10
FIRSTS FLINGS FIRST
Our pairing was odd. No one understood why or how I had his nose so far open. It took a lot of people at our school a while to adjust to our being together because he was cute and: popular. I was cute but: “weird” and “different.” But let him tell it, that was why he liked me so much.
Some days I would wear normal clothes like skirts, slacks and such, but other times, I wore my pink Chuck Taylors with most of my jeans or shirts that I would splatter acrylic paint all over. I attended a creative arts school, so it was not out of the ordinary to dress like that.
Some of us were into tightening our jeans with a gazillion (visible) safety pins on the outside of the left and right legs of our jeans-for style. Or we dressed like 80s Madonna or some member of a rock band. We wore cloaks or for jewelry-broaches in random places or berets with outfits that didn’t require it-things like that.
The other half of the school kids stayed on top of the latest designer fashions from head to toe. Santana was one of them. He hated the way I dressed. And what he could not buy me with his little work checks, he would steal for me: all those latest fashions (shoes included).
Santana wrote letters to me every day and would glow at the sight of me. He had to wait a while to officially court me by permission though, because my mother had a rule: no makeup and no boys until I was sixteen. But a year earlier, I broke both of her rules and eventually lost my virginity to Santana. I felt that my heart was safe with him and he would stay for the long haul, especially since he too, was a virgin. He was not quite a bad-boy but he wasn’t lame either.
We met in the school library. I was standing high on a ladder-trying to locate a book that I wanted to read. He walked into the door looking from left to right, as if he was looking for someone. When our eyes met, I turned away really fast. He walked over to me and sat the table beneath the ladder I was standing on. I looked down at him and asked:
“Why are you standing down there under me like that, and why are you looking up at me?”
“It’s a free country I can look at what I want to look at. I’m looking at you-I always like to look at you,” he said.
I was confused because I never thought of him that way, and for that minute, my brain tried hard to scan any recollection where he looked at me for any length of time. I was so scared and didn’t understand how to handle this because it was so storybook-like and boy-meets-girl-normal. Nothing in my life that I had experienced thus far was of this kind normal. I was so nervous standing there. I felt like about as awkward and out of place as Sissy Spacek in “Carrie.”
Ms. You Know Who branded him the nickname: “light-bulb head boy.” She knew him because he took her class at the last part of the day for five days per week. She refused to call him by his real name when discussing him with me.
He was charming, with a gorgeous smile, perfect teeth, carved, chiseled lips and cheek-bones, and what we would call “girl eyes”-because he had long eyelashes. He was a dead ringer for Phillip Michael Thomas in “Sparkle.” He had deep-wavy and curly hair, his pretty grey-green eyes drooped in the far corners. His eyelashes made it look like he wore eyeliner. When he would smile, his right eye was lazy and his small dimples looked like little muscles in his face. To top it all off, he had a hairy chest (that was a rare find in a boy his age). His having chest hair was always the whispers and talk of the school. He dressed impeccably, with the latest clothes and always carried his backpack neatly across his back with both straps on. Everyone else wore theirs with one strap hanging but he didn’t.
“Come down off that ladder so that I can talk to you-please! Please!” he pleaded.
Feeling shy and embarrassed-shaking and ready to fall off the ladder, I ignored him.
“Please talk to me-please!” he begged-this time with his hands folded; making me blush as I peeked down at him from behind a book in my hand.
Very slowly, I stepped down to him. Each step of the way that I was closer to him, my heart raced with the speed of a thousand Derby racehorses. He was tall, and when I got down to his level, he was looking down at me. Through my bangs, I looked up at him and he bluntly asked, in a tone that was too loud for the library atmosphere:
“WHYYYYYY are you so weird, man?”
“What do you mean: weird?” I asked, sarcastically.
“You dress weird. You act weird. What are you scared of?” he asked.
I was so embarrassed but I couldn’t let him get away with talking to me this way, so I responded:
“I’m not scared of nothing. I beg your pardon,” I said-trying to sound firm and menacing.
He had no idea this was my first normal, real-life, age-appropriate: “boy-meets girl” experience, and it was all so foreign to me.
“You dress kind of like-not goth-but like a rockstar or something, sometimes,” he said-seriously.
I was standing there in a pair of regular designer jeans (about the only clothing item of I had on that I was sure he could understand and agree with) a wrist filled with black plastic and silver bangles, and one of my acrylic-paint sprinkled specialties for a shirt, (further proving his point). I really didn’t know how to take what he said without feeling insulted. I felt called to the carpet with the evidence on, from head down to my pink Converse and light-blue shoe-stringed toe. I scolded him with my eyes. He smiled and interrupted me before I could speak:
“You do! But I like it. I especially like your pink high top Converse Chuck Taylors-your light-blue shoestrings and all. That’s pretty fresh,” he said, looking down at my feet and shaking his head up and down with approval.
He then looked down into my face and removed my bangs from my eyes and spoke softly:
“I like your red hair and skin,” he said.
I smiled, scared to say anything back-not even: “Thank you.”
He laughed and said:
“You are soooo pretty but you are soooo weird, man. Something about you…is different. I aint gon’ lie.”
I frowned while biting my bottom lip-not knowing how to respond to that, so I defended:
“If I’m so weird then why are you here?”
“I watch you and I…I…always wanted to say something to you, but you’re always with your friends. So, I watched come in here, alone and I…waited a few minutes then followed you here,” he explained.
“That’s weird,” I jabbed.
He laughed.
“May I have your phone number Angie?” he asked-seriously.
I stood there-feeling shy already-like Sissy Spacek in the movie classic: “Carrie.” Having just been branded a firm “weird” by this cute boy and now having this same cute boy stand in front of me asking for my number was too much to bear. Like in “Carrie,” I constantly looked up above me-waiting on the pail of pig’s blood to fall on my head. The thoughts of Carrie’s crazy mother were replaced by my mother going crazy and having a fit at the sound of a boy on the other end of my phone-calling my house before age sixteen. “Age sixteen” was the next level of freedom and access to accessories threshold that my mother [and dead father] always reiterated. It annoyed me since I could remember.
I couldn’t say no to Santana. I was too embarrassed to say no. So instead, I took a deep breath and gave him the phone number with complete confidence, and in hopes that when he calls, my mom would be able to see him through the phone then decide that he was as charming and cute to her as he was to me-standing right there in front of my face.
Later that night and going forward; day by day, we got a chance to talk on the phone for a while without interruption or incident. I would be guarding the phone during the evening hours so that I would be the only one answering it, because he refused to sneak around with me. He had already warned me in many-a-jokes: “If your mother ever answers the phone, I am going to be a gentleman and introduce myself. Then I’m going to tell her that I like her daughter a lot and she’s being selfish!” Though he would joke about it, I could never argue with him about it-it wasn’t even up or discussion. He was heaven-bent on making sure nothing was going to come between this chance we had. He liked me as much as I liked [and never entertained the thought of dating] him. Alone and to myself (and later into the courtship) sometimes in his arms; I would cry at the fact that I was finally in a normal situation with a normal, age-appropriate boy whom I liked too. The fact that I thought he never even looked at me, because he was popular and all the girls liked him so much, was nothing less than storybook special to me. And as it turned out-I had been a twinkle in his eye for a long time, without him being so much as a passing thought in my mind.
