Fly on the Wall (11 page)

“This is about you and me, isn't it?”

“What?” My neck almost snapped out of place to look back at him. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Is this about what happened the other—”

“Hold it.” I stopped Craig in mid-sentence. “Theo, you're dismissed.” He stood up, and it hurt me to watch him gather his things and leave without saying good-bye, but there were things I had to say to Craig. “What in the fuck do you mean does this have something to do with the other night?” I gave him no room to speak. “Don't get it twisted. This has nothing to do with you. This even has nothing to do with me. When Theo is late, then it has everything to do with him.”

“Whatever, Paige,” he said. “It seems like whenever I let you have some, you go to actin' like a fuckin' lunatic.”

“Whenever you let me?” I was shocked. I felt my mouth dragging on the floor. “What the—?”

“What?” He laughed like he had just stumped me. Oh no . . . I was just getting started.

“Do you know the definition of the word
let?”
I walked back toward him. “To let is to allow, or to give permission to do something. Whenever I
let,
whenever I allow, whenever I give myself permission to fuck you, it's all about
me
. It's all about when I want it, where I want it, how I want it, and it's when I choose to
give
it to you.” I was in his face. “Your dick calls no shots in my life, so it seems like whenever
I
let
you
get a li'l bit, you go to actin' like a muthafuckin' lunatic.” Could you tell that I was mad? “If Theo is late to my class, that's his problem. If he misses practice, that's his problem, and if it somehow becomes your problem, then deal with it and don't bring your ass to my class.” I opened the door. “Have a nice day.” Once again, can you tell that I was mad?

“All I meant was—”

“Have a nice day, Coach Johnson.”

 

 

I put all of the energy I wanted to use boxing, kicking, and strangling Craig into two hours at the gym. I stepped on that treadmill with the vengeance of twenty people, and nearly burned up the motor. It was just what I needed, to sweat, not think, and get my heart pumping.

I got home and ate leftover spaghetti and sipped on Remy Red as I ran my bath water. I poured so much peaches and cream bubble bath into the tub that if you closed your eyes, you might think you were at a Georgia peach stand. This pampering was required due to my elevated blood pressure from Craig's comments. “I can't believe that idiot.”

I took a sip from my glass then strolled into the bathroom. “Just what the doctor ordered,” I whispered to myself and looked around at the candlelit room. I had created the perfect setting, but as soon as my big toe hit the warm, peach-scented water, my cell phone was ringing. I grabbed it from the counter.

“Hello, Ms. Patrick?”

“Yes,” I said to the unfamiliar male voice. “Whom am I speaking with?”

“Hi, this is Ian Porter. My daughter Angela is in your class.”

“Oh, okay.” I smiled, remembering him from open house. He was handsome, smart, smooth, and wore no wedding band. “How are you?”

“I can't complain.” He was polite. “How are you?”

“I'm fine. Thank you for asking.”

“Were you busy?” he asked.

“Not really, but hold a minute for me, please.” I turned off the faucet, sat down in the tub, and took a deep breath. “Okay.”

“Are you sure I didn't catch you at a bad time?” he asked.

“No, I was just running my bathwater.” I felt the too-much-information sensation come over me.

“Aw.” He continued. “You shouldn't have to do that.”

“You're right,” I paused, “but for right now I do.”

“Well, let me know if you ever need any help.”

Whoa! We both giggled at the same time. “I will.” I blushed.

He cleared his throat. “I'm leaving town tomorrow on business, and Angie said that I needed to call you before Thursday regarding permission for her to attend a pool party this weekend.”

“Yes.”

“All right, she'll be there. She has my permission. I won't get back in town until Saturday morning.” He added, “I'm sure she'll find a way there, but I'll pick her up that night.”

“Oh, okay. Thank you for calling, and have a safe trip.”

“Does she need to bring anything?”

“Just a beach towel and her appetite.”

“Sounds good.” He carried on. “I'll have an appetite too. Will you have anything there for me to eat?”

