Man Curse (8 page)

“Uh-huh,” he said, moving closer to me, grabbing my hand. “My mom decorated it. She's good at that kinda stuff.”

“So, what have you been doing?”

“Who, me?” He nudged a few inches closer, playing with my hand. “Waiting for you.”

Then he kissed me. But I didn't move, stiff in shock, letting his lips do the maneuvering. Letting him slip his tongue into my mouth. Letting him run his hand up under my sweater and over my white lace bra onto my breasts. He squeezed them hard. But I didn't complain. This was what I wanted. I was going to be his girlfriend. With his other hand, he squeezed my other breast and pushed me down on the bed, kissing me and grinding. I felt him playing with my bra. Desperately trying to unfasten it. After long seconds of maneuvering, he gave up. And I felt him unbuttoning my pants, pulling down the zipper and slipping his hand under my panties. He rubbed my vagina, petting its soft virginal opening. Next thing I knew, my jeans were down and he was inside me. Burning. Pain. Like something rubbing hard on dry, broken skin. The hurt was unbearable. I gasped and tried to hold in the whimper. I didn't want him to know this was my first time. I didn't want him to realize I didn't know how to do it, that it felt like my flesh was tearing apart, that I wanted to cry.

“You okay?” he whispered.

“Uh-huh,” I said, lying there, letting him push deeper inside.

He felt so big, like a tree trunk squeezing into an ant hole. I squirmed, trying to feign enjoyment, but the pain . . .

“Okay, stop,” I begged. “Stop.”

“You all right?”

“I have to go to the bathroom.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” I said, pulling up my panties. “I just gotta go real quick.”

Stepping inside the bathroom, I looked in the mirror. Hair a mess. Face twisted from the hurt of each movement. When I checked my underwear, I could see blood in the seat; tiny specks stained the middle. The burning sensation between my legs inflamed my body as I peed; I held in the urge to scream, closing my eyes to hide from reality. No one ever told me sex felt this way. I thought it was supposed to be an experience that floated bodies above beds, into clouds, and across the heavens. But it was more like a torturous tearing of flesh. Right then I decided: that was my first and last time.

The next day, I limped to school. As much as I tried not to, despite the bowlegged feeling of a large crater drilled between my legs. But the soreness I felt lingered from the night before, and not just in my vagina but in my heart and head, accented with a fleeting feeling of shameful embarrassment.

“Sooooo, did you talk to Michael?” asked Doreen, smiling hard. “You go to his crib?”

“Oh, I don't know, girl. I didn't even talk to him last night,” I said, looking through my book bag for something, anything. “He was at practice pretty late.”

“Why are you standing like that?” Meredith sat eyeing me before getting up out her seat. “You look . . . crooked.”

“Crooked how?”

“Like this,” she said, mocking my stance, likening it to that of a constipated hunchback. “Did you fall again running to the bus stop?”

“Ooh, I remember that!” Doreen screamed, laughing. “Remember when she fell running from her dog in those white tights! And then it grabbed her purse and ran down the street?”

Meredith and Doreen busted out laughing.

“I'm good. Thank you for asking,
stupids
,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I . . . just . . . hit my knee this morning.”

“You are so clumsy,
damn.
”
Doreen pulled out a compact to comb her hair. “Better not let Michael know that. He likes them model-looking girls. You could be one, but you need to learn how to walk, instead of tripping all over the place. And you need to put some makeup on. How come you don't wear makeup?”

“I can't be a model. I'm too short.”

“You don't have to be tall to be a model, Meena,” Meredith added. “You could do catalogs. You're pretty, you got the look. All skinny and everything. Long neck. Nice smile.”

“Whatever,” I replied, attempting to slowly sit, before feeling the pain of the squat and deciding to stand. “I'ma go to the bathroom.”

“Good. When you come back, be off your period,” snapped Doreen. “Crankiness doesn't look good on you.”

I turned to walk toward the girls' room when my eyes met Michael's. He turned away quickly. During Mrs. Johnson's class, he did the same, rushing out of the classroom before I could speak to him. I wondered whether he was embarrassed, too. Perhaps he didn't know how to talk about it either. So after lunch, I decided to go to his locker. As I limped down the hallway, I saw a congregation of the football team standing next to him. The closer I got, the more they snickered. I smiled at Michael as I walked up.