Santana made me feel “special” and “different” in the right way-opposite how I was so used to hearing that I was special and different: separate and unlike my average peer. But his kind of “special” and “different,” made me feel included and accepted because I was “special” and “different” as I was.
We decided that we liked each other too much, to not go steady. I was still trying to figure out why he wanted to go steady with me, rather than all of the other girls who liked him who were cute and popular not “weird” “different.” He would insist that he liked my being “different” and “weird,” because he also thought I was so pretty but “pure” without even learning that I was still a virgin. After a while, the fact that he called me weird didn’t bother me anymore because he would stare at me and hold me like he absolutely adored me. When he would remove my bangs to look into my eyes, I would see stars in his eyes. Before he would kiss me, he would bite his bottom lip and hold my cheeks like he was afraid I would leave and never come back.
I was so happy. I knew that this boy really liked me. For the first time in my life with another person; I felt normal and free of the covert and secret.
We made a pact that every school day, we would write a letter, a note or on a card of some kind, for one another-so that we would stay close. We both liked that. I did not tell any of my friends that he liked me because a tiny part of me was still not trusting of all this undivided attention that he was paying to me. He either kissed or flirted with all the girls, and all the girls flirted with and liked him-entire cliques of girls did. I wondered “why stop here?” [with me]. Because the fact still remained, I did not fit into his world.
My drug of choice was: r&b, pop, lite-rock, proper English, and creativity.
His drug of choice was: rap, broken English and slang, and conformity.
I was also afraid to reveal our liking for each other to my own friends and peers because each and every one of them either: liked him too, talked to him on the phone, or kissed him before. Actually, pretty much all of the girls in the school fit into one of the three categories.
Fortunately, for me-he stopped-here: (with me).
He was eager to prove himself different than my perception of him and to show me how different I was to him-than anybody ever was.
Finally it happened. He was not in the spot where we would normally meet. Instead, he came in front of my homeroom, then kissed and hugged me while everybody was around: my friends (who now, were all officially old news to him-mere girls in passing) and his friends (who would tease him about being two years older than me. They would call him “Chester child molester”).
I got my letter, my kiss, my security, my confirmation that we were official and that no one else mattered but me. Weeks into this, he quickly learned my “way.” He was so familiar with my uncanny ability to function covertly, that he could not take it anymore. All my life-that was what I was used to (as being a “normal” thing), so he couldn’t understand it anymore than I had the ability to communicate and explain it to him. It was just a part of who I was.
He didn’t care who knew. If anyone wanted a birds-eye view into our relationship and the goings on in it (the good, the bad, the ups, the downs, the virginity, the loss of it, the ins, the outs and the over’s); all they would have had to do was read his letters written to me-word for word. If someone would have gotten a hold of all his letters that he wrote to me-they would have been singing our life from his words. Because each and every letter told everything about me, about him, and about us-apart, or together:
“To Angie, My Big Baby.
What’s up? Nothing much here. Just got my math test back, another F. But anyway, I found your letter thought provoking and somewhat funny. But did you have to use such big words? (smile) Alright, so I get a little upset when I can’t come over. I can’t get in touch with you over the phone. It’s just that I want to spend as much time as possible with you because I feel rather empty or lonely. (yes! Gigolos get lonely too) smile. (sike) but I think you understand.
Being called a Chester doesn’t bother me at all just as long as I have some very special, sweet, lovable person whom I love and they love me back. When we first started talking (or whatever) I knew I would be pressured for being involved with a younger girl, but don’t worry, no phase on my part. To be honest, I know I really love you but for some reason, when around your friends I sometimes feel scared to even come over to you to say hi. But when we are alone I feel just fine. About the making love business. I would never tell anyone about me and your sexual encounters (if any) because I put myself in your shoes I wouldn’t feel good if my business was told to everyone. I would never do anything to hurt you or our relationship in any way.
Open up a little more? Who me? I have no idea what you are talking about. I don’t know how to open up. Really I do, but I would rather not until I know for this (me and you) is what I really want. I mean I know for sure I want you but as you know, times change and people change and I would hate to be caught up in the middle one of those changes.
But that’s what love is all about, so I promise you that I will work on it. (Dam! I can’t write, but I’m trying just for you) two more minutes until the bell rings I’m ‘bout to go. I’ll get back and I LOVE YOU.”
Still looking up for the pig’s blood, I lowered my head quickly and frowned with an embarrassing smile on my face, so I covered it. This was too much like a popular: “Boy-meets-Girl. Boy-falls-in-love-with-Girl. Boy-tells-the-world. Shows-the-world” fantasy. This kind of wish or hope never even made it in the lines of my red diary. So it took me by surprise about as much as it swept me off my feet, because outside of my mom not knowing just yet; everything was at a normal pace with normal happenings: no rushing, no reasons to hide. This was all much too normal for me.
He kissed, held, grabbed me and pulled me away from the jealous onlookers and green eyed-monsters. It was then that I began to trust him and all the affection and love that he claimed to have for me. His letters matched his fears, his touch, his kiss, and the way he would look at me:
“The Stormy Nights
The stormy nights
The winter breeze
Holding you in my arms, relaxed and at ease
It seems so simple, no problems occur
But our love will endure
I want so much to see you smile
And take away that inner turmoil
You make me so happy unlike any other girl
You are my heart, my soul, my world
The stormy nights
The winter breeze
You touch my mind with loving ecstasy”
—————————————————————————————-
“Santana & Angie
What’s up! I can’t think of nothin’ to write. I loved your letter. The only thing I don’t follow is I thought you had already fallen in love with moi! Or do you mean falling deeper. But anyway, I love you so much also. What do you mean my fault! That we don’t spend much time together you’re crazy! I’ll accept 50 but not 100% of the blame. I’m really sorry I played you about the telephone deal. My phone wasn’t even plugged up and it won’t be for a while. Cause I’m on the big two week P from Friday, my mother found out. So if you want to write me a weekend worth of letters, even if you don’t have much to say just so that I have a feeling of being with you. It won’t be the same but it will get me over the weekend. WHERE IS MY FUCKING WALKMAN. Sorry did I scare you. I’m just acting blowed.
But I’ll get back.
Love, Santana.”