I smiled. “Sure, I'll save you a plate.”

“Will you be on it?” he asked.

Was this a freakish dream? “Mr. Porter, I—”

“Ian,” he interrupted. “Just call me Ian.”

I wasn't blushing anymore. “Ian, it's not that type of party.”

His bluntness was a turnoff. “Well, maybe we can have that type of party after the kids are gone?”

“I'll be pretty drained.” I faked a giggle. “I'll see you on Saturday when you come for Angie.”

“You sure will,” he whispered.

“Have a safe trip.” I hung up and ripped into my Remy like there was a shortage. I moved to rest the phone on the toilet top, and it was ringing again. “Hello?”

“Are you too busy to call your own mother?”

“Ma, I spoke to you on Friday,” I clarified.

“That was three days ago.” Oh, Lord! Let her tell it, I was in Russia and she was in Antarctica versus me being in Florida and her in Minnesota.

“How are you, Momma?”

“I'm fine,” she sighed, “but we have bad news.”

“What?” I sat up in the tub, awaiting the devastating blow. “What happened?”

“Well,” she spoke slowly, “Mr. Marshall passed.”

“Who?” I hated when she got me all worked up for nothing. “Who is that?”

“Mr. Marshall from Arthur Street,” she tried explaining. “He stayed on the corner in the yellow house.”

“Oh, him?” I laughed. “I thought he died a long time ago.”

She gasped. “That's not a nice thing to say.”

“What? I just thought he was dead already.” I giggled. “He was ninety-nine when I was young.”

“Forgive her, Jesus,” she exclaimed. “Stop talking like that. Mr. Marshall was the one that got the buses to start running through this area back in the sixties.”

So what? The bus was always late. I let her win. “I'm sorry to hear about Mr. Marshall.”

“Yeah, I still can't believe Marshall is gone, Lord have mercy.” She was acting like he was a ten-year-old kid shot to death by the police. “The funeral is on Saturday.”

I changed the subject. “How's Dad?”

“Albert is fine. He just got through cutting the grass, so he's in the shower now.”

“Give him my love.” My phone beeped; I had a second call waiting. “Momma, hold on, please.” I clicked over and found Shelly Weinberg's mother on the line, phoning to be certain that I owned no guns and would have no alcohol or drugs at the party. She couldn't think that I would share my hard-earned liquor with a bunch of kids.

Momma never complained when I placed her on hold three other times to talk to parents. The fourth time my line beeped, “Ma, I have another call,” she was frustrated.

“Well
damn,
Paige.” Where did all that Holy Ghost go?

I wanted to laugh. “I can call you back.”

“No, go ahead. I'll hold.” She sighed.

“But it's free from my cell phone.”

She said, “Just hurry up.”

I clicked over to the other line. “Hello?” No one said anything. “Hello,” I sang.

“I can't ever come that close to kissing you again,” Theo said. “Not unless I can complete the mission.”

My grin was something else. “Hi.”

“What's up?”

“Nothing much.” I sank into the not-as-warm-as-it-was water. “What's going on?”

“Chillin'.” He hesitated. “What are you doing?”

“Taking a bubble bath.”

“Hmmm,” he snickered. “No comment.”

“How did things go at practice?”

“Well, Coach J. got on me.” He added, “If I miss practice again I won't be starting in the first game.”

“Ooh, we can't have that,” I said.

“Naw.” He sounded serious. “Not at all.”

“Well, you know what time my class starts. Just be there on time.”

“I don't have a choice now.” Theo continued. “He even called my mom.”

“He did?” I guessed that Craig wasn't playing.

“Yeah.” He laughed. “He knows just how much I can't stand to hear her go on and on about anything.”

“I'm sorry to cause you all of this trouble,” I said jokingly, but continued in a more serious tone. “I'm also sorry for making you feel the way you were feeling earlier.” I paused. “I'm not playing a game.” However, things did, for me, start out all in fun.

