Tutored (5 page)

Around the center court, there was a gathering mainly made up of slightly bemused senior citizens with their arms folded in judgment. Way, way up front stood an enraptured female fan with hungry eyes. Her hands were laced together in prayer. Now, why was she so supportive? Wendy wondered. Was she a girlfriend? Manager? Sister? Creditor?

“Come on, Dad, let’s go,” Wendy said.

Her dad, however, was in a groove. “Now, that’s what I call singing. Not a lot of shouting and gyrating. No filthy lyrics like those ignorant rappers that get played on the radio.”

“Let’s go, Dad.”

But Mr. Anderson wasn’t budging. He seemed to really like this James Blunt rip-off.

“I’ll be in the food court,” Wendy told her father, and went on her way.

She got a slice of gourmet pizza and a soda and found an out-of-the-way table with an umbrella over it for further cover.

When her father came along he asked, “What did they put on your slice?”

“Zucchini.”

He frowned. “That’s brilliant.”

She frowned too. “Want some, Dad?”

He shook his head and told her he was in the mood for a California roll. Wendy watched him go over to the Sushi-to-Go line.

Wendy took another bite of her pizza. At the table beside her, there was a group of sales associates from Radio Shack. They were talking about mobile phones.

At another nearby table, a couple was making moon eyes at each other over a hot fudge sundae.

“Oh, hi, Wendy,” someone said. She turned her head to see not just one person she knew, but three: Rhea, Jillian, and Carlyle.

Wendy suppressed her gag reflex. Of all the girls she had to run into, why did it have to be them, the three most psycho people she knew?

Wendy didn’t bother to say hello. She just turned her head back in the other direction.

“Nice to see you out,” Rhea said.

It was clear to Wendy that they wouldn’t go off on their own. They would keep lingering and bothering her.

“Who are you here with?” Jullian asked.

“Yeah, I didn’t know you were dating anyone,” Carlyle said in that childlike bobbing way she had of talking.

“Who’s the lucky guy?” Rhea asked.

“Get out of my face, you three bitches,” Wendy told them. But before that sting had a chance to sink in, her dad had come back with his platter. “Hello, young ladies.”

They were so cute with their phony-baloney smiles, their hair drawn up in high ponytails, and their jiggling charm bracelets (which, at sixteen and seventeen, they still hadn’t outgrown). It was no surprise that any parent would think they were sweetness incarnate. It seemed like forever before they slipped away in their ballet flats.

“They seem like such nice girls,” her father said. “Why don’t you ever invite them over?”

Wendy didn’t answer. It wasn’t just the haughty countenance they had or the silly, tiny, swingy skirts they always wore that irked her. In Wendy’s opinion, they were evil. Pure evil, plain and simple. They weren’t like the other in-crowd girls, who let her off easy by ignoring her. No, they got their kicks from downing other people. It was Rhea and company who started the rumor years ago that Wendy’s mother had OD’d. Thanks to them, half the school thought her mom had been on street drugs; the other half believed she’d committed suicide. Wendy’s mother had actually passed away as a result of a bad reaction to prescription drugs. She had
been only thirty-six years old, but did that matter to Rhea and company? It was all fair game to giggle and whisper behind someone’s back.

Wendy could only dread what they would concoct at school tomorrow. Probably some story about how they saw Wendy with her father in some weird incestuous embrace. They always had to spice up their gossip, make everything gross and sexy—plain facts would never do.

Her father was still singing their praises, suggesting that they come over that weekend. It wasn’t too cold out to heat up the gas grill.

Take slow, deep breaths, Wendy. Take slow, deep breaths
, she told herself.

“I could make some kabobs,” he said.

Wendy thought for a moment,
Why not tell him what they did?
But that notion was fleeting. She didn’t tell him about things like that. She didn’t talk to her father about anything, really; they just argued about curtains, zucchini, and the ghetto.

She swirled her crushed ice around with her straw till her father told her to quit.

After a while, they got up, stacked their trays, and made their way toward the exit. They passed a store called the Child’s Boutique. At that moment, Hakiam popped into her mind—and that weird, convoluted tale he had told her.