“Hey,” I said, smiling. “What's up?”

“Oh, what's up?” he murmured, not even looking at me. “Yo, I'ma talk to you later.”

“Um, okay,” I said, watching him walk away. His boy Rex put a heavy arm around me. “So you gonna let Michael hit it again?” He smiled hard, the gap between his teeth whistling an air of unsaid words that read across a devious smirk.

“What?” I looked up at him, pushing his oversize bicep away. “Get off me.”

“Don't play stupid. I'm his boy. I know what happened,” Rex said, removing his arm from around my shoulder. “You did a booty call. It's cool. All the girls do it. Besides, you know what they say about girls who don't have their daddies around. I know you couldn't help it.”

I glanced back at Michael and found a smug look of triumph on his face.

“Trust me. I understand,” Rex continued, pulling out a notebook and pencil. “What's your number?”

I turned to say something but couldn't muster it up. Instead I speed-walked away, into the school library, where the only other person I noticed, hiding in an aisle, was Carl Murphy. I tiptoed past him, sitting in the comic book section.

He glanced up. “Hey, Meena.”

Holding back tears, biting my lip, I gave a little nod. As I whisked away I faintly heard him say, “I like your dress . . .”

But I couldn't hear any words of praise. Ashamed, embarrassed, praying I wouldn't develop a “reputation” like some of the other girls who'd slept with football players at school, I stayed hiding in the library for the rest of the day, reading astrology books on Michael's two-faced sign of Gemini. Relieved that spring break began the next day. I called Michael three times over vacation. But the asshole never called or spoke to me again.

A
ll these years later, as I sat remembering my first time having sex, sad thoughts of that painful past made me rip the picture with Michael off my bedroom wall and trash it. Then the phone rang.

“Happy birthday! Why are you awake?” Meredith asked on the other end. “Thought you'd be sleeping in since you took your special day off. It's snowing outside. Good day to just stay in bed.”

“Thank you. But I'm not awake because I want to be,” I answered, shoving the picture deep in the garbage. “Mom woke me up making unnecessary noise this morning. I feel like she did it on purpose.”

“You and your mother . . .” Meredith said. “Was she talking to herself again?”

“Yeah, about her and Aunt Connie. They always fight.”

“You all should go to family therapy.”

“Yeah, okay.” I laughed. “Like they'd talk about their issues to a professional.”

“I think they might talk to me. I'd serve magic brownies and write a prescription of a dime bag of weed so they all could just smoke together, laugh, and love and calm down.”

“What?” My face was twisted up, looking at the clock. “It's ten a.m. Are you high?”

“Girl . . . brownies. I had some last night. I mean, I made them for you. And I sampled some. And man, they just stay in your system forever.”

We paused for a second of silence before cracking up together.

Meredith always made me feel better. Like life was to be enjoyed and laughed at. Like giggling at yourself and taking a deep breath were essential keys to sanity. Like everything would be all right. Growing up, she was the only one who ever said that: “Everything is going to be all right.” She was the sister a lonely, only child like me had always wanted. She was my support and backup to the bullshit of life. She was my conscience and voice of reason even when I didn't listen.

As she placed me on hold to run to the bathroom, I glanced at her smiling picture from last summer's family reunion, surrounded by my cousins; she fit right in with the crew: Bernard, Bishop, Tommy, Winnie, and me. Meredith was the one who suggested we all take a walk that day. It was during that family walk when I realized how deep the curse ran.

E
scaping from the reunion, we'd taken off toward a dead end that led to a short path, looping around the perimeter of a lake. Across a tiny bridge was a recreation area packed with kids on swings, a crowded basketball court, and families splashing in the swimming pool. We sat on a bench, watching an old lady throw slices of bread at pigeons.

“Hey, have you guys heard of some curse on the family?” I asked, watching a little girl with braided pigtails bouncing atop her daddy's shoulders. “Some man curse we're supposed to have?”

“Oh, hell yeah,” said Bernard. “Mom talks about it all the time.” He looked at Bishop, who nodded his head in agreement. “She says that's why my dad cheated on her.”

