Something She Can Feel (11 page)

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Authors: Grace Octavia

BOOK: Something She Can Feel
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Led by the teachers, everyone began to clap at his last point and I was honestly surprised by what I was hearing. This wasn't the young man I'd expected. The person who was saying this didn't sound a thing like the Dame I'd seen on
Entertainment Tonight
, in magazines, and even in his songs. Suddenly I was thinking that maybe my father was wrong. Maybe none of us knew who the real Dame was from what we'd seen.
“This check is so you can have a chance at Black Warrior,” he added. “A chance to be better than your parents, better than your teachers, better than me. Because this is your future.” He paused and looked off toward the left wing of the stage. “Benji, bring the check out.”
Benji, who I'd since learned had become Dame's bodyguard, walked out, carrying a huge, blown-up check like the ones television shows use when people win a million-dollar sweepstakes prize.
He handed the check to Dame and Evan and Mr. Williams came over to stand beside me.
“Would you like to do the honors?” Mr. Williams asked, handing me the microphone.
“Sure,” I said. I held up one side of the check and read into the microphone, “A check to Black Warrior High School in the amount of one million dollars, signed by Mr. Damien Mitchell.”
Everyone in the room cheered his name and then a few kids were rapping his lyrics and the camera crews were scampering to the front of the stage to get a picture of the two of us holding the check.
“Smile,” they said one after the other for so long my cheeks began to hurt. I was smiling and holding one side of that check from the center of the stage to the back of the auditorium, where some cameramen were still waiting to get a good shot.
“That was wonderful,” Evan said when we were finally out of the limelight and the circle had dwindled down to just me, Dame, Evan, and Emily, Dame's assistant, who was fussing over Dame's clothes and taking the hidden microphone pack from underneath his shirt.
“Yes, I really think the children got something from your words,” I agreed as someone else removed my microphone pack.
“Thanks,” Dame said. “I wish I could come speak to them more.”
“If only we had more people who thought like you, young man,” Evan said. “Hey, I was wondering, what are you doing tonight? Mrs. DeLong and I would like to take you out for dinner. The Cypress Inn? I know it's no Hollywood meal, but we'd be honored to have you join us if you don't already have plans.”
I looked at Evan, surprised at his suggestion. He'd said explicitly that he wanted to keep his distance from Dame and now “we'd love to have” him? I didn't recall ever discussing going out with Dame. Perhaps Evan had the fever, too. I looked down to see which way his feet were pointing.
“Man,” Dame started and it sounded like he was about to say he was busy, “I can do that. I have to do some signings, but I need to eat, too.”
“Wonderful,” Evan said, smiling. “I'll have my secretary make reservations for 7 p.m.”
 
 
Trying to get out of the school was like maneuvering through a herd of traveling cattle. The kids were in a frenzy, running around to try to get to Dame, who'd already slipped out the back door for safety reasons. And the teachers were only blocking the traffic, gathered in bunches where I overheard most of them talking about how handsome Dame had become.
“I need to get me a twenty-three-year-old,” Billie said when I finally got outside and found her standing in the parking lot talking to Kayla.
“Yeah, he was something to look at,” Kayla agreed. “Did you see his arms? You could swing from them.”
“You two should be ashamed of yourselves ... looking at that young boy,” I censured them playfully.
“Please, Mrs. DeeeeeLong, your mouth was salivating, too,” Billie said. “And your husband was there, so that makes you even worse.”
“Oh, no, you didn't!” I replied, slapping her hand.
“Did you see his butt?” Kayla said all dreamy. “The way it was holding those jeans ...”
“Even with the sag, you could tell the brother has a nice, rock-hard ass,” Billie said. “I wanted to tap that thang.” She pretended she was slapping his butt.
“Oh, let me go. I'm not about to stand here and listen to this foolishness,” I protested, pulling out my keys. I thought the boy was fine, too, but I didn't think it was appropriate to share that with people. And for some reason, I felt I'd been too close to him to admit I was thinking that way. But he did have a nice butt.
“Stop being a bump on a log, J,” Billie said. “Men look at women all the time. What's wrong with us recognizing sunshine sometimes? No one said we were actually trying to sleep with the boy—”
“No,
you
didn't say that,” Kayla said, and I had to laugh.