—————————————————————————————-
“My Dear Angie
I take the pleasure of writing these few lines. I hope you love me now just as much as you did when I was there with you of Friday because my mind is with you day and night. The love that I have for you in my heart is greater than I thought it was. If I had thought I had so much love for you, I don’t think I would have ever let the chance of making passionate love to you slip out of my grasp. All I can do is stop and look back and say what a fool I was for letting it happen. Sex…it’s perfectly proper that when you and I make love, your own pleasure should be out of the utmost importance to you. Any sexual practices we engage in should be for your enjoyment, not just mine. When I whisper: “do you like this, whisper back the truth especially if the answer is no. Listen, I know this letter is just about contradicting at least one out of the three I have previously written but it’s just a subject that won’t let my mind at ease.
Fuck all that deep stuff (for now) what’s up! I love you. You love me too? That’s nice to know. But um. What do I do that’s so childish or stupid. When you say that, for some reason I feel as if I’m losing you.
I know I’m not but it just seemed that way ya know.”
—————————————————————————————-
“Angie
What’s up! Me?! I thought you would say that. Well. I’m sitting here in American History bored half to death and you just happened to pop into my mind.
Nice letter I loved it. I read it six times already, (no lie) I really don’t have too much to say but I love you! And from me you know that’s a mouth full.
I understand about mom being over protective because you are her only baby girl, I would be too but you are also my only baby girl and mom’s being selfish. I mean, just tell her how you feel about me and if necessary I will tell her how I feel about you and we’ll take it from there.
But if you feel it is a rush then we won’t push it ok!) Is that halfway enough? I love you! (I said dick, not penis so stop trying to make everything sound so less embarrassing).”
—————————————————————————————-
“Hi Angie how are you doing? Fine! I knew that. I missed you. Your kiss. Your embrace. Your sexy smirk, your voice. And most important of all, your love. Baby please don’t be upset with me I’m begging you. (Something I hardly ever do) Whatever I did I’m really sorry I am.
When I called you to say bye! (twice) you just looked as if to say fuck you forever. That really hurt me and you just don’t know how much. I know I play too much sometimes but you know I never mean any harm. Especially not to you, so I’ll apologize once more. And again and again and again if I have to accept this is it without the deepest depths of my heart.
I know I’m sometimes abstruse (but lovable) I know I’m sometimes the reason for you having a bad day but I’m sorry really I am. Ok! Let’s make a deal! Let’s stop bullshitting each other and leaving each other with a doubt in mind that we’ll lose each other.
Let’s talk everything out even in the most silliest things and laugh at the same mistakes later. I must admit through this whole relationship there has been little rain. Let’s keep it that way. Let’s start over. All grudges (if any) aside ok? Ok! I love you look up and say what you think! And then give me a hug and a kiss! Just don’t smack me! Please.
PS I’m off my P so start calling! I love you! I’ll get back Montgomery Moose! WRITE BACK PLEASE The letters here at the pad are getting old.”
—————————————————————————————-
“Hello! I’m back, how are you doing? Fine! I know I’m alright. If you are wondering how I’m doing. I don’t have anything on my mind right now accept you of course. Just putting pen to paper hoping something will come to mind. I LOVE YOU. Just can’t live without you and all my dreams and thoughts are about you. Let’s spend more time together in school. I just love being as you say “in the presence of your company.”
It makes me feel even more like a man. In other words, my nature comes out even more when I am exposed to the female scent that you carry. Dam!
I’m sleepy but I want to complete this letter. I love you! (yawn)
Love is a passion you just can’t hide (or don’t want to) And I just want to express our feelings with kisses, caresses, hugs, eye contact, words and any way possible as long as I know how you feel about me I’m cool ya know! That’s about it cause I’m dead sleepy it’s 3:30 now but it was about 2:58 when I started. I just woke up thinking ANGIE, ANGIE. ANGIE something I’ve never (yawn) done before. I love you.
P.S Hope when I close my eyes I continue to dream about you.
Love,
SLEEPY SANTANA”
—————————————————————————————-
“Angie
Hi what’s up? I read your letter. It was alright, nothing to get my beaters up about. It was quite interesting. Your perspective on how you plan on going about doing this was too crazy. It had me tripping hard. But anyway, it did start my imagination to run, that I must admit.
My house? Why my house. I mean I don’t mind but ya know, my bed is dead broke. (Don’t laugh) but other than that my room is in perfect shape. So let me bust that ass over your house.
Naw! I don’t care where, just as long as I bust that ass.
Boy! Do you have a mind for sexual fantasies. You would have thought you have been through all this before (in real life) Hmm. Makes me wonder…
But anyway! Hours of pleasure? I wish I could fuck you for an hour. (Excuse me, I meant to say make love to you for an hour). But maybe it’s possible I wasn’t in a daze or sleep. So there was no need for you to write “wake up its only a fantasy!” But anyway, maybe your dream about being pregnant means something but as strange as it may sound, I would love for you to have my little girl. Really.
But you know! That’s all I can think of, so I’ll get back at lunch!
Love Santana
I love you!
PS- you’re nasty!”
—————————————————————————————-
“Hi! This is Santana (Sap of the Year)
I’m sitting in the tub thinking about you and me (our future together).
It seems as though we will be together for a while or longer.
Are you positive that you want to spend your life with me. I’m sure. But are you? Yea! I know you told me that you are but I would hate to keep you from doing a lot of things girls your age do and that’s meeting different kind of guys. But don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying I don’t want to no longer be with you it’s just that I feel as if I’m depriving you of something special. I don’t know what, but something.
As much as I’ve gotten around I deserve to settle down don’t you think. But you can’t say the same.
Sometimes Angie (please don’t get mad) Never mind oops! You hate that don’t you? LOVE YA!
But anyway. I need it bad. Every day I look at your ass looks bigger. Your tits look softer and much bigger also. This is torture. My dick gets hard when the wind blows, (don’t laugh). Maybe there is an advantage to all this torture I am going through. I mean you know the greater the anticipation, the greater the satisfaction.
If I touch you, beaters up, when I kiss you, beaters up, thinking about you, beaters up and you think that shit is funny. Sometimes I think you be teasing me on purpose sometimes. Either that or this horniness is affecting my mind. But anyway I LOVE YOU!
P.S- next time you ask what’s up you should already know before you ask right?
Love Santana”
—————————————————————————————-
He started getting creative:
“EIGNA Angie
STAHW PU? GNIHTON! I WENK TAHA ESUAC ER’UOY A PAS.
What’s up? Nothing! I knew that cause you’re a sap.
TUB YAWYNA I EVOL UOY. I LEEF HCUMRETTEB. WOHEMOS
But anyway I love you. I feel much better somehow.
