The One That Got Away (4 page)

Kneading her tense shoulders, he checked his tone.
Catch more flies with honey, Tony.
“If you're nervous, just say so, girl. Remember, we can go over the exercises you learned—”

“Exercises, exercises,” Zora mumbled, eyes on the pages of her journal. “Either I'll be able to read confidently out there tonight, or I won't.
Que sera, sera.
”

Realizing an argument would only reinforce her fatalistic attitude, Tony walked to the closet near the door and pulled her shirt off its hanger. “Put this on and meet me in the hallway,” he whispered, kissing her on the forehead. “You're gonna knock 'em dead.”

“You really think I can do this?” As she stared back into his eyes, Tony was struck by Zora's resemblance to the one photo he had of their mother. Snapped a year before his birth, it captured her in her early twenties. Tony had never met Zora's father—the poor loser who'd stayed with his wife after Wayne Gooden knocked her up with a baby boy—but she'd apparently pulled very little from his side of the family tree.

“I
know
you can do this,” he replied, scratching suddenly at his neck. Still climbing the learning curve, he wasn't yet expert at this big brother role. Given that their mother had never properly introduced them, he'd known his half sister for only ten months.

Gripping his hands suddenly, Zora glanced at the worn carpet below. “I just wish that
she
would be supportive,” she said, her own voice lowered now. “I still can't believe she wouldn't come tonight.”

“Well, just remember—her problem's with me, not you,” Tony said, embracing his sister in a gentle hug. For a day at the most he'd hoped their mother would break down and drive in from Schaumburg to support Zora. Of course, that would have also meant meeting him face-to-face for the first time in thirty-two years, so he wasn't surprised when she took a pass. This was the same woman who handed him to Wayne Gooden, three weeks after his birth, and returned to her own husband. Zora's father.

A surge of adrenaline shot through Tony as he held his sister. Before the day Zora called to introduce herself last year, blithely mentioning she'd enrolled at Loyola in order to be near him, Tony had never felt a protective instinct toward another human being. All of the significant females in his childhood had been older, self-possessed women—his grandmother, his stepmother, Stephanie, and his three aunts. By baptizing him into the role of Big Brother,
Zora had brought a deeper, more complex texture to Tony's daily life.

She shrugged her way out of his hug. “All right. Let me get dressed now.”

He stepped back, snapped his fingers, and pointed toward her confidently. “I'll be back in five minutes.”

As Tony paced the perimeter of the seating area, now teeming with laughter, shouting, and tables sagging with food, a doughy brother with dreadlocks tugged at his elbow. Stopping to make conversation, Tony extended his hand. “What's up, bruh?” As Zora's publicist and informal manager, he was all about keeping the crowd happy. “You ready to have a good time tonight?”

The last word had barely left Tony's mouth before the man yanked him to within an inch of his own lips. “I'll have a better time,” he said, his beer-spiced halitosis stinging Tony's nostrils, “if Miss Zora apologizes proper for the way she dissed J. T. Dog.” He looked up at Tony, his upper lip rigid with anger. “You might tell her that. It could save you both a cap in the ass.”

T
ony decided not to play along with the would-be hoodlum, turning away as the brother's threat hung in the air.
Not this J. T. Dog shit again.
From the moment of Owen's earlier warning, he'd known he had reason to worry. He'd quickly learned that while the “ghetto life” novel was a booming art form, the market carried a little more risk than writing Harlequin romances.

Despite the fact Zora had never met him, J. T. Dog's handlers had convinced him that D. Money, a pivotal character in
One of the Boyz,
was based on him. Seeing how D. Money was a drug lord who used his profits to buy a rap label, J. T.'s fans assumed this was a reference to similar rumors about him. In hip-hop lit, this was apparently the equivalent of calling out a rival on one of your rap songs. Coming from Zora, Tony figured it felt like a double insult to J. T. Dog; here she was telling women to exercise power over the no-good men in their lives, all while exercising public power over J. T.'s own image.