“Now, I want to hear Journey admit it,” Billie dug. “Admit that he's fine!”
“What? I don't see how that makes any difference. Why do I have to do it?”
“Because it's a dare.” Billie put her hands on her hips like we were kids in the school yard. “I dare you to admit that you found your former student to be an impeccable specimen of a chocolate man.” She was always coming up with these ridiculous dares.
“That's stupid.”
“Then do it.” Billie and Kayla folded their arms expectantly.
“This is ridiculous, and I'm not doing it.”
“Hmm ...” Billie looked at Kayla. “Told you she was stuck-up.”
“No, I'm not.” She wasn't slick. This was how she'd get me to do things in high school. She'd call me a prude, stuck-up, a lame, Miss Tight-Ass, until I felt so bad I did the dare.
“A straight-up prude.” Billie dramatically pursed her lips again and looked at me accusingly. I could almost hear the Old West standoff music playing in the background. “Stuck-up. Miss Tight-Ass herself—”
“I thought he was hot. Happy?” I said quickly, pulling my bag back up on my shoulder and turning to walk to my car.
“Love you, Mrs. DeeeeLong,” Billie hollered after me as she laughed with Kayla.
“And did you see his teeth? I love a man with nice teeth.” I heard one of them say.
“That and a nice tongue.”
“And that hair! Girl, that hair makes you want to just jump rope!”
“Or pull it.”
They cackled me all the way to the car.
Chapter Ten
O
ne of the most annoying things about being married to someone who was so involved with community relations was the waiting. Evan was always late. Everywhere we went. Anytime we were supposed to meet up to do anything. If we weren't planning to arrive together, I could expect Evan to be late—at least fifteen minutes late. He was held up in a meeting. Lending a listening ear to some parent in the parking lot. Providing a group of constituents with talking points for future engagements. Or just trying to find a parking spot. Because I'm often late myself, I could understand being a bit late on occasion. However, there were only so many fifteen-minutemeeting carryovers, face-to-face confrontations, planning boards, and full parking lots I could take without feeling like I was playing second fiddle to the rest of the universe. I'd sit forlorn in concert halls, theaters, restaurants, and sometimes at my own dinner table, imagining Evan smiling and charming those around him—not even thinking about where he was supposed to be. What made it worse was that Evan was never late for functions when my father was involved. If we were headed to church or on our way out of town to hear Reverend Jethro Cash speak, Evan would snap into action and sometimes go out and sit in the car early, before I was even ready. And if I had the nerve to be late, he'd shoot his eyes at me and say I needed to be a better planner.
Sitting alone at a table for three in the middle of the dining room floor at the Cypress Inn, one of Tuscaloosa's top restaurants, I was struggling not to be rude or, worse, a nag. I avoided pulling out my phone and asking Evan where he was and when he planned on getting to the restaurant. When he'd invited Dame to dinner, I remembered that Evan already had three meetings scheduled and needed to complete a presentation for the next day. Thinking he was so excited with the idea of meeting with Dame and milking him for more money for the school board's plans—another catalyst of his secret plan to someday run for mayor—I called him hours before the dinner to remind him of this and said it wasn't too late to reschedule or just cancel. “I'll be there, darling,” he'd said. “Can't miss it.”
Twenty minutes after our early 7 p.m. meeting, the dining room was filling up and it was evident that I'd have to keep Dame company until Evan showed up—if Dame even came.
The Cypress Inn, with its elaborate outdoor gardens, formal dining setting complete with elegant light fixtures, and a 550-gallon fish tank, was a natural destination for the city's elite and newspaperready faces. Nestled right along the Black Warrior River, it was the kind of place where dinner served double duty—nourishment of the body and maintenance of social status. Rubbing shoulders, brownnosing, and just general schmoozing was encouraged as $500 wines were sent to tables like bread baskets and bills were often paid anonymously. The governor, mayor, local celebrities from television, college presidents, and even the University of Alabama's football coach Nick Saban and his wife were regulars.
