch money, doorknobs, and anything on the public transit system.

Gary66? Who the heck was that?

“hey, remember me from last year? we sat in the back of English together. i searched your name, and this profile popped up so i thought it must be Amber,” Gary66 said on instant message.

First off, I don't even know anyone who sends instant messages with all lowercase except for the words English and Amber.

“He's cute. What's his name?” my mom asked.

“Who?”

“The guy who just left the house.” She knew I knew who she meant.

“Jason.” I wasn't looking at her, but from the lack of response, I would say her mouth had just dropped.

“Hmmm. I guess you finally got some answers out of him,” she said.

“How petty. Though he did explain himself. And, yeah, some girls think he's cute. But he's …” It was hard to sum him up in just one word. My voice trailed off as I turned my attention to Gary66's next message.

“what the deal? u there. says you're online.”

“Hello, Gary66. No, I am not Amber and no I do not know an Amber. Do not instant message me,” I replied.

Man, this was turning out to be some kind of day. Some days I could actually be sweet, or so I've been told.

“sorry, who ruined your day? sounds like a guy did it. i know cause that's usually how the story goes. boy breaks girl's heart and, well, girl gets bitter.”

“I am blocking you now. Guess I wear bitter well,” I answered back.

Who the hell did Gary66 think he was? All of a sudden, I was supposed to confess? IHD (in his dreams)—if we're talking in alleged text messaging talk. I've watched one too many cell phone commercials. Now I think I can make up my own text acronyms.

Just as I turned away from the computer screen, I saw her do it. She moved her knight to kill my castle. Then my mom smugly left the living room. I bet she thought she was a genius when she was growing up. My mom was way too humble to admit it, but every once in a while I caught a glimpse of her smug nature and just wondered … did I crush all that? I moved my queen to take her knight.

“Check,” I said. My mom ducked her head into the living room. She looked at me out of the corner of her eye like I was a guilty defendant under questioning.

“M.O.M., what's for D.I.N.N.E.R?” I asked to purposely mock her.

“T.O.,” she said.

“I'll dial,” I said. It was going to be our Tuesday special. Shrimp with broccoli and brown rice. “Ordering from my room.”

“By the way, Craig called yesterday while you were at the bookstore.”

“And what do you think he wants? To apologize? Reconcile? No. No. Maybe his IQ has gone up a point or two over the past month. Stranger things have happened.”

“Be civil, honey.”

I furrowed my eyebrows as if to say I would have none of that.

“One last thing, Nee. I'm flying out to Atlanta the day after tomorrow. I'm leaving right after work for a meeting on Thursday. I'll be back Friday. I want you to stay at your grandparents' house.”

“You mean with Nana and Papa?” Nana was my father's mother. Though my father lived halfway across the country, spending the summers with his overprotective, controlling personality wasn't enough. Any chance my mother got, she pushed me to see my Nana. You might picture an older,
Wheel of Fortune–
,
Price Is Right
–watching, I-shop-with-a-zillion-coupons-in-my-fanny-pack Nana. Wrong. Nana was a tell-you-what-to-do, she-knows-best type of couture diva who took more cruises than a college student at a B-list school during all of his summer breaks combined. She was too high maintenance for me.

“Can't Cindy come over? Can we stay here one night and then stay at her house one night or whatever? Plus Nana said … she's going away soon. You know how she likes to shop before she goes on a big trip.”

Was there any other outlandish reason I could come up with that played up Nana's unusual social schedule for a seventy-something?

“No, Nia. You are not going to stay home by yourself. Two teenagers don't equal one adult.”

“But she's my BFF.”

This time I wasn't the one cutting my eyes. You'd think my mother was the one who had originated the eye stare popularly known as a dirty look.

“Let Cindy meet you here and you both go over to her house,” she said.

“Okay.”

I had just gotten this new CD. I was addicted to this new era of R&B. Anyway, my meticulous room was filled with '80s vinyl, '90s CDs, a huge stereo system, and my MP3 player. I was in the process of downloading all my CDs onto my mMP3 player. I tried not to look at my picture wall when I was searching for my dazzling, superstar nightgown. Nana had brought it for me last Christmas. She had left the price tag on. I didn't know if she forgot it or if she was just ostentatious. That was a tough one.

My room was super cool. I painted it gold just last month. It was like my rebirth after I broke up with Craig. It was great because when I woke up every morning, the sun reflected off the metallic-gold walls. It reminded me of art. Sometimes I'd just lie on the hardwood floors warmed by the sun, staring up at the ceiling with my feet up against the wall like a yogi. In those moments, life seemed great. It felt full of possibilities and, to be honest, I felt free. Not having a boyfriend was a double-edged sword. Sometimes you felt good about being free. It was just you and the world. Then, at other times, you felt like only half of yourself because you couldn't express the part of you that wanted to shower someone else with love. How easily my mind segued from one philosophical moment to the reality of the present.