Live And Learn. Niobia Bryant

learned early and often in the game not to outright offend these thugs. They were quicker than a fly to shit to call you a bitch or a whore, and then turn around and tell you, “You ain’t all that anyway.”

      Now, my girl Dom does not give a damn. If she does not want to speak, there is not a soul alive that can make her. Alizé is like me and just plays it nicely. And Moët? Well, she has the kind of innate sweet charm that can soothe a savage beast. Men want to care for her, when in fact she has the smarts and the strengths to take care of herself if she wants.

      Yes, I loved my friends, but I was woman enough to admit that I envied them. They all had families. Even Dom had Diane, who was not much of a mother, but she beat a blank. And Alizé and Moët had futures ahead of them. Both were graduating college this year, and I could only wish I could have afforded to go.

      I grew up an orphan. I had no family. I have never been in love. I could not afford college. I was barely making ends meet to pay the rent on my one-bedroom apartment in The Top, a luxury apartment complex just outside of the Livingston suburbs.

      Struggle as I might, I was not downgrading. My next step out of The Top would be into even more luxurious surroundings.

      I outgrew the ghetto. Newark was no longer my home. I did not even claim it. In my opinion, why should I? Sure the girls always gave me a hard time about my feelings, or rather lack of them, for my hometown. It had not been good to me, so why should I be good to it. Okay? All right.

      “Go right on up. Mr. Linx is on his way into the office,” I told Bones, finally directing my attention back to the man/child standing before me. I quickly but smoothly moved my hand as he reached for it.

      Bones just smiled. “Later, shorty,” he hollered over his shoulder as he walked toward the elevator with his entourage in tow.

      I waved and ducked my head, not wanting to make any contact that suggested that I was eager for that later. I did not release the breath I was holding until he and his associates gathered noisily onto the elevator. The chrome doors closed, and they were gone from my view.

      More of the phone lines lighted up. I put three on hold and answered the earlier call. “Platinum Rec—”

      The rest of the words froze in my slender throat as he walked through the rotating chrome doors. I inhaled and exhaled, trying to cool my reaction. In my eyes there was a glow around him. He seemed to move in slow motion. Harps played a tributary tone in my head.

      He was Sahad Linx, CEO and founder of Platinum Records. The producer turned record executive shaped the multiplatinum success of all of his artists and built one of the most financially successful hip-hop labels in a very short amount of time.

      Sahad, the CEO, the producer, the entrepreneur, the sexiest man alive, the porn star of my wet dreams; but most importantly, one of the wealthiest African-American men around.

      Lawdy. Lawdy. Lawdy.

      A diamond-encrusted Chris Aire watch winked from his wrist. His suit was so obviously hand tailored as it flowed on his tall frame. Rimless aviator Gucci shades were in place on his handsome, angular face. Italian shoes softly cushioned his feet. Classy diamond jewelry glistened from his neck, wrists, and hand. The scent of his Ralph Lauren cologne blended in the air with my own Ralph Lauren Glamorous perfume.

      He was the new era of the Black elite. Urban. Hip. Smart. Wealthy.

      And I was going to have him. Okay? All right.

      3

      “Hey. I’m Moët.”

      “Let us pray.”

      My parents, my two preteen sisters, Reverend Luke DeMark, and I—Latoya Shavonne James—all clasped hands and bowed our heads around the dinner table. My father said grace.

      The Reverend DeMark was the minister of our family church, The Greater Temple of Jesus Christ. He ate dinner with my family every single Thursday night after prayer meeting. He wasn’t married, and my mama, a doting soul, felt it was her Christian duty to make sure he got a good home-cooked meal at least once a week.

      Not that Reverend DeMark was starving. The rest of the days he either ate with another family, or one of the single-and-looking ladies from the congregation fixed a meal to take to the one-family house where he lived alone. The fact that these women considered the thirty-four-year-old minister an eligible bachelor was quite obvious.

      My parents were his most devout and loyal members. Sister Lou Mae and Deacon Saint James (he tried hard to live up to his name) never missed worship services, prayer meetings, church conventions, or Bible studies. They tithed both their incomes, participated in fund-raising, and lived for the Word of the Almighty. They crossed the t’s and dotted the i’s when it came to being good Christian soldiers for the Lord.

      And they expected nothing less from their children.

      “Sister James, this roasted turkey is di-vine,” the Reverend exclaimed. The gold and diamonds from his pinky ring sparkled under the glare of the ceiling light. He wiped his lips with a linen napkin. “You are truly blessed with your cooking skills.”

      “Why, thank you, Reverend DeMark,” my mother answered, her southern Alabama accent still prominent even after living in Jersey for thirty years.

      My mother looked the role of a good Christian wife in her prim white button-up blouse and knee-length navy skirt. Her hair, which she refused to cut, flowed to the middle of her back when she let it down. Even though she tried to hide how pretty she was, she couldn’t. At sixty, without one drop of makeup on, she was naturally beautiful. And so she demanded the same of us, telling her daughters to remain unpretentious as well…just the way God meant us to be.

      Tonight my chin-length hair was pulled back into a severe ponytail—Cristal swore my edges were going to fall out. My unflattering spectacles were in place on my slender face. My ears aren’t pierced. No makeup. No jewelry. Nothing.

      God must have also meant for women not to wear pants, skirts above the knee, or anything remotely fitted. My closet at home was filled with plenty of my respectful garments. Not a pair of jeans or slacks. No shorts to save my life.

      At twenty and a senior at Seton Hall U., I had a curfew of ten o’clock because my father thought “no decent woman would be caught on the street alone that time of night.” The only reason it was even ten o’clock was because of a mandatory class I had to take that didn’t end until 9:15 P.M. I couldn’t wait to graduate with my degree in Elementary and Special Education this May. I was going to get me a full-time teaching J-O-B so that I could be O-U-T my parents’ house.

      With the strict rules we lived by, I felt like a sect of Black Quakers living in the city. Any deviations from the rule meant a thorough guilt trip on the sins of the Lord, a three-hour prayer session, and fasting so that the Lord could forgive his wayward child. I learned that lesson when I was twelve and got caught wearing strawberry-tinted lip balm from Avon that a classmate had given me.

      To my parents I am the perfect child. Demure. Loyal. Respectful. Trustworthy.

      If only they knew.

      Dinner continued in silence until the shrill and alarming ring of the lone telephone in the house jarred us from our serenity. We all jumped at the sound of it and then laughed nervously.

      “I’ll get it,” I said, keeping neutrality in my tone as I set my fork down on my plate slowly. Sudden movements made my father suspicious. The last thing I wanted was to draw his attention to me, because that would only mean being judged or scolded. That was all the attention I ever got from him.

      The look on his stern face was immediately disapproving. “Latoya, you know we don’t take calls during dinner.”

      Yes, I knew that, but it was worth a try.

      The shrill ringing continued, persistent just like a hungry baby seeking a bottle.

      I watched as Reverend DeMark eyed the phone in the next room. “Deacon James, perhaps Sister Latoya should answer it. I don’t