Even though it was Tuesday night, the place was full by the time 7:30 p.m. rolled around and I decided to text Evan to ask what the holdup was. I was becoming more certain Dame wasn't coming and wanted to leave. But then, there was the matter of Evan's corporate account that the restaurant had on file. I could eat alone ... on the county.
Squinting in the candlelight at the table, I texted:
WHERE ARE YOU?
I THINK DAME ISN'T COMING
.
When I looked up from the phone, I saw two, skinny white women walking toward the front of the restaurant.
“He's that rapper,” the blond with the too-tight dress said to the other woman.
“With the song ... ‘Get This in You'?” She giggled as they walked arm in arm.
“Yeah, he's outside.”
“Outside?” someone else said, and I turned around to see other people nonchalantly, yet clearly inching up and craning their necks toward the door.
“Who is it, Tilda?” the round-faced white man with the exaggerated chin said to the woman across the table from him.
“You,
know
...”—she smiled sensuously—“the one
we
listen to when
we're
...”
“Oh.” He patted his mouth and turned toward the door, too.
The windows of the restaurant were being crowded by onlookers, and all I could think of was how most people around the country would've assumed that Dame wouldn't have been welcomed in such a place in the deep South ... and years ago, he wouldn't have. But watching Mr. Round-Face and Tilda grin at each other as I supposed they replayed his latest raunchy tune in their heads, it was clear that like the Yankees, rap had arrived in the Old South.
Debating if I should go look at the spectacle with the rest of the grown groupies or call Evan to let him know Dame had arrived, I realized that in a minute all of this attention would be coming my way.
“Mrs. DeLong,” a waiter said, approaching me. His voice was dignified and exaggeratedly Southern.
“Yes?”
“We have a table change.”
“A table change?”
“Yes ...” He paused and Tilda and Round-Face looked at me curiously. “Your ... company prefers to sit in one of our more private seating areas. It's just a security precaution. Please follow me.”
I trailed the waiter to a long table that was tucked to the far right of the back of the restaurant. It was where I'd seen Saban and his wife eating. It was an area I'd never been to.
When I turned to take my seat, I saw Dame walking toward the table, flanked on either side by the white women I'd seen rushing to the door to greet him. Benji was just steps behind.
Dame, who was still in the same clothes he'd worn to the school, walked along laughing with the females and I watched the faces of the white men in the room turn from possible excitement to a bit of disdain at how closely the women were glued to his sides.
“So, ladies ... give me a call and we'll see what we can do,” Dame said, spinning the girls around simultaneously and then releasing them. “We've got to get you two fine females in the next video. Fly you out to L.A. and everything.” His voice sounded fake and inflated, much more playful than it had at the school, and even though I wanted to be disgusted with his puffed-up playboy rendition, he was obviously toying with these women. Only they had no clue.
“Benji, please make sure I never see them again,” Dame said when the women, beaming and blowing kisses, finally departed. “Cocaine ain't good for you.”
He and Benji laughed, but I was less enthused. Dame put his arms out to embrace me, but he must've noticed my internal frown.
“Oh ... cocaine.” He laughed lightly. “That don't mean the real thing. I meant fine-ass white broads ... you know, like slang, Ms. Cash. Don't act like you don't know.”
I looked at Benji, who was standing beside him now and he nodded along with Dame.
“Like cocaine, fine-ass white broads,” he said pointedly, “make brothers act crazy and give away all their money.”
He and Dame burst out laughing and even I had to giggle.
“Finally,” Dame said as I inched closer to receive his hug. “I mean, you're a teacher, you have to get metaphor and simile and hyperbole and all of that.”
“Yes,” I said, “but the cocaine is a stretch.”
In a loose and friendly embrace with Dame for just two seconds I noted again how tight and imposing his chest muscles were. He smelled spicy and clean, like something green in the woods, wild, yet tame enough to tantalize. I pushed away quickly.
“Everything all right?” Benji said to Dame.
“No doubt.” They gripped each other like five times. Benji tipped his cap to me and turned to walk out.
“Does he have to approve of all of your guests?” I asked as the waiter pulled out my chair again and we sat down.
