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“No, I stopped,” Tamia said. I looked at her. “I swear I stopped, T.” I looked harder. “I swear, T. It was nothing. I just had a pain. I was short of breath. Maybe I was working out too hard at the gym this morning. I have been doing chest exercises.”
The elevator came and we stepped inside with a small group of people. I looked at Tamia. I couldn’t not believe what she was saying. If she said she’d stopped taking the pills, she wasn’t lying. But she did scare me.
We got off of the elevator in the basement of the library and headed toward the section where Tamia usually studied. She opened her bag and pulled out pile after pile of papers. I watched her, trying to judge if she was really okay.
“Okay, let’s get started,” she said, taking a seat next to the chair where I was standing. She looked up at me still standing. “Well, sit down, Troy,” she said.
“I will…” I looked around the stacks. “But before I sit in this seat, I need you to promise me one thing.”
“I stopped taking the pills, T,” she said, annoyed.
“No, that’s not it. I just want you to tell me this is not where you had sex with that white boy.”
“Oh, sit down, silly.” Tamia pulled out the chair.
After Tamia and I finished up at the library, we headed out to eat dinner at a cute Indian restaurant on St. Mark’s we’d disco
vered one day after school. Walking into the East Village tuckaway, we were hypnotized by the scent of Indian curry and jasmine incense. We sat at the bar sipping on Indian wine and chatting about our plans for Los Angeles. I was so happy I’d agreed to go away with my girls. I really needed a break from the city and myself.
After eating enough food to feed an entire family on Thanksgiving, Tamia and I went over our plan to reconnect Tasha with her mother in L.A. Tamia had contacted Porsche through the television network two weeks before our trip. Tamia said Porsche was really excited about the new baby and couldn’t wait to see Tasha. She kept Tamia on the phone for over an hour, telling her how much she missed Tasha and wanted to be in her life.
Before they got off the phone, Tamia and Porsche agreed to meet at the hotel where we were staying in West Hollywood. Porsche explained that she’d just won her third daytime Emmy and the media was dying to get anything on her. The idea was to keep it as low-key as possible so Tasha wouldn’t feel any pressure and bolt.
“Sounds great,” I said to Tamia after hearing her plan. I did feel a twinge of guilt for deceiving Tasha, but in the end, as Tamia said, it was for her own good. Tasha had to face her past. But even if I did disagree with the plan, slumped over in my chair, so full I was about to burst, I didn’t have the strength to argue.
Get In Where You Fit In: Female Categories
From the caste system in India to the political parties in the United States, groups make the world go ’round. Whether you’re in or out, up or down, hot or not, one thing’s for sure—you belong to a group. Black or white, Christian or atheist, fat or skinny, you’re surrounded by groups. Perhaps the guiltiest culprits in the grouping game, especially when it comes to the women they date, are men. Like it or not, it’s true. Every man you’ve ever dated put you in a category of some kind. And the worst thing you could do is not know which category you belong to. Read these categories closely and decide which one your guy has you in. It might be a life-changing realization.
1. Wifey Status: The belle of the ball, the grand finale, the queen bee. This is the woman he could see himself settling down with. He treats her like gold and shares his dreams with her. Signs It Might Be You: He can’t stand the idea of you being with other men, always tries to impress you and take you to nice places, takes you to meet his mama, has a picture of you on display at his place, asks your future plans, wants to take you on vacation, wants to take you to church, always wants to know where you’re going, buys you jewelry on holidays, and…he asks you to marry him.
2. Friend Status: R. Kelly called her the “Homie Lover Friend.” This gal pal hangs with him so much people think they’re brother and sister. She’s the girl next door who’s so cool he simply adores her. He’ll do pretty much anything for her. Signs It Might Be You: He always says how “cool” you are, takes you places with groups of his friends, never dresses up or wears cologne when you two hang out, tells you all of his problems—including those with other women, and asks about your dates.
3. Hoe Status: The sex is great, but the company may not be. She’s not his dream girl, but he spends a lot of time sleeping with her. This is his secret friend no one seems to know about. What you do at your hoe’s house stays at your hoe’s house. Signs It Might Be You: He seldom takes you out places people really frequent, never wants to see you during the day, won’t introduce you to any of his friends, disappears on holidays, always breaks promises, seldom answers your calls, and turns his cell phone ringer off when he’s at your place.
Warning: Men are creatures of habit; therefore, though you can easily change your category from good (Wifey Status) to bad (Hoe Status) by, say, sleeping with his cousin, changing your category from bad (Hoe Status) to good (Wifey Status) is next to impossible.
Amen, That Man Is Mine
“It’s right over there,” said the old man standing next to my car.
“That’s First Baptist?” I looked out of the window at the church. It was so huge it looked as if it was tearing into the sky above the car. Daddy was right, the church was an amazing old building that reminded people of how great Harlem once was. I couldn’t believe how many times I must’ve passed it running through the city going here and there, never stopping to take notice.
“I wouldn’t lie to you, lady. You stopped me to ask for directions,” the man said, grinning at me in a way that was entirely inappropriate for Sunday morning—not to mention the fact that he was obviously old enough to be my father. I smiled back and quickly rolled up the window before parking my car. I couldn’t believe I’d agreed to see Kyle preach the weekend before my trip to L.A. But he’d sounded so cute on the phone, saying I needed to “hear the word” before I left.
“There’s not much space left on the floor,” a little girl said when I walked into the church. The inside was even more lovely than the outside. I could tell from the beautiful wood paneling and stained glass windows that the church had been there for a long time. “But if you wait, one of the ushers can walk you in and help you find a seat.” I looked at my watch. I was thirty minutes late.
“No, that’s okay,” I said, smiling at her. She looked adorable, dressed in a white lace dress and black patent leather shoes. You can say a lot of things about black people, but you can’t say we aren’t dressed to the nines on Sunday morning.
The church I attended sometimes in Manhattan when I couldn’t make it to Harlem with Nana Rue was predominantly white. They looked like they were going to the mall when they came to church. The little girls had on pants (a no-no in the black church) and the men had on T-shirts and jeans. Nana Rue said they were being disrespectful in God’s house. But I didn’t mind it so much. Knowing I didn’t have to get all dressed up to compete with anyone made it easier for me to get my behind up to go to church.
I knew better than to dress down when I got up to get ready to go to Kyle’s church. I’d heard about First Baptist and its sanctified fashion show. From the specially made hats to the matching shoes and purses, the sisters there were church-dressing professionals and I wasn’t about to look stupid. Being a guest of the pastor and all, I knew all eyes would be on me. I slipped on my tailored navy blue Chanel suit with matching Jimmy Choo stilettos. Tasha told me I looked like a movie star in that scene stealer.
“There’s a balcony upstairs,” the little girl said, pointing to a charming wooden staircase to my right. “I like to sit up there. You can see everything.”
“Sounds like me.” I smiled again and headed up the stairs.
I heard Kyle’s voice vibrating through the church as soon as I reached the middle of the staircase. His confident whisper was building to a shout in the microphone.