I LEEF RO MI NWARD RESOLC OT UOY ESUACEB FO YADRETSEY
I feel or I’m drawn closer to you because of yesterday
I WONK UOY TNOD NEVE TNAW OT REAH TI TUB STAHT EHT YAW
I know you don’t even want to hear it but that’s the way
I LEEF. I DEZILAER WOH ESOLC I EMAC OT GNISOL UOY DNA TI
I feel . I realized how close I came to losing you and it
DEPPIRT ME TOU. OS WON MI ANNOG TSUJ LLIHC TUO DNA EB
Tripped me out. So now I’m gonna just chill out and be
YREV YREV ECIN OT UOY UNTIL I NAC TEG UOY KCAB REDNU
Very very nice to you until I can get you back under
ETELPMOC LORTNOC. I EVOL UOY OS HCUM. DID TI KOOL SA FI
Complete control. I love you so much. Did it look as if
I SAW GNIOG OT YRC. FI SEY I TNSAW STAHT TAHW I DLUOW LLAC
I was going to cry. If yes I wasn’t that’s what I would call
RETTUB. UOY TSUM EB ENO LLEH FO A LRIG ESUAC ER UOY EHT
Butter. You must be one hell of a girl cause you re the
YLNO ENO THAT SAH REVE TOG EM NWOD. OT LLET EHT THURT
Only one that has ever got me down. To tell the truth
I DEKIL TAHT TUB REVE UOY OD TNOD TEG EVARB NO EM
I liked that but ever you do don’t get brave on me
KO? I LLIW TIMDA I SAW A PAS TUB UOY TNOD EVAH LORTNOC Ok?
I will admit I was a sap but you don’t have control
TA TSAEL TON YLLATOT. MI 9.99 TNECREP DNA MI EHT TSEB REVEN
At least not totally. I’m 99.9 percent and I’m the best, never
SSEL. KCUF ADNAY EHS TNIA TIHS OT EM EHS SAW BMUD YAWYNA
Less. Fuck Yanda she aint shit to me she was dumb anyway
EM DNA IBEL KOOT SNRUT HTIW REH OS WOH SEOD EHS WONK TAHW
Me and Levi took turns with her so how does she know what
SEHS NEEB URHT. UOY TNDID NEVE TNAW OT RAEH TAHT I WONK UOY
She’s been thru. You didn’t even want to hear that I know you
TNDID IM YRROS
Didn’t I’m sorry
Love
Santana”
—————————————————————————————-
“Alright Angie
I liked your letter. It was alright. This is the last time our future as far as relationship is concerned will be discussed. Let’s face it, I’m stuck with you and you’re stuck with moi! That’s hell aint it! Naw I’m just acting blowed. But I’m absolutely, positively sure that you are what I need and want. And that’s final ok? Ok! But I love you.
Oh by the way. I’m never wrong. And I wasn’t saying I wanted you to get involved with boys. I know I’m a sap but not that much of a sap. I’d be crazy to make a decision like that. I can’t think of anything else to say but I love you don’t ask me to write no more, you can write and I can read on bet?
Love,
Santana”
—————————————————————————————-
“How are you doing today baby?
I’m thinking about you right this minute and just can’t stop. Angie I really love you and want us to live together, raise a family and be happy. Cause I really feel as though it’s gonna work really.
Dam! I love you so much. But um! We’ll get back to dat! I can’t: I LOVE YOU! (smile).
I loved what you did to me yesterday. It felt so good. But I wanted to…But it felt good. Real good. Very good. I feel that experience brought us a little closer and deepened my love for you. But I want to get to know your body like the back of my hand and you to know mine. To know what each other likes and what we don’t like. So in other words, experiment with each other. Remember, you said that you were creative.
Let’s see how creative you really are. I know we will be in school and that will probably limit your creativity. But don’t give a fuck, and don’t worry about embarrassing moi. Because we’re not supposed to be embarrassed for no reason when we are alone about anything. Nothing we say to each other, nothing we do to each other should be embarrassing right? Right.
But when you did what you did to me, you knew what to do. But…I wish we could have made love after that because I bet it would have been so dam fulfilling and pleasurable.
Love, Santana”
—————————————————————————————-
“Dear Angie
Fuck it! I’ll be a client once more (and how many other times) I really shouldn’t say shit to yo ass, ya know. But that’s no way to treat a girl who will someday be your wife and the mother of your kids. So fuck it. I aint gone say shit. Why did you play me like Jeff Leff? I know you didn’t take that shit serious you know? When I said I didn’t like you anymore. If you did (which I know you couldn’t have) that’s a sap for ya! yea! Boy Angelo was down all night wonderin’ what was up with the bitch that got up and walked away, and then you called…
I wish I would have answered the phone I would have fucked (and I mean fucked) you up! But maybe a couple of zzz’s will mend me and Angelo’s very hurt feelings. I don’t know. Maybe shit like this is supposed to fuckin’ happen but don’t let it fuckin happen again ok??? Ok!!!!
I’m ‘bout to move out cause the more I think about what you did the more I… fuck it never mind and I did that especially cause you hate it.
Nyaa! But I fuckin’ love you tho’ (remember that)
P.S maybe it’s silly for me to be mad but I am mad and I don’t give a fuck if you think it is or is not you. Just don’t fuckin’ do shit like that to me anyway, ya know!
Good fuckin bye.
Love, Santana”
—————————————————————————————-
“Happy Valentine’s Day Baby!
I hope you loved the card and the earrings. I love you. Really I do. I’ve been thinking about today. I’m nervous but willing and ready. I’m sure you are too.
You want it more than me am I right or wrong. (Answer out loud) That’s what I thought. GOD! I can’t wait to fill you with my hot and ever erect rod, I can’t wait to show you how much I really love you. I’m scared but not as much now because I know you’ll be there helping. But anyway, I hope I make you feel very good, inside and out.
Happy Valentine’s Day
Love Santana
P.S -I would really love to pour my love inside you really.”
—————————————————————————————-
He was getting even more creative. By this time, he had given our physical parts a name, parts to play and a relationship all their own:
“Dear Nikki This is Angelo.
I’m up because I’m lying here thinking about the time we got together and tried to boldly go where no penis has ever gone before. (I think) Psyche! But anyway. You know what? It didn’t even work. Just before I was supposed to enter, I don’t know what it was, maybe it was the very arousing sensual female scent that you carried or I was just too excited that I became weak and was not fully erect and I just could not penetrate. Don’t laugh Nikki cause you didn’t help much either. You were so tight that you caused Angelo to be scared causing Angie tighten up even more, which made it even more impossible.
NYAAAA! So it wasn’t all my fault. But anyway. I love ya! Tight little cunt.
But um. I’m ‘bout to move out because Santana would like to talk to Angie.
I hope we encounter again what we tried and so successfully failed at. Bye Bye!!
PS I’m not too big, you’re just too small, too tight and too nervous etc. etc.”
—————————————————————————————-
“Hi!
Angie I couldn’t even tell you what Angelo was tripping off of but that’s between him and Nikki, so let’s not worry about it.
I love you and I’ve missed you so much that’s the real reason why I was so sappish or giggly today cause I was happy to see you.
I really was. I love to talk about Thursday or should I say think about cause that’s all I do cause that’s really the first time I’ve ever been that and sexually (not all the way) involved with a girl cause I loved her and not cause I wanted my dick hard for a so called cheap thrill.