Tony also suspected J.T. Dog's anger at Zora was fueled by their respective book sales.
Boyz
had knocked J. T.'s recent novel,
Gots to Get Mine,
out of the number one bestseller spot at black bookstores across the country. With each passing week, as
Boyz
took a larger slice of the urban novel pie, J. T.'s threats had grown increasingly intense.

He'd unveiled his hardest shot just last week, on one of the countless BET video shows. “We know this trick Zora is tryin' to be real down-low, acting like she can speak for all the sisters,” he'd sneered as the host looked on quizzically. “I got peeps everywhere, though. I hear she ain't even from the hood,” he'd said, ticking points off on his fingers. “Ain't never lived in no project, ain't never held a gun, ain't even had no baby. How she gonna keep it real?” J. T.'s attacks, of course, had the opposite effect: Zora's sales jumped 30 percent the next week as young girls hungry for affirmation and self-esteem lapped her story up.

As J. T.'s campaign against his sister ramped up, Tony had carefully shielded her from the hoopla. It really wasn't that difficult; the girl listened religiously to hip-hop CDs but watched no TV and was only into satellite radio. With each passing day, he accomplished two important things—building Zora's self-confidence, and lining both of their pockets. At times he'd question whether things were moving too fast, but such concerns were erased by the next day's sales report. If
Boyz
kept up its current pace, Tony's share would pay off his credit card debt and get him approved for another car loan.
Good-bye, Taurus; hello, Jaguar.

All good, as long as he could shield Zora from J.T. Dog and comparable fools like the idiot who'd issued his cryptic warning. Coolly striding away from J.T.'s messenger and trusting the brother just had too much to drink, Tony returned to the dressing room.

Five minutes later, Owen completed his introduction and welcomed Zora to the stage. As Tony took a seat at a crowded table down front, he scanned the crowd again for potential troublemakers. When he saw nothing to worry about, he swiveled back toward the stage.

“Thank you,” Zora said as she positioned herself before the microphone stand. Her hat leaning languidly to the left, her arresting cocoa brown eyes blazing, she seemed transformed by the
spotlight. Clearing her throat, she folded her hands as if praying and then spoke with the tenderness of Janet Jackson. “A lot of people have been talking about this book,” she said, voice fluttering softly. “Tonight you'll get to hear the
author
talk about it.”

From the back row, a hearty female voice seconded Zora's motion. “That's right!”

“Thank you,” Zora said again, chuckling and staring at her feet for a second. “Anyway, I'll read two chapters from
One of the Boyz
tonight, but first I'd like to clear up some questions about it—”

“Phony punk bee-yatch!” The words burst from the center of the crowd before anyone could tell where they'd come from. With Zora verbally stopped in her tracks, peering into the crowd anxiously, heads turned in search of the heckler. With the room buzzing in amused anticipation, Tony caught Zora's eye, mouthing, “Go on, play it off.” Pausing would just encourage the heckler, probably another J.T. Dog fan that slipped under the radar.

Clearing her throat nervously, Zora took a tentative step closer to her mic. “As I was saying—”

“You just another sister tryin' to bring a brother down!” This time the heckler stood, proudly claiming credit. A tall, solid brother with a bald head, he exchanged high fives with the other men at his table. “J. T. Dog's
got
your number, girl.”

“Brother, you need to sit down.” Before Tony could beat him to it, Owen had hopped onto the stage alongside Zora. Taking her mic, he stepped to the edge of the stage. “These folks paid good money to hear this young lady,” he said, he pointing a finger toward the heckler. “Now are you gonna sit down like you have some sense, or do I gotta escort you out of here?”

“Escort this, partner!” As the heckler stood again, a shiny black pistol in each hand, the crowd scattered like grains of sand. Streams of frantic folk knocking him to and fro, Tony stood but rejected the urge to follow the fleeing crowds. He couldn't leave Zora to fend for herself.

