Live And Learn. Niobia Bryant

girl.”

      I felt my face wrinkle into a nasty frown as I recognized my ex’s voice. I couldn’t stand the sight, smell, or sound of Malik’s sorry ass. This knuckle-head tried to holler at Cristal behind my back.

      That was a definite no-no.

      Being the home girl Cristal was, she told me all about it…after she slapped the hell out of him.

      But that wasn’t the first time Cris and I didn’t let a boy cause drama between us.

      It was 1999. Freshman year of high school. New school. New faces. New rules. New cliques.

      And since I was the only one from my elementary school to get accepted into University High, that meant new friends, but I had no worries.

      I was looking good in the latest Parasuco gear. My bob was laid out, and my gold jewelry was in place. My pocketbook and bookbag were Gucci. My parents were real good to me. Being the only child had its benefits.

      All eyes were on me as soon as I walked into my homeroom. The various conversations buzzing around the room lulled. A few of the boys whistled or shot me their “let me holla at you” smile. I went right into spin control and threw on a smile like I had the world in the palm of my hand. A few people smiled in return. A couple of girls immediately bent together, and I felt like they were talking about me.

      There was an empty seat next to a tall, slender girl with skin the color of shortbread cookies. She was busy flirting back with a slender dark-skinned kid with long, asymmetrical braids and a big Kool–Aid smile. I made my way past the rows of students in chairs with attached desks, speaking to every last person I made eye contact with.

      “Whassup,” I said to Shortbread and Braids as I set my things on the long bookshelf behind us.

      Braids looked at me from the tip of my fresh white Nikes to my eyes, not missing anything in between. There was no denying the interested look in his deep-set hazel eyes as he turned in his chair to face me and turned his back to Shortbread. “Better yet, shorty, how you doin’?”

      I saw the disappointment on Shortbread’s face, and even though he was as fine as Tyrese, I wasn’t looking for drama this early in the school year. “I’ll be doin’ even better when you go back in her face and out of mine.”

      His pretty-boy face fell, and I knew lover boy was shocked that all his deliciousness rolled off my back like water.

      Shortbread laughed, holding her hand over her mouth. “No need him turning this way again,” she said with attitude.

      “Oh, so both y’all gone play me?” he asked, straight white and even teeth flashing.

      We both looked at him like “Negro, please.”

      He sucked his teeth, waved his hand, and turned to a dark-skinned cutie sitting in front of him.

      Shortbread and I looked at each other, gave each other some dap, and then laughed at how we shut down his wanna-be playa ass.

      “I’m Monica.”

      “Danielle.”

      We’ve been inseparable ever since, and we’ve always been loyal to each other.

      Too bad Malik’s dumb ass didn’t know that.

      “What you want?” I snapped, my eyes flashing as I focused my attention back on him. “No! As a matter of fact, who gives a shit?”

      I slammed the phone closed, immediately dismissing that clown. True, his money had been good and he had been free-giving with it, but bump that, I don’t need a no-good Negro trying to play me with one of my girls. When it comes to shit like that, I’m like Aretha: give me my R-E-S-P-E-C-T, understand?

      Besides, I’ve moved on to bigger and better things. Malik didn’t have nothing on Rah.

      Once a big-time drug dealer, Rah had pooled his money and bought businesses that let him get out of the game before the game got him.

      Okay, Malik can throw down a thousand times better in bed, but R-E-S-P-E-C-T, remember?

      It’s not like I ever loved Malik or even Rah for that matter. Shit, I’ve never been in love and that’s fine by me. Love’s nothing but a bunch of bullshit. What I wanted from men, I got: money, nights out on the town, shopping sprees, and companionship when I wanted it.

      True, Cristal was always hounding me about my need for “thug love,” but I liked me a roughneck. Timbs and “wifebeaters” turned me on more than suits and ties. A hard brotha with that swagger and an “I don’t give a fuck” attitude made me wet while those whitewashed brothas (from the same corporate world I yearned to be a part of) made me laugh.

      I can’t explain it. I just liked what I liked.

      Rah walked into the bedroom naked as the day he was born and smoking a blunt as thick as three fingers. I was glad my ass was already dressed.

      A little shopping excursion would be good, but putting up with him and his minute-man sex wasn’t on my agenda for the day.

      He held the blunt between his straight and even teeth as he climbed back into bed. “What time you get out of class?”

      “I have classes all day and my dance class tonight. Did you need something?”

      “Naw, I’m straight. I’ll be at the new store all day,” he said, reaching for the remote to turn on the sixty-one-inch flat screen on the wall.

      “Wish me luck on my test,” I said, moving to the bedroom door.

      “Good luck.” He exhaled a thick silver cloud from his pursed lips. “Love you, baby girl.”

      “And I love you, too,” I said without pause.

      Another lie. Maybe the biggest of them all.

      2

      “Hello, how are you doing? I am Cristal.”

      “Good morning, Platinum Records, please hold.”

      I used a clear-coated half-inch fingernail to push down the small button marked hold on the multi-line phone system. I slanted my hazel cat-shaped eyes up to the brotha who stood before my desk with a cocky “you know you want me” pose.

      He was Bones. The label’s newest rap artist whose self-titled debut album just went platinum. The fool actually looked like one of those guys in a prison photo still trying to be down like they were in a club and not in jail. Hands on hips, legs apart, chin tilted up like “What?”

      Oh, he was nice-looking in a roughneck, corner thug sort of way, but unlike my less discriminating best friends, I do not go for the allure of a thug. Baggy blue jeans, untied Timbs, and a white T-shirt (which I refuse to call a wifebeater) do not make my panties moist. Now, do not get me wrong, I appreciate a man with an urban attitude, but I want it mixed with a little of the sophistication I read about in magazines and see in those old black-and-white movies I love so much. Tailored suits and ties. Culture-filled dates. Legal income. Stability.

      So this man/child standing before me trying to look and dress like he was mad at the world was definitely not my type.

      “Can I help you?” I asked in a friendly manner, forcing a smile to my round, pretty face.

      “Damn, lovely, how you doin’?” he asked, his grave voice full of that unmistakable East Coast accent.

      “Fine, and yourself?” I answered.

      Working as the sole receptionist for one of the hottest Black-owned record companies—and looking as good as I do with redbone appeal—I was pushed up on by many of the male artists and members of their entourages. Thus, looking up at Bones as he gave me a toothy grin did not send my senses reeling like he obviously thought it would.

      Back when I first started working here, I got a little star struck at times, but now…humph, now I make them feel they should be just as honored to meet