Dirty South Read online

  “You were dreaming about…?” he asks.

  I sigh. Shiver.

  It’s the tail end of summer. His central air isn’t set too low. The shiver isn’t about temperature, and Donnell is engaged enough to know that. His brows knit. “Thought you’d stopped having dreams about that.”

  I sit up on the side of his bed. “I had.”

  He sits down next to me. Arm up over my shoulder. “Want to talk about it?”

  I shake my head.

  He clears his throat. “This is a good studying CD. Calming.”

  I nod.

  I don’t have any words. So many thoughts running through my mind.

  I had stopped dreaming about that near miss with Mr. Alonzo.

  But my mind’s been so troubled recently.

  Ghosts are bound to rise when your mind is as troubled as mine is.

  It makes me sad.

  A lot of it has to do with Donnell.

  The best thing that ever happened to me is Donnell’s love.

  And yet, it has me troubled.

  Donnell smiles. “I was studying about these birds. They had me thinking about you, because they reminded me so much of you. And then you woke up.”

  He’s the best boyfriend a girl could have. He’s moved on, not dwelling on the dream, which is what I want. Of course, he knows that. That’s why he did it. For me. That’s the standard, ladies. A man that does the things you desire, just because.

  “Birds? How I remind you of birds?”

  Donnell is corny as Orville Redenbacher sometimes. I swear.

  “Don’t know.” He pauses and shrugs. “They’re called blue-footed boobies…and I just couldn’t stop thinking of you for some reason.”

  I punch his shoulder. “Nasty.”

  “Girl, you know you like my style,” he sings.

  I hunch my eyes in surprise. “Been listening to the radio, have we?”

  “I dabble,” he admits through a thick smile.

  I love Donnell.

  Conversations with him are deep, meaningful. I’m on the verge of womanhood. He makes me feel like a woman. Reminds me of a part of myself I’ve yet to share with anyone.

  My goodies.

  I sit in silence. Think.

  Donnell takes my hand after some time, squeezes it after every sentence.

  “You’ve been happy.” Squeeze. “Yourself again after that difficult experience.” Squeeze. “Don’t lose yourself again, YaYa. You’re a survivor. Remember that.” Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze.

  YaYa.

  Ricky used to call me Kay. At one time that meant something special to me. Now I’d rather a dude just treat me with respect, keep the games and lies out of our relationship. No pet name is required. But Donnell insisted on some kind of term of endearment the moment we became an official couple. Came up with YaYa. Sounds like something a baby does in its diaper. Oh, look, Kenya did YaYa. But whatever. Donnell treats me righteous, so I put up with it.

  “I’m fine,” I whisper.

  He nods. Leaves it alone. Looks at me the way a man looks at a woman.

  “So your parents gone for the entire weekend?” I ask.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “North Carolina?”

  “Vee-ay, Virginia. My mom’s sister lives down there. My Aunt Regina. They eating catfish with their fingers right now, I bet. Drinking Riesling, but in paper cups, trying to cover up their countryness.”

  “Oh, yeah. That’s what’s up.” I could care less about any of that. Have other things on my mind. I spider-walk my fingers up Donnell’s arm.

  Donnell looks in my eyes, deep.

  “I have something for you,” he says.

  “Do you?”

  Sexy, I’m feeling sexy.

  “Yeah.” He swallows.

  “A gift?”

  “You could say that.”

  I bite my lip, smile coyly. “Go ahead and give it to me,” I whisper.

  Donnell clears his throat. “Holeup…let me…let me get ’em.”

  “Don’t keep me waiting too long,” I say as he rises.

  I watch him go. Watch his butt in his jeans. High and tight. High and tight.

  He’s back in a second, a large white shopping bag in hand.

  “I know you’re nervous about next week, so I got you a li’l something to hopefully set your mind at ease.”

  In a few days I’m off to Georgia for freshman orientation. A three-day event the school holds in August, a couple weeks before classes start for real. Preparation for the big change about to take place in the lives of incoming freshmen. I am nervous about leaving for school. Luckily, Lark, my best friend, is going to the same college. A pact we made years ago is coming to fruition. We’ll be best friends for life, I’m sure.