“I want to stop in here,” she told her dad.

“What in heaven’s name for?”

Wendy ignored the question and walked into the primary-colors-dominated store. Everything was so bright
and shiny. As her father trailed behind her, he asked who was pregnant.

“No one’s pregnant, Dad. She already had the baby.”

“Who? Who? Who had a baby?”

“Nobody you know.”

But her father kept stalking her. By the crib mobile section of the store, she finally told him that she was looking for something nice for this little girl from the tutoring center.

“I wasn’t aware that you were tutoring people that young, Wendy.”

“I’m not, Dad. Look, I don’t want to go into it. It’s confusing. There’s a baby that I want to welcome into the world, end of story.”

He shook his head in disgust. “She’s probably one of nine. You know how much
those women
like to have babies.”

“What difference does it make if she has a lot of siblings? She still deserves a welcome, Dad.”

They’d reached the clothing section. She found a really pretty one-piece outfit with little strawberries and ruffles on it.

Her father hovered. “You know, it’s a colossal waste of time, effort, and money to get anything nice for people like that.”

With that comment, it was decided.

“I’ll take it,” Wendy said. She walked to the register and slid her credit card over the counter.

S
omething about sleeping right through his second day of class reminded Hakiam of old times. Those lazy, hazy days of his previous school years, where he coasted the waves of trig, lit, and Western civ without ever getting wet. He was glad this center wasn’t the kind of place where the teachers came circling about asking loaded questions like “Are you feeling all right?” if they found a head down on a desk. So that was how the first half of his day went, smooth as butter. Not a soul hassled him.

At the end of his “classes,” he felt refreshed and bright-eyed. Then it was time to meet up with
her
again.

He was all set to bust her chops some more, but as he approached the tutoring center, he didn’t find that cute brown-skinned, overdressed, prissy thing sitting in her usual spot. He didn’t see her anywhere.

“Where’s that girl?” he asked a sandy-haired guy sitting at a table.

“She called in sick today.”

Hakiam figured the man was about his age, and got the sinking feeling that he was not just a substitute but a replacement.

“Will she be back tomorrow?”

“I don’t know. What subject do you need help with?” the young man asked, then offered a wide smile and said, “Maybe I can help.”

Hakiam didn’t bother to answer. Instead, he sought the nearest exit.

Throughout his short life, one of Hakiam’s main hobbies had always been roaming the streets. He could walk for hours. That afternoon, since he had nothing else to do, he wound up around what the yuppies called University City because this was the area where the Penn and Drexel students were housed. It was a breezy fall day. On the outskirts of the campuses there were Asian groceries, a flower stand run by a one-legged woman, a few peanut stands, and a pretzel stand. The vendor running the latter had a string of pretzels shoved into his armpit. He broke them off one by one as people ordered them. Hakiam figured the armpit just added to the salty flavor.

Hakiam passed the brownstones with ivy hugging every brick, and he wondered whether one day those plants could bring a building down.

He walked a few more blocks, cutting through Penn’s campus. It soured him to view this parade of purposeful people of various heights, sizes, and nationalities, all walking with such vigor. To Hakiam, they were show-offs, carrying their thick books. They reminded him of
how he had grown weary of doing nothing day after day. He wished again that that annoying girl had been there at the tutoring center. Messing with her was a fun diversion.

There was a clothing store just beyond the walkway that sold sweats and jeans. As soon as Hakiam entered, bells seemed to go off. It was like they could smell his brokeness. Wasn’t that why they followed him around? He wondered fleetingly if the result would have been any different if he had shoes with shoestrings or his pants weren’t saggy or his hoodie wasn’t up. This was practically the shoplifter’s uniform.

The security guard had a heavy profile but a light walk. He was good at his job and tried to make it look casual. He whistled a pleasant tune that Hakiam didn’t recognize and trailed him like a shadow.

Finally, while Hakiam was weaving past the jacket rack, the guard asked the very loaded question: “Can I help you?”