Struggling to his feet, taking knocks to his forehead and shins from the fleeing crowds, he looked anxiously between
Zora and the impulsive Johnny Two-Guns. The heckler stood fifty yards from Zora, guns still raised, when the crowd behind him convulsed suddenly. As some people fell to the floor and others flew through the air, the club's two largest bouncers burst into sight. In seconds they wrestled the gunman to the floor, but when the loud report of a pistol shook the club, the crowd's anxiety only increased. Calm pleas for people to keep moving became frantic shouts, insistent nudges became desperate shoves, and a survival of the fittest vibe filled the cramped space.

His ears ringing at a second burst from the pistol, which had either been fired into the wood floor or into the heckler's chest, Tony steadied himself against the nearest table. Craning his neck, he caught sight of Zora, who stood alone on the stage with arms crossed and feet tapping anxiously. Breathing a sigh of relief, Tony turned back toward the flailing heckler, who was overpowered by the bouncers and Owen, who'd joined in. Satisfied they were beyond serious danger, Tony stayed put. He'd be hard-pressed to get through the panicked crowd, which had nearly morphed into a stampede. Besides, with the gunman apprehended, why risk getting his pretty head bashed in? He'd wait for Zora where he was. Turning back toward the stage, he prepared to wave in her direction. . . .

Where'd she go?
His heartbeat rocketing, Tony stared at the empty stage. Had she slipped back to the dressing room, maybe? Climbing onto his table, he scanned the crowd for signs of Zora and finally located her. Pressed nearly flat between a crowd near the bar, his sister fought to keep her balance, shifting uneasily against the mishmash of frantic women and angry, agitated brothers. Elbows flew, legs kicked, and Tony finally realized that some people were literally
walking over others
. This was a genuine stampede: people were going down.

His brain spinning emptily, trying to believe his eyes, Tony stood there atop the table, foreboding creeping up his spine. That's when a football-player-sized brother
thwacked
the back of Zora's head with an out-of-control elbow. Her hands in the air,
clawing for a lifeline, Zora was sucked beneath the churning crowd.

Without calculation or thought, Tony dove off the table, landing halfway between it and where he'd last seen Zora. Shoving aside the two brothers who broke his fall, he blazed a path to his sister, who lay on her stomach, arms splayed wide. The back of Zora's blouse was smeared with blood, sweat, and dirt stains, stamped together by several sets of footprints. His breath coming in shorter clips, his eyes full of stinging sweat, Tony screamed for space and knelt over her. Turning Zora over, he slid his arms underneath her torso and lifted her as he stood. Before he could move forward, a booted foot landed hard on his leather loafer, sending a fiery spike of pain up his leg. He didn't even hear his own shouted profanity, but he immediately felt his grip on Zora slacken.
He couldn't drop her, not in the condition she was in. . . .

His grip restored, Tony's neck pivoted this way and that, seeking the clearest path forward, only to find swarms of fear-crazed folk everywhere. That's when he made the only choice he could. With Zora nestled in his arms, he lowered his head and made like a battering ram, pile-driving his way past two bodies, then one, then three. . . . “We're almost there, Zora,” he whispered, knowing she couldn't hear him. “Just hold on—”

The smack of a closed fist against his temple cut him short. His head filling with showers of sparks and fireworks, Tony felt himself sway before he went down.
Zora, hang on, baby
. His last clear memory, after they had plummeted to the floor, was that they were about to become human rugs. Sharp heels and bone-crunching boots colliding with his chest, cheeks, and thighs, Tony felt like a swimmer who'd suddenly been swept over a waterfall; any illusion of control was gone. His body pockmarked with stinging pain, the rush of oozing blood bringing a chill to his brain, Tony lost the will to fight.