I mean when my dick gets hard (cause you caused it to be that way) I fall deeper in love cause I know you love me and you’re not just there to satisfy your needs but ours, like when you performed on me I don’t think any less of you cause I know you did it to express how much you loved me and not cause I said here’s my dick now suck it!
When I sucked your tits I felt as if we were one, satisfying both me and you. Those sacrifices felt so good that I could have came right then and there…. ….”
—————————————————————————————-
“Hi Nikki it’s me again, I’m not up but I’m thinking about you.
Did you see Santana’s sweat suit? it’s funky but a little sappish (that’s what he thinks) Do you like it? It’s alright if you ask me. But fuck all that lets talk about me and you before Santana wants to talk to Angie. But um! Are you still tight? I’ve gotten braver and stronger. Can’t wait to take the plunge. I know you can’t either. Your love juices smell so sweet (grape) and I’m sure it would make my penis feel good in return I’ll give you a cunt full of hot thick semen. I’m rising just thinking about it.
And when that’s done and weak maybe a light but wet kiss would revive me then your soft smooth hands could jack me dry while you’re doing his………”
—————————————————————————————-
“Okay Angelo I’ll take over now!!! Nikki, Santana has interrupted me cause he wants to talk to Angie. But I’ll get back……Hi Angie this is Santana, I’ll just finish where Angelo left off. okay while you’re doing this I would gently take a large but soft tit in my hand and gently suck it, playing with the nipple with my tongue, causing it to rise and causing you to whine out my name which would turn me on highly (which did turn me on highly Valentine’s Day Thursday) after we would passionately osculate, fall asleep, wake up and start all over again, but this time more erotic than before.
Love, Santana
Bye!”
—————————————————————————————-
“Angie & Angelo to Nikki:
I love when you jack me off. It feels so good. And I know you love the control you have over my every action. I’m pretty sure you know what I like and I have no dislikes about anything sexually you do to me. And I’m sure I don’t know all of your likes. I wish you would tell me your likes or would you rather me find out when we’re in a position for me to experiment. But I love it when you talk nasty to me. It turns me on. So just tell me cool?
Cool. I liked when you played with Angelo with your (stinkin’ ass) feet. Psyche! But it felt good, you liked it didn’t you. The freak didn’t come out of you, not quite.
There’s something else you’re hiding but when I find out, I’ll push the button. I love you so much. You’re the only girl who has ever seen me fully unclothed. And I wasn’t embarrassed. I felt as if being naked was the only way to be whenever me and you are together.
Your pussy smells so sweet it drove me crazy. Turned me on. Now about this pill business. After hearing about it, I don’t even want to deal with it. I know you love me, but shit like that you don’t have to deal with I mean if I don’t want to use protection I get no injection. Zat’s simple. So stop catering to me and think about you sometimes baby!
Girl I love you so much and I want what you want for yourself.
Angie. It hurts me to see you making sacrifices that can’t be avoided. I mean fuck me. You won’t be able to please me all of the time, just because you don’t please me doesn’t mean that I’ll stop loving you.
Tell me, the only reason why you do for me is because you’re afraid I’ll say fuck it then, were threw. Baby, I’m not. I never will. You’re mine and I’ll never let you go. I love the hell out of you. And nothings gonna change that. I’m sorry if I got a little out of hand. Smack me if you wish. I probably deserve it.
But I love you baby. We’ll talk more, and out loud, if you want.
Love,
Santana”
“Angie
It’s me, Santana.
I’ll go first today and then Angelo will do whatever at the end. First of all, how are you doing.
You look like you’re doing fine. You look so good today. I’m dead up. you look…dam I can’t even describe. There’s no word worthy of how my P.Y.T looks. But enough riding (it’s really butter so I can bust that ass) But anyway…I can’t think of shit to say. But I do love you so damned much!
Why did you leave me yesterday? I wanted to and would’ve made tongue love all day. Of course, a little grind here and there. I really hate to be away from you because like I said, whenever we’re alone it seems as though we are in our own lustful world.
Ok sap! That’s enough of the butter, I want to talk to Nikki if you don’t mind.
Angie, I love you and will get back.
What’s up Nikki you know who this is. I just wanted to tell you how lucky you are to have a playmate like me because my love is long and Santana’s back is strong and all that adds up to fun for you.
Santana said you were a pretty pussy. Me, I say also but that scent I can’t get over it. Anyway I love surprises and I’m sure Santana does too. Whatever it is I hope it’s something that has almost never crossed my mind about being done to me and it sure better satisfy me. I wish there was more than one way for you and me to express our love for each other. I mean I know burying myself deep inside your sexy lips and doing all sorts of things to your clit with the tip of my head expresses a lot but I want something more. I don’t know what, but with your creativity, it’ll be easy. I’m about to move out and I love you.
Love, Angelo.”
“Angie,
Santana doesn’t even want to talk to you so don’t expect him to interrupt me while I’m talking to you Nikki. Nyaaa!!!!!!What’s up Nikki, I guess you expect me to make up erotic fantasies or bring up old encounters but not this time. You fucking make me sick this is the second time not the first but second time You and Whatchamacallher stood me and Santana up. Make it so bad, you promised me.
I expected to be with you, make your love juices flow, you make my love liquid flow but as usual you disappointed me. Santana was really tore up.
If he would have saw Angie, talk to Angie, the day after it would have been dick for her. but knowing Santana, he would have hugged and kissed her and told her how much he loved her, knowing his clienting ass, but if not, she would have been up a fucking creek. As for you, I don’t know what to say. I really did miss you.
I mean we couldn’t have done much but at least I would have felt good with the thought that you were just outside the zipper of my pants. But fuck it, everyone should have made up by tomorrow.
Kissing, hugging & feeling each other’s heads with sweet thoughts (that is Angie & Santana) while I (Angelo) see if I can make you (Nikki) More wet than you can make me hard. But you know we (Santana & Angelo) still loves yall! Nikki (& Whatchamacallher)
Love, Angelo.”
“Hi boo!
How are you doing baby? Fine I know. I love you. It’s been a while since I’ve put pen to paper to converse. But anyway, this morning I saw you from down the hall. Angelo started getting warm and restless, (cause you had on them tight jeans). But nonetheless, everything was cool.
Hold on…ok now I’m in math class, I’ll act like I haven’t read your letter.
We’ll talk about that face to face (Angelo and Nikki).
But anyway I feel like…(not a client) we are going to get together real soon. I mean I’m ready to try again. I need it bad. My house or yours. Most likely mine. Either will do. Cause I need it.
I love you. I feel lousy in a fuck, don’t ask why I feel like staying home with you and experiment. I don’t know what for you mean whatever you want. I don’t feel like fucking writing but I’ll finish.
…I’m finished.
I love you, Santana
and Hi Nikki from Angelo!”
—————————————————————————————-
Our failed attempt at trying to make our “special day” be Valentine’s Day: February 14, ended up happening on March 14th instead.