“Man, you'd be surprised what fools will do nowadays,” Dame said. “I can hold my own, but they be out looking to bring me trouble. Five-ten fools all together. I ain't no punk, but it's too much money on the line for me to get locked up for stomping some fool.”
“So you let Benji do it?”
“He has a license to ill and kill ... like Bond. But for real, I was just happy I could take him along with me on the road. We came up together. I know I can trust him. That's my boy. Whenever you see Benji, know that I'm just two steps behind,” he said as the waiter put down the menus and asked what we'd be drinking.
“Really?”
“You can believe it. He has my back.”
“That's good to know.”
“So, where's Mr. I-Love-the-Kids?” Dame asked after we ordered our drinks.
“Oh ... Evan's ...” I paused and looked down at my phone to see I had a new text:
CAN'T MAKE IT. GOV JOHNSON CAME TO MEETING. RIDING TO HIS LODGE FOR DRINKS. I KNOW YOU CAN HANDLE DAME. GIVE HIM MY BEST.
I took a deep breath and looked back at Dame. “... not coming,” I finished. I tried not to look disappointed, but I knew I was rolling my eyes. I knew this would happen.
“Okay,” he said, unmoved.
“I know he set the whole thing up, but sometimes his schedule just—”
“You don't have to apologize for him,” he said, sliding off his hat and setting it on what would've been Evan's seat. “I know all about schedules. And really I didn't feel like
politricking
tonight anyway. I'm home and I just want to relax. None of that star stuff ...”
“That's not how you looked earlier ...”
“That wasn't work. That was pleasure. See, those white girls actually buy my CDs. They don't want nothing from me but a little attention. It's all good.”
“That's a good way to look at it.”
“And the other way I look at it is, I get to break bread with a fine lady I've admired for a long time.”
I tried not to blush, despite feeling a little flushed.
“Dame, you never came to my class, and when you did, you just sat in the back, joked around with your friends, and wrote in your notebook,” I listed.
“I did,” he said, nodding and laughing.
“What's so funny?”
“You don't even know what you did, do you?” The smile on his face washed away quickly. “Look, you never turned me away. You never let me act up in your class. And you always tried to include me in on what y'all was doing.”
“Well, it's school. You're supposed to be included. I'm a teacher.”
“You think all teachers do that?” he asked.
“I think I'd be naive if I did. But I know most try.”
A woman walking by waved at Dame and he smiled back.
“Try? Most pretend they don't see half the kids—the bad ones. Most either treat their students like criminals or ghosts. But not you... . Man, you was trying anything to get us to sing that gospel stuff.”
“It means a lot to me,” I said as the waiter put the drinks we'd ordered on the table.
“And one day, you were dead serious. Got mad because nobody had their handouts from the day before and people were talking. Man, me and T-Brill was cutting a fool in the back of the room and you got up and stood next to that old beat-up piano and was like, ‘You all think other schools have pianos like this? You think they have broken computers, rusty water fountains, and outdated biology labs with no biology teachers?' And to be honest, I'd been smoking and I wasn't listening to you before that, but when you said it, I was thinking, man, finally somebody's talking real talk to us. And you said, ‘If you don't care about your education, no one else will.' You remember that?”
“Yes, I do.” It was one of the worst days of my teaching career. I'd lost complete control of my classroom and felt helpless and useless. When I came to work, I was so excited. We were supposed to be singing “Amazing Grace.” I was still a new teacher then, and I thought that the Word needed to be in each song I taught. While other schools weren't teaching gospel music in chorus, our mostly black and Christian faculty and student body insisted upon it. It was the tradition before the government even recognized the school. And, as my first principal told me, we weren't changing until the government came in and stopped us. They'd taken everything else from our little school and we weren't going to let them take the last thing that was sure to teach our students about goodness.
I knew the kids would love the song and prayed all night they'd receive the message of God's good graces. Only it was clear they weren't. The students were so rowdy that day, they wouldn't receive a message if God jumped out of the piano and sang the song Himself.
“When you were standing up there,” Dame continued, “I just kept thinking, when I get out of here, I'm gonna make sure we have a new piano, new water fountains, a new biology lab, and some good teachers. Good teachers like Ms. Cash.”

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