Bernard and Bishop's father, Jonathan, was a cop with the Philadelphia Police Department. After they were born, Aunt Cece pushed for marriage. But when Jonathan finally agreed, she hired a private investigator to conduct her version of premarital counseling. Hiring a friend who had once worked for the Philly PD, his inside sources found out that Jonathan was sleeping with a female cop on the force.

“Well, I don't know about a curse. My dad says it's a bullshit excuse for being single,” said Winnie. “He says the reason why so many women in this family have no man is because they're too mean and angry. Too hard. He said they're all looking for a man to make them happy.”

“Haaa!” Tommy let out a loud, drunken laugh that made him stumble to catch the fence before he fell.

“Before my dad died, he said he felt sorry for the women in the family,” Tommy said, dusting himself off. His words suddenly seemed more sober than ever. “He said that even though he didn't get along with his sister, Grandma Fey, he felt sorry they were all alone. I remember him saying that it was strange how all of his female cousins and aunts never married and would get into a relationship with a man who abused them. If he didn't beat or cheat, he'd usually up and die before marrying them.”

“That's crazy,” I said under my breath. “I didn't know about the dying part. But now I'm freaked out thinking about that guy Aunt Connie was supposed to marry, until he was killed a week before the wedding by a stray bullet.”

We all shook our heads in unison.

“Ooh, and you heard about one of the Camden cousins? I think her name is Diane?” Winnie asked, looking around for someone to recognize which cousin she was talking about. No one knew. “Anyway, she had to get her tubes tied and she can't have babies 'cause some guy gave her an STD and she didn't know.”

“Damn,” said Bishop and Bernard in unison.

“Maybe the curse is true,” said Tommy with a little giggle. “But it do be mean women in this family. Like you, Meena, lookin' at me mean all the time. Haaaa!”

I caught myself giving him a repugnant look, nose wrinkled, smelling the nasty aroma of nonsense coming from his mouth. My face only softened when I realized everyone was staring at me, stuck on the verge of laughing.

“Y
eah, I learned a lot about you and your family that day,” Meredith said. “It explained why you think the way you do. Date the guys you do. Oh! And speaking of dating someone. You know who I saw the other day?” she said excitedly. “Joey Williams.”

After losing my virginity to Michael, I stayed away from boys, especially him, for the next two years. By the eleventh grade, I'd decided I wanted an older, more mature boy, Joey Williams. A senior, he went to the alternative school for bad kids after fighting got him expelled from everywhere else in the district. After passing each other while walking home from the bus stop, we realized this shared route was magical destiny and immediately became a couple. It didn't take long for afternoon phone calls to escalate into after-school visits. He treated me like his thug queen. Hanging out at the mall holding hands. McDonald's Happy Meals every day after school. Random gifts, teddy bears, and candy; he even let me wear his Africa medallion. Joey was a regular guest before Mom got home from work. We'd bump and grind, like the horny teenagers we were, on my bed, on the couch, or on the floor. At sixteen, sex didn't hurt anymore. My painful experience freshman year with Michael became a fleeting thought of the past when Joey came into my life. He slowly wooed me into sleeping with him. Soft, careful, and tender, asking every few seconds, “You okay? You all right?”

I'd nod my head, lying still, breathing deeply, imagining the faces of pleasure I'd seen on late-night HBO. Beautiful women enjoying the moment of sex. I wanted to be like them—gorgeous, fabulous, and masterful in bed.

I used to let Joey follow me into my bathroom, lock the door, and grind on me, atop the fluffy blue rug beneath the sink. We did it standing up, lying down, out of breath like two playful, raw puppy dogs. He'd exhale whispers of how I was the best. I'd make small noises, like the ladies on HBO. And this was our routine, for months, until my mother came home early from work one afternoon.

I heard the grumbling car pull up to the driveway, and fortunately, the entrance to the basement was inside the bathroom. As my stomach flipped into butterfly-fluttering mode, Joey and I flew across the bathroom, gathering our clothes, buckling pants. I fixed the rug. He grabbed his sock. Pants half-buckled, he fled down the basement stairs and out the cellar door, running across the backyard. Watching him escape, I turned to fly up from the basement and close the door. I was about to walk out of the bathroom as Mom met me at the threshold.