  Donnell’s staying in Jersey so he can be close to his parents. Rutgers University. One of the best state colleges in the country. Donnell didn’t feel comfortable putting miles between himself and his parents. They’re getting older, he told me. I accepted that. Disappointed, because we’d be separated, but I accepted it. It shows Donnell’s concern and sense of responsibility. That’s why I love him so much.

  Ricky didn’t care about anybody but Ricky. Selfish to the nth degree.

  Donnell hands me the bag. “A li’l something-something,” he says.

  I reach my hand inside, come out with a book. I flip it over, study the cover. It’s a hardcover, sturdy. I’ve read this particular novel a thousand times, it seems. My paperback copy is falling to pieces. But this hardcover copy could probably make it through a million readings. “Toni Morrison’s Song of Solomon. Thank you, baby.”

  “Open it.”

  I do.

  Gasp at the cursive handwriting in black ink bleeding through the title page. “How did you…?”

  “Last Saturday I didn’t really have studying to do. I hope you’ll forgive me for that little white lie.” He smiles. “I drove out to Princeton. Ms. Morrison was giving a reading. Stood in line forever afterwards. Way too many women watching Oprah. Way too many. Homegirl’s a rock star now.”

  I want to cry.

  So many troubling thoughts in my head.

  Donnell’s being so sweet. Being so…him.

  “There’s more in the bag,” he says.

  I swallow that information and reach my hand in the bag again. “I Am. Chrisette Michele’s CD. God, I love her.”

  “I know,” Donnell says.

  “I’ve been meaning to get this. Just haven’t gotten around to it. Been so busy getting prepared for school.”

  “I know.”

  “Thanks” is all I can manage.

  “There’s more.”

  Lots, it turns out.

  Smokin’ Aces on DVD.

  A case of Nature Valley’s vanilla yogurt bars.

  A dolphin key chain.

  A twenty-five-dollar gift card to Barnes & Noble.

  A poster of Taye Diggs. Another of Boris Kodjoe.

  All of my favorite things.

  My emotions are raw. So many troubling thoughts in my head.

  “Get these posters signed like you did the book, and you’ll be on to something,” I whisper. “You know Taye and Boris are my future baby daddies.”

  “They won’t live to pay you child support,” Donnell says. “I’ll take care of those pretty-boy Negroes in a second if they even think about going near my YaYa.”

  I’m his YaYa.

  “You’re making this so hard. So damn hard, Donnell.”

  “I’m going to miss you, too. And, yeah, it isn’t ideal with you being all those miles away from me. But we can make it through this. I figure these three days you’re away next week will be a good test run.” He smiles. “Hope I don’t fall apart, be outside howling at the moon late at night.”

  “So hard…”

  Donnell embraces me, kisses my forehead. “We’ll be fine.”

  I clear my throat. “There’s something…I have something for you, too.”

  He smiles. “M
y baby got me a gift?”

  I nod.

  “Let me guess. Something for my car?”

  I shake my head.

  “You wouldn’t get me a CD. Ditto for a video game.” Realization comes to his face. “You bought me clothes? You won’t quit until you have me in a throwback jersey and some timbs, will you?”

  “Throwbacks are played. Where you been?”

  “What then?”

  I take his hand and draw the outline of a letter in his palm.

  “G?”

  I nod, draw another letter.

  “O?”

  I continue on, five letters remaining.

  “Another O?”

  He’s silent with the D and I.

  “Goodies?” he says when I finish.

  I nod.

  “Been feeling some kind of way for a while. You don’t pressure me, and I appreciate that more than you’ll ever know.” My voice softens as I go on. “I’m ready. I want to share my most precious gift with you, Donnell.”

  “Kenya…” He can’t form any other words.

  “You’re so special to me. I want to show you my appreciation.”

  “You’re…I mean…You’re sure?”

  “I’m positive.”

  So many troubling thoughts in my head.

  He smiles. “’Cause we have time.”