Hakiam up-and-downed the brother before answering. “Yeah,” he said, holding up a blazer, “you can pay for this for me.”

Back on the street, he started thinking that black men had basically cornered the market on the security-guard industry. It made perfect sense, in a way. A black person was far less likely to be accused of hassling other blacks than someone of another race was. It was hard to imagine a discrimination case going anywhere. So this kind of hovering went on, and there was really no redress.

In all fairness, Hakiam had been known to steal,
especially when he was low on paper, like he was now. But he would never be stupid enough to do it in a place that had sensory detectors and exploding dye. Since he’d moved to Philly, this was the first time his other longtime hobby—purse snatching—had crossed his mind.

He tried to think of something else as he crossed the footbridge into downtown. He thought of what dinner would be like if he had funds. He daydreamed of a beautiful spread: buttered rolls, collards, potato salad, candied yams, spinach, and generous portions of moist, flavorful meat loaf.

Just then a small-framed woman passed by him. She looked about thirty and wore high-heeled pumps. She was wrapped up in her cell phone conversation, not paying attention at all to her large purple handbag, which was loose on her shoulder. Odds were she had about fifty bucks in there, at least. Maybe an iPod or a BlackBerry. She probably carried some gift cards on her, and, of course, credit cards.

If only it weren’t so easy
, Hakiam thought as he moved closer to her. All it would take was one grab and a quick jog in the other direction. Even if she chased him, she could barely keep up for more than two blocks, and that was if she wanted to take her shoes off.

Hakiam was just about to reach for it. He got closer and closer, thinking,
So much for a fresh start in a new city
. And what difference did it make, anyway? This lady could probably afford it. It would be just a little skin off her back, but to him, it was a few square meals, maybe a movie at the cineplex, and some freedom.

He told himself,
Take it. Just take it. Grab it now and run
. But then she turned to him, clutching her bag extra tight, and a mean look formed on her otherwise pretty face.
How could she know?

He tried to look innocent.

She kept her visage stony and made sure he moved ahead of her.

Shit
, he thought. Now he was really down. He felt like he was hanging by a burning rope. He wondered if everyone in Philly could read his mind. That was supposed to be simple: Bag Swiping 101. If he couldn’t fall back on his old tricks, what did he have left?

“I
missed you the other day,” he said.

“Are you speaking to me?”

Hakiam casually jerked his chin toward the seat next to her and said, “No, I’m talking to the chair.”

Wendy’s cheeks grew warm and she thought of giving him a straight answer. Instead, she opted for a wisecrack. “I’d be interested to know when the chair responds.”

He scooted into the spot next to her.

She still didn’t meet his eye.

He pulled out a book entitled
American History After 1865
. Her Hershey bar–colored eyes met his. “Do you want to work or kid around, Hakiam?”

“Work, I guess,” he mumbled.

Wendy rolled her shoulders back. She opened up his book. “You haven’t cracked this, have you?”

“How can you tell, cuz the pages look new?”

“No, because the book made a cracking sound.”

He reached in his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. He ironed the creases out of it and handed it to her.

“Oh, this is your syllabus. It says you’re supposed to read pages 233 to 267. Have you read 233 to 267?”

“Nope.”

“Well then, why don’t you come back when you’ve read 233 to 267.”

He shrugged. She watched him place the syllabus in the book then close it, knowing that that was the most exercise it had had since it had been in his possession.

“Do you want to be a teacher? Is that why you volunteer here?” he asked her.

“No, I’m going to be a doctor.”

“Why would a good-looking girl like you want to be cooped up in some hospital all day?”

Was that some kind of mixed-up compliment?
she wondered as she answered his question with a question. “Everyone who works in a hospital is good-looking; don’t you watch
Grey’s Anatomy
?”

Instead of laughing, he smirked at that. “Bet you have to go to school for a long time to be a doctor.”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“How long?”

“Four years after you graduate college, then four years of residency, so all together I’ll be tied up for twelve.”

“Damn. You want to spend all that time in school?”

“Yes,” she said. “Unlike you, I like opening books.”