Choose Me (19 page)

As I turned to go back inside, I heard sounds, like heavy breathing, coming from the area between the church and the school,
and I walked cautiously toward the darkened gangway. Recognizing the silhouette of Adam’s hair and the duster, I stopped at
a safe distance and waited so as not to embarrass him. I watched as he expelled ragged breaths in the cool night air, his
head bent and his hands on his knees for support. I didn’t know if he was having an asthma attack or an anxiety spell. Or
perhaps he had lied about being in remission. Maybe he still had cancer.

“Are you okay?” I asked tentatively.

He turned his head away quickly and nodded, his breathing returning to normal, evident by the steady puffs of air.

“I’m okay. Thanks,” he said in his raspy voice. He wouldn’t meet my eyes, leaning back against the wall and looking up at
the sky.

“Asthma?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I kind of hyperventilate whenever I get nervous. It’s kind of embarrassing.” He finally looked over at
me. “Did anybody notice?”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

He started walking out of the gangway and I backed up, stepping out of the way as he staggered to the steps and sat down,
leaning back against the railing. I followed and sat a couple of steps above him. He reached into his breast pocket, I thought
for a cigarette, but instead brought out some gum.

“Can I have one?” I asked, because my throat was dry.

“It’s smoking cessation gum. You wouldn’t like it.”

“The trick to speaking in public is not to look people in the eyes,” I told him. “Look at their foreheads, over their heads,
anywhere but their eyes. Eventually, you get over the fear.” He looked at me skeptically as I continued. “I took a course
in public speaking once. There was a time when I couldn’t speak in public, but now it doesn’t bother me.”

“I was fine ’til I looked at you,” he said quietly, a slight smile on his face, chewing his gum slowly. I thought he was blaming
me for his reaction, but then I realized he meant I had distracted him, but not in a negative way.

“Sorry. I was trying to help. Sometimes if you see a friendly face, it helps.”

“So, show me.”

“What?”

“Recite one of your poems and let me see you not get nervous.”

“I told you I haven’t written anything since high school.”

“So recite one of those,” he insisted, nudging my knee. “Go on, Sister. Lay one on me,” he added, slipping into a fake cool
slang.

Reluctantly, I stood up and turned to face him, concentrating on his smooth, rounded forehead and at the vein throbbing in
his right temple. “They’re all morbid, I told you.”

“Macabre is the foundation for many great works of art.”

I searched my memory banks for one of my old poems, then settled on one that had been published in the school newspaper and
had caused controversy because of the negative subject matter. Keeping my eyes on his forehead, I began:

They say it is supposed to be the best time of my life,

a time when I should have no worries, no ugly thoughts or strife,

yet it is just the opposite, full of uncertainty,

of who I am, what to do, and what I want to be.

My mind is plagued with confusion, and blatant suicide;

one day up, many others down, why do I want to die?

To all of those who know so much, I dare not spoil their fun,

for they would laugh and say to me, your life has just begun.

The forehead trick didn’t work. I was sweating, rocking from side to side, locking and unlocking my fingers the entire time.

He smiled. “You’re right, it is kind of gloomy.”

“Okay, so maybe it’s different when you’re reciting bad poetry,” I admitted, taking my seat quickly.

“I didn’t say it was bad.”

“I wrote it just after my mother died. This teacher, who didn’t know, came up to me one day and said, ‘Cheer up, your life’s
just begun.’”

“Hmmm,” he muttered sympathetically. “In that case, it’s not morbid at all; just goes to your state of mind at the time. I
liked it.”

“Thanks.”

He stood up abruptly. “I got to catch a cab. Luciano dropped me off. My car’s in the shop.” He staggered to a standing position
and then leaned against the railing. “Thanks for the invite. And the poem.”

He began to walk sluggishly down the block, toward Austin Avenue, away from me. I started to call out to him but I was hypnotized
by his walk, the duster blowing behind him like a gunslinger in a Western. It was a walk that bordered between a street-wise
strut and a drunken swagger, or maybe he was unsteady from his attack.