  I pause. “No, we don’t.”

  “What do you mean?” Smile remains.

  I take his hand in mine, squeeze after each word. “Because after I give you my goodies, Donnell, honey, I’m breaking up with you.”

  His smile fades.

  I’m not a know-it-all by any stretch of the imagination. That’s not even cute. And if Kenya is anything, cute is high on the list. Right below ravishing and stunning. Coupla other adjectives I won’t get into right now. I walk in a room and own it. Know-it-alls walk in a room and clear it out. See the major difference?

  But there are certain things I do know for sure, and at the risk of sounding like a know-it-all I’m gonna go ahead and drop it like it’s hotter than Boris Kodjoe.

  Here goes.

  Number One: Flavor Flav is not fine. It’s the lure of television exposure that has all those women ready to bow down and kiss his crusty feet. I’m telling you. Even Flav has to know what time it is, without even peeking at that ginormous clock around his neck.

  Moving on.

  Number Two: Shakespeare and the Holy dudes that wrote the King James Version of the Bible had to have been cheating off of one another’s papers. Reading either and actually comprehending the words you’ve read is harder than Britney Spears’s noggin.

  Doth says Kenya to ye.

  Number Three: Text messaging needs its own twelve-step program. Thirty is the new twenty, and text messaging is the new crack. Definitely in need of a Textaholics Anonymous. Or at the very least an hour of dedicated intervention on Dr. Phil’s show.

  Dats da str8 truth, lol.

  Sorry.

  Anyhoo.

  Number Four: I’m all that and then some. Yes, me. And I’m not being conceited or arrogant when I say that. It’s a fact. Written in stone like Fred Flintstone’s last will and testament. Undeniable, I tell you. Need proof? Check the vitals. I’ve got a body like Beyonce, a voice like Keyshia Cole, and I’m sexy as Alicia Keys. I’m R & B to the hilt. That’s rare and bodacious, if you didn’t know.

  Lastly.

  Number Five: Donnell loves me to death.

  I think I might have messed up.

  1 BABY…4 MEN TESTED…WHO’S THE FATHER?

  That’s the caption on my television screen.

  I’m watching an episode of the Maury show. A bunch of stupid chicks that slept around and got pregnant. Now they’re throwing darts at a board with the names of all the men they’ve slept with on it, trying desperately to figure out who dey baby daddy is. It seems like every day Maury has one of these paternity-test shows. I don’t know what’s worse: that Maury seems fixated on this type of show, or that there seems to be an endless supply of stupid chicks who’ve given up the goodies to any and everybody.

  Oh well, better them than me.

  Never say never. That’s what Mama says.

  I’ve always followed that advice, too.

  I’m not so high-minded as to go on and on about what I’d never do, what situation I’d never find myself in. Never say never. There was a time I said I’d never date Donnell Tucker. Famous last words. Not only did I end up dating him. I fell in love.

  So never say never.

  But in this case, I can say with a certainty I’d never be in a position of not knowing who fathered my child. Never. Never. Never. There, I said it. Never. Never.

  Oh hells no.

  That’s so damn tacky.

  Maury prepares to open an envelope with Kaneisha’s paternity results. It’s her third time on the show, and this is the fifth dude she’s had tested. But Kaneisha is absolutely positive this is Jamal’s baby. A million percent positive, in fact. Jamal is just as positive it isn’t his. He mentions how positive she was about Dante, and then Jared, and Trent and that lame Walter. “Can’t believe you’d lay down with Walter,” Jamal says. Kaneisha shoots back that she just messed around with those dudes, but she was really hollaing at Jamal. He was her main dude, for real. “Well,” Jamal says, “why don’t little Dante have my ears or nose, and why don’t little Dante walk like me, either? You know I got that bop, Kaneisha. You know it be like music is playing when I walk. Like the new Kanyeasy is blasting and whatnot.” Kaneisha agrees with a smile and a sigh. She has no answer for little Dante’s ears, nose and walk. But she’s still positive he’s Jamal’s son.

