Naughtier than Nice (10 page)

The next night was a light-jacket-and-scarf night, the temperature right at sixty-five.

Olivia was a mile from Tommie's home, in the tree-lined streets of Leimert Park. Where most of the homes were of the Mediterranean or Spanish colonial revival type, built back in the forties, some as early as the twenties. One square mile of affluent blacks and hipsters whose African art and music were being invaded by a slow-moving redevelopment that could cause the area to revert to the demographics it had boasted before the white flight in the fifties, before the flood in Baldwin Hills, when it was an area of European immigrants. It could go back to what it had been before the change of hands and the rise in crime, before the riots had done their damage, before the Northridge earthquake.

This area was where Frankie had made the lion's share of her money. Leimert Park ranked in the top twenty-five areas in the United States for home-flipping profitability. For a woman like Frankie, there was gold in these streets. Zip code 90008, where ten thousand people lived in each square mile, had been Frankie's jackpot for the last two decades and had bought her success and a house on the hill.

Livvy had always been motivated by her older sister's entrepreneurship.

She rushed from the parking meter in front of the bookstore, crossed Degnan Boulevard, passed by the Afrocentric shops in the African Village Marketplace, and made it to World Stage. She was
there for a spoken-word event. She made it inside and sat in the back just in time. Tommie was being introduced. Her younger sister looked super hot. She'd stopped by Livvy's earlier and borrowed jewelry, then had run by Frankie's and borrowed a pair of Louboutins. High heels transformed the body language and attitude of a woman, and Tommie had been renovated. She matched the shoes with skinny jeans, her face with very little makeup. This was a crowd where most women were not afraid to show their true beauty and natural faces. Her younger sister took to the stage and stood before the microphone. She witnessed a different version of Tommie. This was her church, her people, her choir, her pulpit, her peers.

Tommie said, “I will start with a couple of haikus relevant to this generation.”

Integration failed. / Black brown children everywhere. / Killed, not protected.

Ferguson, realize. / The sixties never left us. / Old mind-set, new gun.

The Nubians clapped like Sister Thunder and Brother Earthquake having a mutual orgasm.

I'm Tommie McBroom. / Sharp mind with dangerous curves. / Tall drink of water.

GPS goes boom / When McBroom enters a room. / Good poon-tang sensor.

The brothers yelled out a churchlike
amen
to that, sounded like a room of deacons at a revival of the loins. Tommie acted like a shy little girl. The men laughed harder. With it on a sensual level, with her voice like top-shelf bourbon on a cold night, men shifted in their seats, flirted with smiles.

Her jeans were tight and her heels were high, made her legs look
super long, and the McButt had been given more McBubble. Livvy glanced at the men. Their GPS systems had definitely been activated.

Tommie continued to perform her haikus, introduced one she had written for Blue.

A woman has needs; / no longer chaste, unbroken; / virtuous days gone.

Met a strong brother. / Single dad, responsible. / My second lover.

My first orgasm. / It was better than cocaine. / Hooked on a grown man.

Ankles on his neck. / Doors to my church wide open. / I become his choir.

Kisses silence moans. / Hot like sun in Africa. / Middle passage throbs.

A woman with an Angela Davis/Pam Grier Afro responded, “Hello. G'wan, girl.”

Livvy felt her face redden, uncomfortable with the topic. Tommie spoke of sex aloud and in public, but women understood the journey and applauded. Brothers snapped fingers and licked lips.

Two souls now conjoined. / Inches away from my heart. / I love him inside.

The things he taught me, / hard to find that perfect fit, / my sweet chocolate.

Bodies turn around, / teach me sixty-eight plus one. / God I love his math.

My man love so good, / if he wanted a sex change, / I'd get me one too.

Sisters howled, then stood and applauded like Tommie was their newly elected Nubian queen.

Tommie did a silly, Shakespearian curtsy, made funny faces like she was Carol Burnett or Lucille Ball.

Beale Streets, the writer who had introduced her, Tommie hugged him and kissed his cheek.

She left the small stage floating, laughing, blushing, putting on the innocent McBroom face, biting the corner of her lip, high-fiving a couple of sisters along the way, an instant celebrity.