His arms falling to his side, his own screams filling his ears, his blurring eyes rested on the vision materializing above him.
Still wearing her strapless pink bridesmaid dress, Serena floated through the panicked crowd and knelt at his side. As his vision of the one that got away steadied his head and whispered calm assurances, Tony tried to form the words floating through his head.
Stay with me. I won't lose you this time.

A
momentary load lifted, Serena relished the end of another painful press conference. In order to frustrate the media's focus on the failure of the Cincinnati schools' latest levy attempt, she'd been enlisted to wow the reporters with a summary of the financial restructuring plan she'd recently coordinated. Her job finished for the evening, she felt like sprinting out of the auditorium as her fellow administrators and the local journalists mingled around her. Levi Little, the newly hired director of security, short-circuited that idea.

Appearing at her elbow as she stepped off the low platform stage, the barrel-chested, bowlegged brother leaned in. “Made it through another one, huh?”

“Tell me about it,” Serena replied, shaking her head wearily. Before taking the podium, she'd had to watch Kevin Kellogg, her boss and superintendent of schools, take his customary abuse from the geniuses in the media. Dr. Kellogg had a big heart and the knowledge to back it up; in the three years since he had taken over, he'd led with a down-to-earth warmth and unquestioned competence. Test scores system-wide were up 10 percent, absenteeism was down by another 25 percent, and graduation rates had improved in all but two high schools.

In the eyes of the press, though, all that was meaningless in the face of the recent levy's failure. Their view: Kellogg hadn't proven himself to the parents of Cincinnati, and they now had a new vessel for their children's hopes and dreams.

The Rowan Academy, a local for-profit school run by the privately owned Whitaker Holdings corporation, was putting the city schools to shame. Using a radical curriculum designed by a nationwide task force of young educators and academics, the academy had taken some of the most abject losers from the city school system—pregnant teens, dropouts, kids who'd spent more time in juvenile detention than in junior high—and transformed them into teachable students. Its kids' test scores had increased by two hundred percent in some grades, owing to the fact many came on board with scores that were nearly negative. Everyone had his or her own conspiracy theory about Rowan's apparent success, but the press wasn't about to argue with its results.

“Yeah,” Levi said now, moving closer to Serena, “these reporters have drank deep from the Rowan Kool-Aid.”

“That's the truth,” Serena replied, taking a step back before Levi invaded her personal space. She wasn't just tiring of these press conferences; surviving Levi's daily flirtations was an adventure in its own right.

Not that she had a loyal husband sitting at home waiting on her. Jamie had gone out to Colorado three days after her return from Kym's wedding last week. She took his excuse—hooking up with the American teammates from his Italian team for an early start on preseason conditioning and seeing to some issues at the nonprofit foundation they ran together—at face value, but the blind faith that required was a humiliating burden.

Add to that the fact that Levi, a thirty-year-old former pro boxer, was very much a brother in his prime, and he should have had a chance with her. The problem, Serena reminded herself as the security director matched her every step toward the hallway, was his overconfidence. It seemed Levi sensed he was just the sort of brother who'd gotten her into trouble night after night during her free and easy youth. He wasn't even working hard in his
attempt to woo her; he clearly believed that simply popping up at her side—smelling of baby oil, sporting a tight fade, flashing that wickedly arresting smile—would do the job, ultimately inducing her to collapse into his arms.

As they neared Serena's office, Levi ran his eyes over her outfit, a black pinstriped pants suit. “Did you, uh, have that tailored?”

She shook her head, chuckling. “Please. Don't you know I'm a public servant, not to mention one with two mouths to feed? I'm strictly off the rack, brother.”

Levi put his hands behind his back and swayed in place. “Hard to believe, as well as that hangs on you.”

Arriving at her office door, Serena slapped Levi's arm. “Cut it out; you're going to make me blush.” She knew Levi was exaggerating; for years now she had worked carefully at dressing like a true professional at the office. Fleeing a youth full of low-cut tops, see-through shirts, and Wonderbras, the Serena Kincaid who showed up for work each day was cloaked in a conservatively bland wardrobe, one designed to smother something as pointless as sex appeal.

