Amir catches a laugh in his fist, and Shondra stretches her eyes with humor.
“Uh oh. Busted.” Shondra chuckles and drops a kiss on my mother’s cheek. “Good to see you, Ms. James. I need to go find the principal. Be right back.”
“Shondra, don’t be a stranger, girl,” Ma says. “I can’t remember the last time you came over for Sunday dinner. You ain’t that grown.”
“No, ma’am, I’m not.” Shondra laughs and turns to leave, speaking over her shoulder. “I’ll be taking you up on that. Nobody beats your greens, but don’t tell my mama I said that.”
“Um, is the b-bathroom still down the hall, Shon?” Amir stutters, looking all nervous.
“Yeah. Of course.” Shondra looks back at him like he’s crazy. “I’m going that way. You want to follow me?”
Amir grins at me over his shoulder as they walk away.
“Pussy,” I mouth at him silently, laughing when he scowls and turns to follow Shondra’s hips through the exit doors.
“I’m glad Amir is with you.” My mom takes Amir’s spot on the wall beside me. “You need somebody who’s known you since jump to hold you down, to keep your head on straight the bigger you get.”
“Ma, my head stays on straight. Don’t worry.”
“I do worry.” She dips the arch of her brows into a frown. “Especially when you don’t tell me things. Why’d I have to hear about you and Qwest on the news?”
“It’s not . . .” I sigh, frustrated with how out of control things have gotten in such a short time. “The media’s made it bigger than it is. We had a few dates. I spent two days in New York. That’s all.”
Any hopes I had of keeping things low key and taking it slow with Qwest went out the window as soon as social media figured out I was staying in her apartment. In just a few days, our fans have made this into some epic love story.
“Well, maybe it should be big.” A hopeful grin lights up her still-youthful face. “I need grandbabies. And Qwest seems like the perfect candidate.”
“She’s a great girl.” I keep my tone neutral. “But I don’t want you putting too much weight on this.”
“It feels like a big deal because you haven’t been with a girl in so long.” She gives me a wry grin. “I mean like on dates and a relationship. I know you still been smashing.”
I groan and close my eyes at her bluntness. She had me when she was just eighteen, and though there was never any doubt which of us was the parent, her youth often made us feel like friends, a unique closeness I usually love. Unless she’s talking about me “smashing” chicks.
“Ma, please.” My eyes beg her to stop because once she gets started, there’s no telling how she’ll embarrass me.
“Boy, what? I bought your first pack of Trojans.” She smacks her lips, exasperated. “I’m the one who took you to the clinic that time you had that burning—”
“All right, Ma.” I cut her off before someone comes and hears her over-sharing. “I got it.”
“I thought I was #GripzQueen.” She laughs at the face I make. “Seriously, when do I get to meet her?”
“She’ll be here for the album release party in a few . . .”
My words trail off when two women walk through the gym doors, drawing the attention of the students waiting in the bleachers. For one thing, the girls are white. We pretty much only see black and brown here. Secondly, the girls are attractive. At least the taller one is. She’s damn beautiful.
I assume that’s the Legit reporter who’s shadowing me for the next few weeks entering the gym with Bristol. I barely notice her, but I absorb every detail of Bristol’s appearance, starting at her feet in ankle boots, rolling up her long legs in black leather leggings, over the denim shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbow. Hair hanging loose around her shoulders. Even angry with her, I can’t ignore the elemental pull between us, like our bodies are in lock step as soon as she walks into a room. It’s almost gravitational, and I need to figure out how to shut it down.
“Which one of those girls are you looking at like that?”
My mother’s question snatches my attention from the gym entrance.
“Huh?” I make my face confused. “What do you mean?”
“Boy, don’t play a player.” She inclines her head toward the door. “You lost your train of thought mid-sentence, and looking at one of those girls like breakfast, lunch and dinner. Now which one is it?”
“I don’t—”
“Marlon.” Her lips compress. “I’m not asking you again.”
Like I told Bristol. My mother has extra senses.
“The tall one with the dark hair.” I roll my shoulders away from the wall, bend my knee to prop a foot against the wall. “Bristol.”
She squints in Bristol’s direction.
“She’s pretty.” Disappointment shadows her face. “White, but pretty.”
“Don’t start, Ma. And don’t worry because she doesn’t want to be with me.”
“Why not?” Indignation straightens her back and rolls her neck. “She think she too good for you or something?”
“You’re the one who only wants me dating black girls, so why you tripping?”
“I never said only black girls.” She pats my shoulder. “I’d settle for Latina. Brown’s a color, too, you know.”
“Wow. Good to know I have options, but like I said, she isn’t interested.”
“Hmmmm.” She considers Bristol, who’s almost reached us. “I think I just saw her on the cover of some magazine in the check out line.”
“Yeah. She’s dating—”
“That Parker boy!” Ma’s eyes go wide when they meet mine. “His family’s rich as hell, baby. So is hers. She’s Rhyson’s sister, right?”
“Yeah.” I straighten from the wall as Bristol and the reporter draw closer. “Can we talk about this later?”
“One more question.”
“Ma.” Irritation huffs a breath from my chest. “What?”
“So are you using Qwest to get over her?”
“Not exactly.”
“I raised you better than that.” Ma points a slim finger in my face. “Don’t you play with that girl’s feelings. You be honest with her.”
“I have been honest with Qwest, Ma.” I try not to feel like an asshole. “We were on the same page before Black Twitter blew up with #GripzQueen and #BlackLove hash tags and all that shit. In just a few days it’s like . . . more. It feels like more than what she and I talked about it being.”
“Shhh.” Ma plasters a smile on her face. “Bristol’s coming.”
I turn my head to find Bristol’s eyes flitting between me and my mother, questioning and wondering.
“Hey,” she says when they stand in front of us. “Welcome home.”
We stare at each other for a few electric seconds, caught in the memory of the last time we saw each other. Of the last hurtful words I hurled at her. The crude things I said. I feel bad for that, but I’m also still so damn frustrated with her. And yes, hurt. Hurt that she chose that Parker asshole over me when I know what we could have, what we could be.
The silence swells, Bristol slides her eyes away from my stare, uncomfortable waiting for me to respond.
“Uh, yeah. Thanks. Good to be back.” I shift my attention to the reporter. “Hey. I’m Grip.”
“Sorry. I should introduce you.” Bristol grimaces and then smiles. “Grip, this is Meryl Smith. She’ll be shadowing us . . . you . . . the next couple of weeks for the Legit story.”
“Such a pleasure to meet you.” Meryl pumps my hand enthusiastically. “I’m a huge fan. I’ve loved your music since that first underground mix tape.”
I study Meryl with her pale skin, mousy brown hair, owlish glasses, and marvel again at the globalization of hip-hop. My music reaches the kids sitting in this gym, living in the hood, and somehow finds suburban girls like this one, who probably listened while studying for her finals at Ivy League colleges. I wouldn’t have it any other way.