I Don't Want to Lose You (2 page)

             
It was springtime and that meant that it was time to start rehearsing for the spring music concert held every May.  There was only one music teacher and assistant for all ten elementary schools and we all got bussed to Washington Elementary for practice every day for an hour for two weeks.  Although I really wanted to play the violin, one of my closest friends since first grade, Alicia, played the clarinet and begged me to play that instrument so that we could have more time to hang out together.  We were in the sixth grade and I finally caved in while Alicia had been playing the clarinet for three years and was first chair.  I had just started and, frankly, thought the instrument sounded like a goose in agony.

             
I was nervous about playing with all of the other kids in the school district because I didn't think that I was any good.  Alicia would always tell me that if I truly stunk I would be third chair instead of second.  My neighbors and God knew that I practiced so hard to be halfway decent. When we got to the school auditorium, there were so many chairs set up that I was concerned about people being in my personal space.  I didn't know all of the kids and didn't want people to be all up on me. Well, that was until my eye was caught by someone.

             
I was sitting right behind Alicia when I saw this fine specimen of a twelve year old playing the saxophone.  He was obviously a first chair because of the row he was in. He was dark skinned with big, bright, white teeth.  It was clear that he didn't care about hair fads because he just had hair closely shaved and he was clean cut looking, two things making him Grade A and mother approved.  Since we were still waiting for all of the students to arrive, I leaned forward and asked Alicia who he was.

             
“That's Rasheed,” she answered.

             
“Oh girl, he’s so fine.  I'll have an order of him with a side of mashed potatoes and gravy,” I said, already equating him to a piece of meat.

             
“Yeah, you and every other girl that will be in here.”

             
“But none of you have what I've got.”  And what did I have?  Boobs of course.  I may have been twelve but I certainly didn't look it.  I was a thick, Black girl with nice legs, a decent butt and double D's.  While I wasn't fat, I was something to hold onto and I was too young to have the figure of a grown woman for a twelve year old.  I had my own long, black hair that easily made me the envy of all other Black girls in the room and I got it professionally done every two weeks.  I dressed nicer than the majority of the girls that I so far could see would be competition.  While I didn’t have fashion model looks, and most models didn’t impress me much, I was pretty.  Other than the fact that I wore my reading glasses most of the time, which made me look smarter and made it easier for me to not lose them, there wasn't much for a boy to not like about me. 

             
“Don't even look over there at him.  From what I heard, he asked this girl to be his girlfriend because he lost a bet with his friend,” Alicia said.

             
“For real?”

             
“For real.  I know you can be boy crazy sometimes, but don't give that one a chance to make you crazy,” she advised.

             
I sat there just staring at him. What a shame.  Such a waste if what she said was true.  I couldn’t stand males that were users.  Or could it have been she had a thing for him herself and she didn't want competition?  She was a fair skinned, freckle faced, second generation Mexican American.  She had long, black hair that you could swear was sweeping the floor if you weren't looking hard enough.  And she was skinny.  She was the only skinny girl that I didn't hate.  The rest of my friends had a little bit more meat on them.  But no, Rasheed wasn't her type and we had been friends for too long for her to lead me astray.

             
I must have stared at him a little too long because the boy he sat next to pointed at me and I read his lips.  “That girl is checking you out,” he said to Rasheed.

             
Suddenly it was as though things were in slow motion.  When it dawned on me that I was the girl, it was too late.  He saw that I was looking.  I couldn't play it off as though I hadn't been staring.  They turned their heads to each other and I couldn't tell what they were saying.  But Rasheed did turn to face me and dedicated a big grin to me. 

             
I leaned forward and whispered loudly to Alicia like the giddy school girl I was, “He just smiled at me.”

             
She could only shake her head.

             
“Who's that boy he's sitting next to?  He told Rasheed I was staring at him.”               

             
Alicia looked over to see the light olive skinned, thin boy sporting a mullet with his thick, black, straight hair.  “Oh, that's Teodoro.  Now he's nice.  Not my type, but still nice.”

             
“Well someone needs to tell him the 80s called and wants the mullet back.”

             
She turned around and looked at me laughing.  “You have a lot of nerve out of all people.”

             
“Hey, just because I love 80s music and TV shows doesn’t mean that I also have to love the fads and fashion.  There is a line and it's been drawn.”