“Adam,” I called out, unsure of what I was going to say.
Be cool, be cool,
I thought.
Don’t act all juvenile like the Sister-Girlfriends.
I thought about offering him a ride, let Maya take Simone home. “Um … cabs don’t usually stop around here at night.” I stood
up and took a couple of steps toward him, then I stopped as a checkered cab approached.

He pulled a hand from his pocket to signal the cab but it zoomed by. He looked at me accusingly, as if I had jinxed him, and
I gave him a confirmatory nod.

“You should go back in. It’s chilly out here,” he told me, leaning against a lamppost.

“It’s kind of late to be out here alone,” I told him.

He laughed. “I’m a man, remember?”
How could I forget?
I thought.
Watch yourself
The voices of my conscience geared up for battle. I was glad the weather was cool; it kept my hands busy rubbing my upper
arms up and down.

“Your poems were …” I searched for the right word, something that didn’t sound like adoration or an exaggeration. “They hit
home. Especially the father one,” I finally said.

He looked at me sheepishly.

“I really liked them,” I added with more conviction.

“Thanks.”

“What was that book you were holding?” I asked. Adam reached into his pocket and brought out the paperback and held it out.
I didn’t move.

“Come here,” he said softly, the seduction from his poetry reading returning to his voice. And when I still didn’t move, he
unglued himself from the post and took a couple of steps forward.

Be careful,
the voice was saying in my head where the song “God Is Trying to Tell You Something” had begun to play.

But I walked cautiously toward him, careful not to get too close. At the same time, he walked toward me. As we neared each
other, a gush of cold wind ripped through us, sending a chill through my body and lifting his duster behind him like wings.
In the fog, he looked ethereal—an angel in the night. I shivered in my rayon blouse and brushed the loose strands of my hair
back nervously with one hand, feeling the new growth. I was long overdue for a touch-up.

I got within arm’s reach and took the book from him, reading the cover of the battered paperback:
Sinner: Confessions of a Christian-in-Progress. Poems by Adam Black.
Even though I could tell that it was self-published, by the simple cover design and the publisher, which was named after
him—“A Black Press”—I was intrigued.

“I’m impressed,” I said sincerely.

“Don’t be. It’s self-published, which means I paid to get it published instead of the other way around.”

“The word you’re looking for is
‘gracias,’”
I said, remembering my own difficulty with accepting compliments.

He smiled.
“Gracias.”

Our eyes locked briefly before I broke first, glancing up at his lion’s mane. I wanted to touch it, not because I was curious
to see what it felt like, but because it had been so long since I had touched a man’s hair. As if he read my mind, he reached
up and pushed back the stray woolly strands that hung in his face, only to have them fall down again.

A yellow cab neared and he turned and whistled through his teeth.
Don’t go,
I told him in my mind. I wanted to tell him that all I had been thinking about was kissing him, completely disregarding the
fact that I hardly knew him. The cab screeched to a stop.

“Were you in church last Sunday?” I asked.

He nodded, walking backward toward the cab. “I was in the back. Way in the back.”

“Did you come just to sign up for the poetry reading or for spiritual enlightenment?”

“Both, I guess.”

“Are you coming back this Sunday?”

He cleared his throat as he opened the cab door. “I don’t know.”

I couldn’t think of anything more to say so I muttered, “See you.” I turned and headed back toward church. Then I remembered
I had his book.

“Eva!” he called out, his voice much raspier than before. I turned around, walking back to the cab, holding out the book.

He leaned out the window. “Keep it. I have plenty other copies.”

“Thanks.”

“I read your article, ‘Bringing God Back to Schools After 9–11.’ I thought you were pretty harsh on the Harry Potter books,
but overall, it was pretty good.”

“You don’t think there’s something wrong with having books about witchcraft in a school library, but not a children’s Bible?”

“Separation of church and state.”