Santana and me were close, but he had no idea the agony my body had been going through-probably more than what his words and hormones-combined. For many months and Sundays, we shared everything. He knew of my other lil’ boyfriends that I had (that were peers). He knew about the kisses I had shared with them and talks of losing my virginity to them. But they were fast boys, and I couldn’t see myself sharing myself with them. They weren’t “designed” for me like Santana ended up being. In my mind already, I had my type of guy and my type of night pre-planned, and they just weren’t good fits.
I did get a chance to reveal to Santana, my lust for Male Model and how I wanted my first time to be with him, but that was the extent that Santana knew about the secrets in my past and my desires from the red diary.
I anticipated this March 14th day for more reasons than Santana could ever imagine. He was in receipt of residual frustration from all that happened and all that did not happen with everybody from Ms. Beautiful to Male Model to my TGGF. He was all that I needed to cure the tingles in my body brought on by my past that he knew nothing about-and that (at this time in my life) I didn’t fully understand as being reasons.
That March 14th night, I handled Santana like some sexual instruction manual that I had studied very well. The only thing we had in the form of music and candlelight was the sound and light from the television in the next room while Dr. Huxtable was giving Rudy and her buddy’s pony rides on his leg as fat boy Peter hung on for dear life.
With my mom gone out for the next four hours, I had all the time I needed with Santana to experiment with and on him; all that I had been fantasizing about doing, but merely writing in the crevices of my mind and lines of the red diary.
After our experience, we both thought we were everything short of being married and having walked down the aisle:
“Dear Angie
Today I enjoyed and appreciated your company very much. I love you so much…God! I just can’t explain it. I don’t want to say good because it was more than that. The things we spoke of made me feel even closer to you. I’m glad you saved yourself for someone special (and who can be more special than me)? Of course that’s what I myself was doing.
(And who could be more special than my baby!) No one ever!
I got a little mad about the times you almost gave yourself up! But I thought to myself Santana? This young lady (Angie) after so many close calls still managed to save her virginity for someone who would care, love and respect her afterwards and whom she would love dearly afterwards, just be grateful she’s here now, pure and innocent and smart instead of used and naive. Every time I think of your plump pretty cheeks adorable eyes and the sexy way you look at me through your bangs just make me want to make love to you, not make love but make love to you.
Angie I love you so much baby I love you so much. I wish you were there in my bed in my arms and we could just sleep in each other’s arms knowing that when we awake, we would be in a safe, warm loving and caring place in each other’s arms.
Baby I don’t get tired of you. I regret being used to a very bad habit that you will break me of.
Just looking at you while you were in commercial art class drawing my picture for me, your body looked so wholesome and it just made me shake, quiver and everything else just knowing it’s mine (your wholesome fulfilling body) I also love you more than anything else in the whole wide world. I wouldn’t give you up for a fucking thing. You’re all I need, and of course a couple of brats to make me happy in life. I love you baby! From now on, we are going to speak our most deepest feelings out loud to each other. I mean letters are cool but voice to voice face to face are so much more exciting and much warmer. I promise to love you babe, so much.
Love, Santana (Bucky)”
—————————————————————————————-
“Changing:
Hey, here’s looking at you and what you want to be
And what you want to do but I need some time to grow
And live and give you all I want to give
If you don’t see things my way that’s alright
I understand but please don’t turn away
When I hold out my hand because you’re my baby
I have nothing to hide
If you want, I’ll be standing there when you’re hurting inside
So baby remember changing isn’t a crime
It’s a wonderful experience that happens with time
Santana
(Bucky)”
~~~~~~~
For a long time, I had gotten away with sneaking around with Santana: talking to him on the phone at night without my mom ever knowing, being at his house, him being at my house, us-staying afterschool together. You name it, we did it. We had literally been there-done that; everywhere. I always knew how to do that covert thing right under my mother’s nose since ages seven to thirteen. So now, she was certainly no match for me. I was past covert, I was “pro-vert.”
But sneaking around to be with Santana was beginning to be a bit too tough, we had so many close calls. It seemed like the only pressure and stress in our relationship was getting around it all.
I had to break it to my mother gently, and as soon as possible. Because between school, friends, and sneaking to be with him; my schedule was way too full and poor Ms You Know Who was barely getting any girl-time with me anymore. But if I were able to see him freely, time spent orchestrating the covert could have been spent with-if not her-on something else; even if it was time alone, or some extra rest.
By this time, we were full-on-seven days per week: taking pictures of each other every moment of the day, going to the movies, out to eat and visiting his relatives-that was pretty much our routine.
His bedroom was a little cul de sac garage-like extension at the back end of his mom’s home.
We’d be huddled up in there taking pictures, eating, and taking naps in each other’s arms. Other times, he would be sitting on top of his giant speakers from behind all his DJ equipment, rapping, beat-boxing and playing air-drums while I would be dancing about for him. He would put on his classic Beastie Boys, LL Cool J and Run DMC records, then I would put on his b-boy hat and vintage Adidas Run DMC running suit; standing there looking like “Cousin-It” the way it would be draping over and drowning my body like curtains. I would break into this lil’ borderline corny but sexy b-girl dance that I made up; trying to impress him and fit in to his b-boy world-he l.o.v.e.d it. Santana was my love and one man show: cheerleading for me, smiling, laughing, and making bullhorns with his hands to shout through and cheer me on for when I would break into a break dance stance; folding my arms and tooting my lips while nodding my head. He’d bouncing up and down cheering me on and screaming: “GO BA-BY! GO BA-BY! GO! LOOK AT MY BABY! LOOK AT MY BABY! Aw man you are the SHIT! I love you girl!”
He would grab me tightly and hold me in his arms as if I was trying to run from him: “Don’t ever leave me, don’t ever leave me, don’t ever leave baby-never leave me,” he’d would hold me and say-all the time.
We were like two peas in a pod nearly seven days a week, so I had to let my mother in on it. I had to tell her that I had a boyfriend that loved me-madly.
It was getting kind of hectic and cutting it way too close; those days of us leaving school, coming over to my house, making love, and laying in each other’s arms until the alarm clock rang to wake us up so that he could get dressed and head out the back door in time before my mom would enter the front door.
My two oldest brothers had gotten their own apartment together. Once Twin finished up his mini lock-up bid at the school for disorderly boys; he was due to move in with the wifey and Mr. Super Saturday: that 0 to 120 blast from my past. After roughing up one too many guys for stepping to him-trying to test him, my mother did what she knew to do best: save herself the trouble; send it or ignore it away.
That left breaking in the new apartment for just my mom and me. We had been there for quite a few months-since around the time I had first met Santana. The way the apartment was situated, it was perfect for me and Santana: the back door was at the back end of the small kitchenette we had-which was right by my bedroom. My mother would say that it wasn’t big enough to cuss a cat in, so she’d cook and take her plate into her bedroom or the living room. The living room, my mom’s bedroom and the bathroom were all in the front: perfect and convenient for her. Outside of the fact that in order to get to the kitchen, my mom had to come through my room; all else was perfect. Once she was done cooking or preparing a meal-I didn’t have to see her anymore.