“Well, I wouldn't want you blushing on my account,” Levi said as Serena retrieved her office key from her pocket. “So tell me, what's it gonna take to wake the people of Cincinnati up, get them to approve the next levy?”

Serena rolled one eye toward Levi, then took it back. “It's after five, baby. Ask me tomorrow at eight a.m., please.”

“Ah, come on, I'm just making conversation.” Levi shook his head, chuckling. “Working here is proving to be a trip. Never know what the day will bring. I still don't know how I'm gonna keep these ghetto folk from busting a cap in Champion's ass next week.”

“Shouldn't he have his own security?” Arthur Champion was one of the most famous black businessmen in the country. A former protégé of Donald Trump, in the eighties, Champion used that rarified air to build a network of major media contacts before forming his own venture capital firm. By the late nineties he had amassed enough wealth to engineer a leveraged buyout of Weller
Industries, a Fortune 100 multinational corporation with fifty thousand employees and plants in eighteen countries.

Although running his company took plenty of time, Champion also made time to follow in his old boss's footsteps, building a side career as a media presence. He'd been very crafty about bringing attention to himself: dating a string of famous (white) actresses and singers, flying a hot air balloon around the world, and appearing in controversial commercials for his company's most popular products. One even featured a lean, half-dressed Champion working one of his company's power drills before a worshipful audience of scantily clad young women. NBC, CNN, and Fox News loved him for his attitude and excess, while
Ebony
and
Essence
worshipped him for his wealth. Champion had everything a black man could want—the respect of his people, the envy of everyone else.

While on tour to promote his recent book,
A Real Champion: Forget Mike, Be Like Me,
the mogul had blithely tossed it all away. Appearing before the Cincinnati NAACP, he was asked his opinion of the struggles facing Cincinnati's and other public school systems. “It's simple,” he'd been quoted in the
Enquirer
. “Bad kids with even worse parents. Unless you show me the proof, I'm giving the teachers in these schools the benefit of the doubt. They're not the problem. The problem is a generation of kids being raised by parents whose heads are stuck up their asses.” Based on accounts Serena heard from several folk who'd been on hand, Champion hadn't backed down as the night went on. He'd stomped out every last ember of political correctness, sparing no one: teen parents, truants, single mothers, two-income families with no time to raise their children, and a black culture valuing sports, rap music, popularity, and fame over education.

The black community—not just here in Cincy, but nationally—was still aflame with resentment. Who was this uppity Negro to call folk out and air dirty laundry, all with cameras rolling and representatives of The Man on hand? Talk swirled of boycotts against Champion's company's products, along with demands that he be
publicly spanked by the Sharptons, Jacksons, and Farrakhans of the world.

Too headstrong to let the firestorm blow over, the self-promoter had come calling again. Word was he'd be speaking next week at Cincinnati's juvenile detention center. Champion's publicist had put out the word that the loudmouth planned on bringing gifts—rumors were he'd be donating up to five million to the school system—but that he'd also be delivering a stern warning to urban schools nationwide.

“Champion should have his own security,” Levi said, answering Serena's halfhearted question as she took a seat at her desk, “but Kellogg and the board told me I better make damn sure things go smoothly.” As she tapped her PC monitor to life, he walked over behind her, letting his cologne wash over her as he growled into her ear. “If anything happened to him, it would just prove him right about our kids, know what I mean?”

“Levi, thank you so much,” Serena said, turning and crossing her arms. Tapping a finger against her desk, she smiled as pleasantly as she could. “See you tomorrow?”

“Okay, sure.” An eyebrow raised, Levi took the brush-off in good spirits. Too good. “You have a blessed night now, Serena. Give your hubby my best.”