  That’s some straight-up buffoonery they’re talking.

  Little Dante is only seven months old.

  Maury interrupts their back and forth, holds up the envelope again containing the paternity results.

  My cell phone rings. It’s Lark, my best friend.

  Dayum!

  I pick up. “Girl, you’re messing up my Maury.”

  “Maury?” Lark says. “Forget Maury. We have to talk. I heard about you and Donnell. Ken, are you crazy? You’re breaking up with Donnell. Are you crazy?”

  “How do you know about that?”

  “It ain’t on TMZ.com,” she says. “So I have to attribute my knowledge to my psychic intuitions. I’m touched, Ken. It’s a lot to deal with. Be thankful you’re not similarly inclined. A gift and a curse.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Who told you?”

  Lark sighs. “Donnell mentioned it to Chuck Daniels. Chuck blabbed to Trent Greer. Trent’s been trying to get some from Chante, so he’s up in her ear damn near every day. He gave her the scoop. Chante gave me a call. So what is the deal, Ken? I can’t believe you left me in the dark on this. Thought I was your girl. Talk to me.”

  “You are my girl. I was gonna call you. Let me finish this Maury, and we’ll talk. I promise.”

  “Garbage, trash, degenerate nonsense…”

  “What?”

  “The stuff on Maury, that’s what it is,” Lark says. “Forget Maury. We need to be focused on you and Donnell. This is your life we’re talking about here.”

  This I know.

  And I’m not quite ready to deal with this latest dumb decision.

  I’d nickname myself BJ if people weren’t so gutter-minded.

  Bad judgment.

  I’m the queen of that.

  “Lark, please. One minute, I promise. Just let me see what’s up with this Maury.”

  “No, Ken. I wouldn’t be your friend if I let this slide another second, much less a minute, so you can watch some dumb television show.”

  I snatch up my remote, stab the Power button. “Okay. Okay. What, Lark? What do you want from me?”

  “How could you break up with Donnell, Ken? Are you crazy?”

  “Why do you keep saying that?” I pause. “And what’s those voices I hear? I know you didn’t have me turn off my TV and you still got yours on, Lark.”

&n
bsp; “Don’t be silly,” Lark says.

  “So what’s that I hear?”

  “We need to focus on the issue at hand, Ken. You and Donnell.”

  She’s right.

  I could use her counsel, truth be told.

  “I should have spoken to you before I did anything,” I say.

  “Damn right, I’m your…”

  Lark’s voice trails off, and she gasps.

  “Lark? Lark? Lark? Are you there?”

  After a while, she answers. “I can’t believe it, Ken.”

  “What? What happened? Are you okay?” My heart is throbbing in my throat.

  Then I hear a small voice. Lark’s.

  “I’ll be over in a bit, Ken. Can’t talk right now. Betta we do this live, anyway.”

  “What happened? You sound upset.”

  “I am, Ken.”

  “What happened?”

  “Kaneisha’s a savage. The baby ain’t Jamal’s.”

  At that she clicks off, breaks our connection.

  I’m outside on my steps when Lark walks up. I needed some fresh air to clear my head. I have to wonder about my decision. Maybe it wasn’t the right one, as much as I thought it over before I talked to Donnell. He’s absolutely the best dude I’ve ever encountered. Any girl lucky enough to have him down with her is blessed. I know all this.

  But still…

  Lark stops by the edge of the steps, puts her hands on her hips. “You got some ’splaining to do, Ken.”

  I remember the Maury situation. “So do you,” I say. “Had me turn off my Maury and you were watching it yourself.” I imitate her. “Garbage, trash, degenerate nonsense…”

  She smiles sheepishly.

  I don’t say anything else. Hand her my cell phone. She furrows her brow, pauses and then takes it from me. She squints as she reads the text message on the screen. My homegirl needs glasses, but is too vain. And contacts are too much trouble.

  I look off into the distance while she reads.

  Lark reads the text out loud. “What’s day without night? Good without bad? Left without right? Incomplete. Like me without you.”

  Despite my best efforts, my eyes start to water.