Outside, Livvy told her baby sister that she had rocked World Stage, then, without judgment regarding her choice of material, without frowning on her theme for the night, asked her how it felt.

“The attention felt good. Being around my peers, around poets and writers, always feels good.”

Livvy said, “You were performing and I checked out the brothers checking you out.”

“They probably liked Frankie's overpriced shoes.”

“Not even. Your jeans are so tight I can almost see the lining in your pocketbook.”

“Mine are not tighter than your skintight, painted-on skinny jeans, so back down, Livvy.”

“You are a different person onstage. You were always good but have gotten so much better.”

Tommie grinned. “I needed this. This is my me-time. It was a much-needed natural high.”

“Where's Frankie?”

“You know she's not skipping the gym.”

Livvy said, “She ran with me this morning.”

“And she is doing three classes tonight.”

“Her ass is going to fall out.”

Tommie said, “She's single again so she's burning off that extra energy at the gym.”

“She's afraid she'll gain weight and become Fat Frankie again if she ever eases up.”

“She's always overcompensated for her insecurities.”

A brother stopped and hit on Tommie despite seeing her engagement ring. He complimented her haiku, the one she had penned for Blue. His conversation was transparent, made it obvious that he took her sexual haiku to mean she was down for whatever. Even when they claimed they were enlightened, men were still men. A woman expressed her sensuality and brothers thought it was open season on clit.

Livvy said nothing. This was Tommie's world, a world Livvy rarely visited, and it was an artistic world that didn't really interest her. Tommie politely turned the brother down, but he was persistent, upped his game, offered to take her to dinner, offered to take his queen shopping, said he admired her because she was not your typical sister. Again, Tommie showed him her engagement ring and in a firm tone asked him to refrain from being disrespectful, or she would call her man and have him come kick his ass.

He grumbled, “Bourgeois-ass big-booty black bitches in subfuscous wardrobes treating a UCLA-educated Nubian like they bowels don't move. I was just giving you superfluous bitches some accolades and offering a modicum of my time so we
Africans
could get to know each other better. Fuck y'all.”

He strutted away; went to a parking meter; unchained his bicycle, one barely big enough for a ten-year-old; climbed on; and pedaled off into the darkness. As a poet inside the venue did a piece pondering whether God created man or if man created God, Livvy and Tommie laughed until they cried.

Livvy cackled. “
Subfuscous
clothing? What the hell is
subfuscous
clothing?”

Tommie wiped tears of laughter from her eyes. “Just means dark. We both have on dark clothes.”

“Why in the hell didn't he just say that? This is why I don't get along with
subfuscous
poets.”

“He was pissed. I was about to break out my mace and paint his eyeballs.”

Livvy said, “And he claims he went to UCLA?”

“Had to be University of Compton, Left on Alameda.”

A girl with a deep-brown complexion came up from the parking area near Eso Won. She wore silver jewelry and was dressed in all white, the contrast between her epidermis and clothing amazing. Large, trendy black-framed glasses, probably for form over function, gave her the randy-librarian appeal.

Tommie shifted on her heels, looked surprised, and said, “Hey, Tanya.”

Couture head to toe, sugarplum lipstick that accentuated the magnificence of brown skin, the thin-yet-shapely girl paused, looked back, saw Tommie, looked her up and down, then said, “Excuse me?”

“You're Tanya Obayomi, right?”

“I am she and she is me.”

“I'm Tommie McBroom.”

“Tommie McBroom? Do I know you? You say my name as if we are acquaintances.”

“We met at Beale Streets's event that was downtown at the main library.”

“Right.
You're
Tommie McBroom. You are she and she is you. You're Blue's fiancée, right?”

“Yeah. You remember Blue, but you've forgotten about me?”

“Blue and I work out together at the same gym.”

“He told me he saw you up there.”

“We've kicked it and worked out together quite a few times.”

“Really?”

“After we did weights, I talked him into doing Taj's class with me.”

“Cool.” Tommie's nostrils flared as she paused. “You came to see Beale Streets?”

She grinned at Tommie. “Even if you weren't performing, you'd be here like his number one fan.”

Tommie asked, “What does that mean?”