She let her silence respond to his wisecrack and admired the sinewy muscles rippling through the back of his shirt as he strode off.
Don't be mad, Levi.

 

Half an hour later she had straightened up her office, changed into a pair of flats, and made the drive over to Angus King stadium, where Dawn and Sydney were competing in an area track meet. After being confined to her air-conditioned office all day, Serena was surprised at how hot it was. Wearily pushing her door open, she climbed from her maroon Ford Explorer and reached back for her cell phone. She'd had it off since going into this afternoon's press conference; no telling whether she'd missed an
important message, especially given the drama her girls were putting each other through.

As she put the phone to her ear, Serena felt a sinking realization: there would be no message from Tony Gooden, not five days after she'd made that ill-advised call. In seconds, she was proved right. The only message was from one of Dawn's teachers, Ms. Bright, a wonderful woman whose younger sister graduated high school with Serena. As always, Ms. Bright was crisp, professional, and clearly concerned about some new antic Dawn had pulled. “I'm not writing her up,
yet,
” she said on the message. “I know you're doing the best you can, and we'll get her through this time. Just call me, please. My home number is . . .”

Huffing out an exasperated sigh, Serena tried to calculate how best to take Dawn on over this latest screwup. Dawn didn't tend to take counsel very well, usually preferring to shift the spotlight back onto her mother.

“How many of my track meets have you made it to the past year, Mom?” This had been her response last week when Serena got on her about an F on an American Government test. “Maybe if my mother spent less time at the office working for all the kids in the city schools and focused on me once in a while, I'd be a happier child. And maybe, just maybe, I'd be able to concentrate in class better. Ever thought about that?”

Serena had reared back with a prepped open-hand slap, then aborted it and opted instead for a stream of muttered profanities. Her child was driving her crazy, but that was no excuse; she'd just have to keep plugging away at the girl and maybe start praying a little more at the same time.

Standing before her open car door, Serena was startled by the sudden slap of a hand on her shoulder. She nearly dropped the phone as she turned away from the car. “Daddy?”

“Precious.” Serena's shoulders slackened as her father, a tall, broad man oozing peace and calm, took her into his arms. Professor Charles Height was the best man she knew, a constant advisor and a perfect complement to Jan, her tough, protective mother.

Deep down, Serena's devotion to her imperfect marriage had as much to do with her parents as with her desire to protect her children. After the hell she'd put them through from age fourteen to twenty-one, holding her marriage together was like a thank-you note to her folks. She couldn't think of a better way to reward them for standing by her all those years.

“You're here just in time,” her father said now, his voice an authoritative whisper. “Dawn's event is up first. She'll be on the track in a few minutes.” Squinting against the sunlight, he held her back at arm's length, surveying her with his gray-green eyes. “You look worn around the edges, honey.”

“It couldn't be helped today, Daddy.” Looking at her father before her, dressed in a pair of knee-length plaid shorts and a bright white rugby shirt, she realized her friends were right: her father and Colin Powell could have been separated at birth.

“If I need to call Dr. Kellogg myself,” Charles replied, rubbing Serena's arms lovingly, “I will. You can't let him run you ragged, Serena. It's not good for your health.”

“Daddy, I'm fine,” Serena replied, shooing away his protective tone, though she wondered if he knew how right he was to worry. Stepping back, she shut her car door before taking his hand. As they walked toward the stadium, she punched him playfully in the side. “I love my job, Daddy. That's the easy part of life.” As it fell out of her mouth, she knew immediately that she'd said too much.

“The . . . easy part.” Charles gripped her hand a little more tightly, stopped where he stood. “As opposed to what?”

She laughed nervously, looked around the parking lot. “Daddy, never mind.”

“This is about Jamie, right?” Charles sized her up again through the lenses of his bifocals, then lowered his voice. “Serena, I wasn't going to bring this up, but if he's running around again, you need to let me know.”

“Daddy, we are grown adults. It's not your business.”