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“Well, I’m sweet. But make no mistake about it: Laila’s a holy terror.”
Amalia giggles.
“Lucky for me, I don’t like my girlfriends to be sweet.”
“No?”
“Well, I mean, I like ‘em sweet, down deep, as long as it takes a whole lot of effort to get to the sweet stuff. Like going on a treasure hunt or getting to the tootsie roll inside a Tootsie Pop.”
“That sounds like a lot of work to me, Adrian.”
“Nah. I like a good challenge or else I get bored. Ever seen the movie Mean Girls?”
“It doesn’t ring a bell.”
“It’s a comedy, set in high school. The lead girl is the ‘new girl’ in school. That’s the one we’re supposed to be rooting for. But I don’t even remember her name. The villain, on the other hand, that’s Regina George. She’s the leader of the popular girls known as The Plastics. We’re not supposed to like Regina. We’re supposed to hate her because she’s so ‘mean.’ But guess who I’ve always wanted to bang, Abu?”
“Adrian.”
“Have sex with.”
Her nostrils flare. She truly can’t resist me. “Regina?”
I nod. “Reginaaaaa. My biggest childhood crush.”
Amalia giggles. “Do you talk this way with Mimi?”
“Of course. She loves it. She says I’m a . . .” I scratch my head and mutter, “What does Mimi always call me? A hoe? No . . . a ‘rake’!”
Amalia loses it. She laughs and laughs, so I join her, enjoying my best laugh of the night. When we quiet down, we take long sips of our tea, now that it’s finally at a perfect temperature.
Amalia asks, “Why do you think you prefer the mean villain over the nice new girl?”
“I have no idea.”
“Hmm.” She sips her tea again, and her body language suggests she’s holding her tongue.
“Well, spit it out, woman. If I’m going to be completely myself around you, then you’ve got to return the favor.”
“I don’t want to overstep.”
“You couldn’t possibly. Come on. Spit some knowledge at me, Abu.”
She replaces her mug on the table. “Well . . . you said your grandmother raised you?”
I nod. “From age twelve.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, is that because your mother passed away, or because your mother needed to work long hours, or . . .?”
“It was because my mom didn’t give a shit about me and didn’t have a maternal bone in her body.”
Amalia nods. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It worked out for the best. Mimi was the shit. Why did you ask the question?”
“Well, this is nothing but amateur pop psychology, of course, but I think you prefer Regina in the movie, and also in your love life, because you feel abandoned by your mother. You prefer women who present a challenge to you, women who are hard to win over, because that way, when you finally do win them over, you experience the pleasure you never got to experience as a child. Namely, the joy of winning over a woman the same way you always wished you could have won over your mother.”
I’m speechless for a long moment. But, finally, I whisper, “And they call me Savage.”
Amalia winces. “Did I overstep?”
“Not at all. You just blew my mind! Tell me more, Abu Dabu. What else do you see in your magic crystal ball? Can you see my future?”
Amalia winks. “The only thing I see in your future, my dearest Adrian, is that you’ve got a big day tomorrow and you’re very drunk and you should probably get some sleep now.” She motions to my mug. “Finish your tea, dear, and let’s get you to bed.”
I do as I’m told, drinking the rest of my tepid tea down in one long gulp, and stand. “It’s been amazing talking to you, Amalia. Thanks for the psychoanalysis.”
“You’re very welcome. Goodnight, dear. Best of luck to you.”
I stop walking. “Does that mean you’re not planning to see me again?”
She chuckles. “No, not at all. I’ll see you in the morning at breakfast.”
I exhale with relief. “Cool.”
I resume shuffling toward the exit of the kitchen, feeling worlds lighter than when I entered the room, but stop and turn around in the doorway. “Amalia? Sorry, but I just remembered why I came in here.” I grimace. “I have no idea which room is mine.”
Amalia bites back a smile. “No worries. It’s a big house. I’ll show you again.”
She leads me out of the kitchen toward a dramatic staircase with wrought iron railings, saying, “Do you get drunk like this often, dear?”
“No, not at all. The last time I was drunk was . . . Oh. Last night. But before that, it’d been well over a month.”
“Good. Let’s keep it that way.”
“Don’t worry about me. I have a rule I don’t drink to drown my sorrows. I wasn’t intending to break my rule tonight. Tonight was supposed to be a happy occasion. A ‘last hurrah’ before I’m not allowed to drink for the whole season.”