So when Santana would come over afterschool, he could easily slip out the back door once we heard my mom come through the front door. The only downside to having Santana do that though, was Mrs. Cochran: the little old lady across the hall from us. Her back door was opposite and facd our back door and she didn’t missed anything or anybody coming in or out of it.
It was obvious that our back door was freshly broken in from being painted shut. That joker was hard to open. It was so tight around the hinges-built for looks and a mere apartment amenity listing rather than for opening and closing. Sometimes when Ms. Cochran would be in her kitchen, she would peek out her back door whenever she would hear me tugging at it-each and every time-as though it was her first time hearing it and she was alarmed.
Santana and me would twist our lips and roll our eyes in our heads while trying to balance out his back door getaway and my mother’s front door entrance with Mrs. Cochran’s watchful eyes. We got crafty in those few minutes of time; tugging at the door to let her see me sit the trash out, then wait a few minutes to let Santana squeeze out of it. Our alarm would wake us up at 5:45pm and by 5:55pm Santana would be dressed and gone out the backdoor. My mom would be walking in the front door at 6:05pm. By that time, Santana was always good and around the corner and on his way home-never having to run into her.
It worked like magic for months, until that day my mom got in the house a little sooner than that 6:05pm time. There we were, cuddled up and napping. Me: “Goldilocks.” Him: my “Papi Love Bear. The sound of someone tugging keys and juggling bags-startled me. My bedroom door was cracked open a little bit, so I got up and peeked through. I could see my mom’s lunch bag in clear view.
“Santana, get dressed! It’s my mother! She’s coming inside the door!” I screamed.
In an instant, I grabbed my sweats and t-shirt that I would normally slip into afterschool.
He was busy turning in circles trying to find every article of clothing that I was tossing to him-one by one-while I was forcing him into the kitchenette and trying to get him out of that dreaded back door without Mrs. Cochran hearing and peeking out. We had zero stall time-this time.
In a matter of seconds, I had Santana standing on the back porch with his underwear and socks on, catching cotton, while Mrs. Cochran opened her lace curtains and looked out-but not to her surprise as wasn’t mine. I expected her, and from my peripheral vision, it looked like she expected us too because she merely looked and walked away. I always avoided looking right at her because I knew that the moment our eyes met (in this daily thing that had gone on most of the five days a week for months now) she would have used that as leverage and permission to reprimand me about it or feel obligated to tell my mom. I wanted to be the one to deliver this situation to her-first.
So I kept right on tending to Santana, not wanting him to know that Mrs. Cochran had seen his naked ass-that would have only slowed him down.
I could hear my mom yelling my name-she was right there in the bathroom. The small, clear, stained-glass bathroom window was, too, right there on the back porch-right next to Mrs. Cochran’s-both facing Santana out on that back porch, and at anytime, if either one of them wanted to raise their window up, look out on that back porch and simply say: “boo!;” “Boo” would have simply been busted.
“Ssshhh,” I placed my finger over my mouth, looking at Santana with my lips folded tightly.
By this time, he was completely dressed but demanded a kiss goodbye while I was trying to step into the house and shut that back door enough so the hinges would meet, but not all the way. I needed him off that porch:
“Leave!” I whisper-laughed; pointing out into the air, needing him to follow the direction of it.
He kept making silly faces and making me laugh because he could see my mom’s silhouette in the little bathroom window-but she couldn’t see him.
“I love your daughter!” he pointed at me while whispering and giggling; then pointed over at the little bathroom window with my mom on the other side of it.
I raised my hand as if to strike him. He reached to kiss me again, treaded lightly down the steps, and around to the front of the building.
When he left, I pushed the door up on the hinges and yelled out to finally answer my mom. The alarm clock was sounding off and served as my theme music for this hell of an impromptu performance that we managed to pull off. I yelled out to my mom: “I’m taking the trash out Ma-I’m coming!”
Sigh.
I was sweating bullets-happy that this scene was over.
Cut.
11
IN THE LION’S DEN
I decided that it was time to get that last part of our perfect little wide open relationship [that everyone knew about-including Mrs. Cochran] out in the open. My peers at school, his family and friends, and my friends already knew that Santana and I was a serious item.
I was becoming self-conscious.
I had always prided myself on being mature and brave. Where my mother was concerned, part of me felt enslaved to all the freedoms and responsibilities I had been entrusted with for so long. I was the little lady of the house since I can remember. She secretly had me keeping an eye on the pastures: babysitting Twin and my older brothers over the years-despite the fact that I was the baby. I would hate for her to find out from someone else’s mouth, that for almost a year now-I’ve had a serious boyfriend that I’ve been going steady with. I sure as hell didn’t want her to find out from my belly steadily growing. Despite the fact that Santana and I were using condoms, we would occasionally get careless and resort to the rhythm method too. So with that, I was eager to throw it all in the bag: tell her that I was going steady, tell her how long it had been going on, tell her I lost my virginity, tell her how long I had been sexually active, and then tell her to march me up to the clinic to get some birth control pills before something happened that would change my life altogether.
I was becoming self conscious.
As I was thinking, I began to wonder if Ms. Ananda (who lived beneath Mrs. Cochran) knew too.
I wondered because she had two middle school-aged kids. I began to wonder if either one of them had ever run into Santana in the back of the building, or see him leave down the front steps any time at all-all these months.
When we would talk about it, Santana’s would say he thought it was pretty “gangster” that although Mrs. Cochran knew about us for a while, she never said anything to me about it, nor did she snitch on me. She very well could have, many-a-days, because she and my mom would talk in the small hallway area at the front door in between both of our front doors-sometimes for hours. That old lady kept her mouth shut for many months and seasons! I think I was growing all too comfortable with it after some time, yet, I didn’t want Mrs. Cochran to have a slip of the tongue 
one day. Every now and again in the evening hours, she would occasionally pour herself a lil’ something to drink. She could talk you to sleep then awake all over again. I didn’t want that to happen on some random evening, after all this time, and have my mom find out that she was the last to know. And to add insult to injury, find out by anyone else but me.
I was becoming self-conscious.
Santana and my relationship and ability to date openly was too easy and smooth-sailing for too long for my mother not to know.
But not know-no more.
Without any hesitation or fear, before my mom could get comfortable and undressed, I cut to the chase.
I walked to the bathroom door, knocked on it with the back of my knuckles and simply said to her from the other side of it: “Ma, I think I’m ready to go steady.”
There was a long awkward moment of silence. My mother had way too much mouth to sit quiet for too long. I knew something was going to echo from behind that door in due time. I could feel her wanting to say: “You must be out there on the other side of that door with a pork-chop suit on!” but instead, with bass and a grunt in her voice, she roared like a lion from a den:
“Angie. Wait until I get the hell out the bathroom before throwing some shit like that at me!”