“When the planes hit the towers, did people call on Uncle Sam or God?”

“That’s a topic for another day,” he said, smiling widely so his gum was visible between his teeth. “What’re you doing Saturday?”

I shrugged. “Cleaning up. Gardening. Doing my touch-up.”

“Want me to help you?”

I looked at him sideways. “What? My touch-up? What do you know about relaxers? I thought you were all about going natural.”

“If you want to oppress your hair, who am I to judge?” I didn’t answer as the cab started to pull off. “Sleep tight, Eva.”

It would be difficult.

In bed that night, I began reading his poems, beginning with the two he had recited. When I was finished, I re-read “Choose
Me”:

Choose Me!

Keep your eye on Me, I have what you need.

Don’t look to the left where the devil lies,

Don’t look to the right to the ones that tempt you;

Keep your eyes straight above
—

Choose Me!

I have something greater than their trickery, I have what you’re looking for.

I will see to it that they don’t hurt you or reach you

Choose Me!

I will make you My Kings and Queens,

I will respect you, honor you, and protect you

I will give you the attention you need, I will caress your soul when you’re in need
—

Choose Me!

You don’t have to beg Me to love you, My love is unconditional.

I will love you no matter what, I will love you ’til the end of time.

I don’t have to compete for you because you are Mine.

Choose Me!

For if you stray from the prize, if you choose their lies,

I will take what I have given you;

All your treasures will be lost, until you come back to Me
—

Come with Me, be with Me, stay with Me, abide by Me;

Choose Me!

As my body sank into the mattress, the image of Adam at the podium materialized. I knew it was wrong. I knew he was talking
about God, but as I struggled against sleep, I couldn’t help imagining that he had been talking to me, flirting with me, asking
me to choose him. Deep down, I knew I was no better than the Sister-Girl-friends.

Then I began to wonder why he had strayed from God, what had made him stop “praying as much.” Maybe Maya was right, maybe
Adam and I were meant to meet, maybe I was supposed to lead him back to God. Maybe.

PURSUING WOMEN
IS not my usual mode of operation. Most of the women I had been with had actually approached me first, slipped
me their numbers, like the woman at Simone’s party or the girl who had written her number in my palm. The number had faded
with the rain and disappeared when I took a shower, before I could copy it onto something more permanent. I never called either
one. Even when I had made the first move, I left the next step up to them, and usually, they called. But there was something
about Eva that made me want to chase her, some inexplicable force. It didn’t seem to me that she was playing hard-to-get as
much as it was part of her character. One of us had to compromise and it didn’t look like it was going to be her.

The door opened to the sight of Eva with hair relaxer smeared at the roots and a towel wrapped around her neck. Behind her,
I could see a big black dog barking threateningly. And not just any big black dog, but a rottweiler. Unlike other boys, I
never wanted a dog as a child. I could never understand the so-called love between people and “man’s best friend.” There was
just something demonic about them. I don’t know whether it was a horror movie I had seen about killer dogs or if I suffered
from some repressed childhood trauma; all I know is I never liked dogs and for the moment, I was grateful for the glass and
iron security door still between us.

“You didn’t wait for me, huh?” I asked.

“How did you get my address?” she questioned warily, her gloved hands frozen at her sides.

“Maya. I told her I’d take the flack.”

“I’m going to have to have a serious talk with her.” Unwavering, she stood barefoot in baggy sweatpants and a sleeveless shirt
tied at the waist in front, staring at me, surprised that I was at her door. The dog continued to bark until she stomped her
foot and yelled something in Spanish, which I assumed was “shut up” because the dog stopped immediately. With the dog now
quiet, I could make out the vague sounds of reggae wafting in the background. I liked reggae even though half the time I couldn’t
understand the words.

“Does he bite?” I asked stupidly.

“What do you think?”

We stared at each other through the glass door. She took a step forward, then stopped as if debating whether to let me in
or go kill her sister for giving me her address.