“When Beale Streets performs, you're in the front row, or invited to be on the same stage.”

“Thought you didn't know me.”

“You're dressed up tonight. Didn't recognize you. You almost look like a model tonight.”

“Been this tall since I was sixteen and it's the same face I've had since I met you the first time.”

“You look very nice for a change.”

“Thanks for the backhanded compliment.”

“You've been inspired. Not surprised. Beale is good at giving inspiration.”

Tanya Obayomi then introduced herself to Livvy, was surprised to find out she and Tommie were sisters, Livvy at five foot five and Tommie five inches taller being only part of the reason. There was energy. Livvy felt her energy, a sensual attraction to the girl; that tingly feeling rarely came from another woman, and never from one so young. Tanya Obayomi evaluated Livvy. Livvy asked Tanya who she was, since she'd never met her, since she couldn't break her stare. Tanya Obayomi let Livvy know that she was twenty-one, working on her master's at USC, then let it be known that she had been dating the brilliant Beale Streets up until recently; said they were on a break. With that, she sashayed toward World Stage, hand fluffing her elegant hair, high heels clicking on forty-year-old concrete as her exaggerated walk took her toward the crowd.

Livvy asked, “What the hell was that about, Tommie?”

“You're nobody if you don't have a hater who thinks she's the next Azealia Banks.”

“Sounded personal; she made it a point to let you know she worked out with Blue.”

“Jealousy is a disease and I hope she gets well soon.”

“It was hard to tell who was jealous of whom.”

“Oh, that jealousy is running in this direction. She ain't got nothing I want.”

Tanya Obayomi stood at the doorway, listened, but didn't go inside the crowded venue.

Livvy said, “She's stunning, but she has ruined her natural beauty by trying to be perfect. I can see what using the wrong products has done to her epidermis. I would love to work on her skin.”

“She's all right. She's not all that, Livvy.”

“Too bad Hollywood and too many black men love dark-skinned black women in theory but hardly ever in practice. Just like some African Americans love Africa in theory but rarely in practice.”

“She's beautiful. I get it. Whoopty-whoop.”

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but first those eyes have to be opened.”

“Stop staring at that heifer. Let it go, Livvy.”

“I'm stuck on what she said. She
works out
with Blue. They
kick it
. That was a public service announcement. Was that one of those euphemism things? Did you see how she was looking at you?”

“That will be addressed as soon as I get home.”

“Somebody's jealous. Both of you were catty.”

“Whatever. She's hating because when I perform I blow up the room.”

“Same way you blow up a bathroom.”

Beale Streets was on the stage. Tanya Obayomi stayed at the door, watching him perform.

When he finished one piece of work, everyone applauded again. Then came the interruption. Tanya Obayomi banged on the door with her fist, a frenzied, possessed beat in the rhythm of a heartbroken drum, and when she had everyone's attention she began to sing. She sang and beat her emotions into the wall, disrupted the night with a voice as powerful as that of the late Whitney Houston, her frenetic song tragic, about how she was all cried out, but yet she had another sad love song to sing as she tried to figure out how
she was supposed to live without him, and even if she couldn't make him love her the way she loved him, she wished she could have one more night for him to unbreak her heart and make her feel immortal, a night to make her fly without wings before they sent in the clowns. She dropped down on her knees as she banged the door like it was her drum, and when she stood again, blood made a scarlet river from her kneecaps down her shins. Traffic had stopped in the middle of the boulevard.

Livvy held Tommie's hand, held it tight, entranced, disturbed, unable to breathe.

Tanya Obayomi limped away but stumbled, legs wobbling, and she held the stucco wall, grimaced with the pain in her heart. She took a step, then looked down at the open wounds on both knees, each bleeding like a heart that had been stabbed. She sang her heartbroken chorus one more time. Her public disgrace done, her societal opprobrium was fresher than doughnuts at Krispy Kreme when the
HOT NOW
light is on. Her eyes were filled with tears. Her heels clicked as she limped down her Boulevard of Broken Souls in silence. Hearts began to beat. The wind blew. Traffic began to move again. The world resumed spinning. Someone clapped; then someone else joined in; then someone else.