             
For the rest of the two weeks I went to the rehearsals at Washington Elementary and focused on playing the right notes more than caring about the thoughts and movements of Rasheed.  I would catch him noticing me but the excitement of that chicken meal faded quickly as I heard more things about him.  For a twelve year old, he sure did get around and probably had more experience than I would by the time I had been married for three years with a kid on the way. 

             
After the spring concert performance in the high school gymnasium, as I was walking to meet my family, I was stopped by Teodoro.  He was a little taller than I expected him to be and I had to look up to him.  Since I had seen him from across the way for two weeks, I had no idea of the height he'd possessed.

             
“You're Monica, right?” he asked.

             
“Yes.  How may I assist you?”

             
“Assist me?”  He looked around.  “Is this a business?” he asked, trying to be facetious.

             
I put my clarinet case down and crossed my arms under my breasts, which made them pop up and draw his immediate attention.  He stared and was no longer speaking to me but to them, Holly and Dolly.  “It depends on what services you're coming to speak to me about.”

             
He had a look of confusion on his face. “What?” One would have thought he was having difficulty in understanding how words could be coming from my boobs.  They must have been the ones talking to him because, at that moment, my head and its features were non-existent. 

             
“What do you want?”

             
“Um, Rasheed wanted to know if you would like to give him your number.”

             
What nerve!  He sent over someone else to get my number.  That turd! So many things went through my mind as a way to respond but then I decided to do it in true Monica fashion.  “I'm sure that it's needed to discuss merger potential.  You have a pen?”  He pulled out paper and a pen from his pocket.  “My number is 777-9311.”

             
“That doesn't sound like a real number.”

             
“Well it is.  That's my parent's phone number but I'll give you my private number, too.   My parents don't like me passing it out to boys but he can call me on it.  It's 867-5309.”

             
He repeated the numbers to make sure he had them right.  Finally he looked at my face and said, “It was a pleasure doing business with you.”             

             
“The pleasure was all mine,” I said as he walked away.  As I walked towards my family I shook my head.  One would think boys would try to make themselves aware of all the fake numbers a girl could give, but then again that would require boys to think.  That night I found myself grooving to The Time and Tommy Tutone.

CHAPTER TWO

             
One of my worst qualities was that I was able to hold a grudge.  In junior high I had four classes with Rasheed.  In almost every class we were put at the same table until the teachers came to their senses and realized that arguments were going to continue to disrupt the class until we were on opposite sides of the room.  I refused to have in my personal space a teenage Casanova who didn't have the guts to speak to me in person. Either you liked me or you didn't and, if you did, then you need to do something about it.  Don’t send a flunky.  With me, there were rules.  Send your friend to see if I like you, not to get my digits.  You ask for that yourself.

             
In the seventh grade I had a math teacher who thought I was selling myself short with my potential and she recommended that I skip General Math II and go straight to Algebra I for eighth grade.  I doubted her brain was working at full capacity that day when she made that decision because I didn't agree.  It did, however, allow me to be in the same class as some of my friends.  We were all honor students and I was finally on the same level, class wise, as they were mathematically.  Then one day the teacher broke us into groups to work on some equations.  And who was in my group?  Teodoro.

             
Four of us put our desks together.  I knew Tracy from seventh grade History class but I didn't know the other girl in the group because she was a new student.

             
“Hi, I'm Monica.  What's your name?”

             
“My name is Liliana.”

             
“It’s nice to meet you.  This is Tracy.”  Tracy waved hi.  “And that's Theo.”

             
“It's Teodoro,” he corrected.

             
“I'm sorry,” I said sarcastically.  “That's Theodore.”

             
“It's Teodoro.  You know that, Monica.”

             
“Oh, do I?  I don't remember us ever being introduced.”

             
“Fine,” he conceded.  “It's nice to meet you, Monica. My name is Teodoro.”

             
“It's nice to meet you too, Theodore.”

             
“Why are you being such a b…?” He trailed off when he saw the look on my face.

             
“A what?  What were you going to call me?”  I reached into my backpack on the floor and pulled out some Vaseline and put some under my eyes.  I took the hoops out of my ears as I said, “See, an intelligent person can find words that aren't derogatory to express themselves.”  I started to put my hair in a ponytail.