“I'm sorry too. I didn't mean to come at you like I did.” He seemed nervous. “I just wanted to know where you stood.”

Lord, I hoped this wasn't a high school prank. “I'm standing in the same place you are.” Honesty was the best policy. “I think you're . . .” Less was always more. “Well, your personality is . . .” Then I remembered. “Oh my God, I have my mom on the other line. May I call you back at this number?”

“Of course. Do your thing.”

I smiled. “Thank you. Bye.” I pressed the button. “Mom?”

“Lord have mercy, Paige. You must be sending me some money for these charges.”

“I asked you if you'd like for me to call you back and you said no.”

“Jesus.” She called His name in vain. “I don't have that AT&T One Rate shit.”

“Ma, it's not that serious.” We talked for another forty-five minutes, discussing everything from bingo to recipes then made our way back to Mr. Marshall again. “So, are you flying up for the funeral?”

“Flying? Funeral? For what?” I asked. “Even with glasses, contacts, and a magnifying glass, he never knew who I was.”

“Don't talk bad about the dead,” she fussed. “Mr. Marshall will come and scare your ass right up out of bed tonight.”

“Ma, I just refuse to spend four hundred dollars on a plane ticket to go to the funeral of a man who I saw about three times, and two out of those three times he cussed me out for touching his gate.”

“He didn't mean that. He lost his mind back in the eighties.”

“Well, the only way I'm flying in is if I lose my mind.” I added, “You're probably just going to get a plate at the repast anyway.”

She couldn't contain her laughter. “Bye-bye, silly girl.”

“Love you, Ma.”

“Love you too.” She hung up and I'm sure raced to tell my father what I said, but as ridiculous as it sounded, she knew that I wasn't telling a lie. At most black funerals, there'd be fifty people at the service, twenty at the gravesite, and seventy-seven at Auntie So-and-So's house for the repast, many with enough nerves to ask somebody to fix a plate for their lazy son, girlfriend, or husband who couldn't make it. “To Mr. Marshall.” I raised my glass, took a sip for my mother's outlandish homey, and laughed.

What started out as a nice warm bath left me a cold prune. I washed myself thoroughly and stepped out of the water quickly. I dried off, walked into my room, and heard the roar of a crowd from a basketball game on TV and thought of Theo. It was a little after ten, but I took the chance of calling.

“Hello?” a female answered.

“Hello,” I said.

“Yes?”

“Hi.” I had to improvise. “Ms. Lakewood?”

“Yes,” she said. “Whom am I speaking with?”

“Ms. Patrick, Theodore's English teacher.”

“Oh, hi.” She was very pleasant. “How are you?”

“I'm doing fine, thanks. And you?”

“A little tired. I'm just getting in from work.”

“Wow!” I added. “Overtime?”

“No. I'm a pediatric nurse at South Miami General Children's Hospital.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. I can call you back tomorrow if you're getting settled.”

“No, no,” she insisted. “We can talk. Is this about Theo being late to your class? His coach called me earlier at work.”

I couldn't believe that Craig was tacky enough to use this lady's work number for something so trivial. “Oh, no,” I said. “I've actually already spoken to Theo regarding his tardiness, and he has promised to improve.” What a crock of shit. “My sixth period class is doing so well that I decided to have a gathering at my house this Saturday to reward them. I'm calling around to get permission from the parents of the students who are interested in attending.”

“Well, that's certainly nice of you, but before I grant him permission, there are some things that I must know.” She paused. “Open house was on the same evening of that school bus accident, and I couldn't attend because all of the injured kids were brought to my hospital. So, I have a few questions for you now, if that's all right.”

Damn!
“Yes, that's fine.”

“How are Theo's grades in your class up to now?”

“Well,” I stuttered, “Theo's grades are good. Right now he has a B average.” It wasn't a complete lie. He actually had a C-plus, but I could find something for him to do to work his way into a B.