I didn’t reply. I honored the moment of silence by standing there with my hands folded behind my back. My lips were folded tight; ready for this battle that was about to occur when she came from behind that door. Outside of what I had just dumped in her lap, she had no idea what my mind had been going through. I fancied myself as being so mature, that it was beginning to annoy me that I was sneaking around like some thimble-toed kid. I was getting so annoyed with the fact that although I wasn’t sixteen, I was “age-sixteen” threshold-worthy (in spite of all the “age-sixteen” threshold types of things I had been doing).
“Make it snappy now, I haven’t got all evening,” I may as well had said to her-but instead, I broke the moment of silence by replying: “Alright then. I’ll be in my room.”
I went into my room and pulled the door just wide enough for her to peep her head in to call me when she was ready. It must’ve taken her a long time to peep in, because I had fallen asleep and woke up a couple hours later to find her nowhere to be found. Looking at how I had my door cracked-it looked as though she never even came into my room, or stuck her head in the door-which means she didn’t even go to the kitchen either. “Where could she be?” I wondered.
A short while later, while I was in the kitchen, I heard a peck at the back door. I pulled the curtain back, it was Ms. Ananda standing there with a very nosey look on her face-looking as if she was about to laugh. I wrestled the heavily painted amenity open: “What? What’s so funny?” I asked-even before she could get anything out of her mouth.
“Girllllll, what are you up here doing. You know what’s going on don’t you?” she said, sounding like she was one of my nosey peers-fresh from a huddle of gossip.
“No. What?” I probed. I wasn’t offering any information. I always had a “won’t ask/don’t tell” policy.
Ms. Ananda asked: “Girl, you got yourself a little boyfriend and didn’t even tell me! Why not?” she finished-gasping and sounding concerned at that point.
I laughed: “No, I was going to tell you, I’ve just been so busy!”
She replied: “But Angie, you’ve been down to the house and you never said a thing!”
I laughed and coyly replied: “I’m sorry, don’t kill me Ms. Ananda.”
She smacked me on the side of my head.
“But girl, your mother is over there talking to Mrs. Cochran, right now,” spilled Ms. Ananda.
She stretched her eyes open wide as mine.
“At first she was down at my house-telling me that you asked her if you could go steady with some lil’ BOY! I think she wanted to know if you had ever said anything to me about it-but you didn’t even tell me!” she laughed, then turned her voice down an octave:
“After that, she went upstairs here to Mrs. Cochran’s house and called me from over there. Turns out, Mrs. Cochran told her that she had seen this lil’ rock head boyfriend of yours already! A long time ago! Oooh Angie! You sneaky lil’ hussy you!” said Ms. Ananda.
I covered my mouth and laughed out loud then asked:
“What! She told her…like that?”
Ms. Ananda continued:
“Girl please! Mrs. Cochran told your mama like: ‘You need to go’ on and let that gal’ see that boy because if you don’t and you force her to sneak around and see him, you are asking for bigger problems that you will NOT be able to handle!’ She is over there up in your mother’s shit!”
She then asked quietly:
“I don’t want to be evasive and all-you know-since you kept everything from me. But I thought I was your girl,” said Ms. Ananda, sounding sarcastic and slighted.
She continued:
“Angie, I’m right downstairs if you need to talk. Don’t ever keep stuff like that away from me, as much stuff that you share with me. That kinda hurt me that I didn’t even know,” confessed Ms. Ananda.
I stood there in awe about all of this; pissed at my mother for her cowardice after all this time that I was letting my conscious get the best of me-fighting hard to be the first to talk to, and tell her. I took the initiate to open up dialogue about it and just like her: she ran. And she ran off and got the news from somebody else-anyway. She loved to ignore away important situations. As much mouth as my mom had, it baffled me how she went about (not) handling this like an adult, but instead, handled it as if she was some silly little girl with a gossiping mouth, taking hay to everyone else but the horse.
It had been quite some time since I had seen her-no, as a matter of fact, I hadn’t seen her face since the day before, because we spoke from on the opposite sides of the door, when she came home from work.
Just to know that she wouldn’t even face me, over my merely asking her for permission [to do something that I had already been doing for some time already-anyways] annoyed me even more.
At this point, I was merely being courteous to her by inviting her in on a secret that everyone else [in school, his world, my world and in the very building she lived and paid rent in] knew.
Into the night, Ms. Ananda, Mrs. Cochran and my mom met over Mrs. Cochran’s house. My mother simply refused to come back inside the house to even fix herself something to eat-because my bedroom was right by the kitchen.
I lay in bed preparing to turn it in for the night, with the bedroom door still cracked open enough for my mom to peek her head through it. Instead of her, Ms. Ananda appeared, peeking through it. She pecked on the door: “Angie, may I come in for a second. I have something I want to tell you,” she whispered in to me. “Sure Ms. Ananda, what’s up?” I replied.
She pushed the door open, closed it tightly behind her and sat at the end of my bed:
“Angie your mom wants to meet your new boyfriend tomorrow,” she said.
“I will talk to him about it at school tomorrow. It shouldn’t be a problem getting him over here within the next two days or so,” I replied.
“Where is she right now, still next door?” I asked.
“Oh, she’s up front in the living room. She said she was about to go to bed in a minute,” Ms. Ananda responded, relaying for my mother and trying to cover up for her inability to look me in the face as yet.
I lay there on my pillow, squinting my eyes and shaking my head back and forth about how shameful this thing had gotten. I mean, she never even came to the kitchen to eat or drink anything since she had arrived home at 5:45pm that evening. The house was set up such that if she didn’t want to eat or drink anything, she didn’t have to see me at all. I didn’t have to see her unless I got up to use the bathroom, and that would only be if she were in her bedroom, rather than up front in the living room.
Our usual routine-anyways-during the morning, would be for my mom to have her bath then breakfast. That is the time she would be waking me up with the aroma of breakfast food cooking and the sounds of pots, pans, silverware and water running in the kitchen sink.
On days she didn’t eat breakfast, the norm would be for her to bathe, get dressed and before leaving out the door for work; bang on my bedroom door to make sure I was awake to get ready to do the same.
Well, she didn’t eat breakfast the next morning either, and I did not get that bang on my bedroom door to wake me up (either). I guess she felt like I would inhale the morning aroma of the fumes she was still exhaling as breakfast. The way she slammed the front door as hard as she could, I guess she figured it would be all the alarm that I needed (to wake up).
In school that day, when Santana and I met in our usual spot before classes started, I gave him the good news: I told him that my mom agreed to meet him. I purposely neglected to tell him that she was so upset, and that I hadn’t even seen her face in the almost 24-hours since, and as a result of her finding out about the two of us. I just wanted to pass on the “good news” and let Santana feel good about the two of us being able to see each other freely without sneaking around, when everywhere else in both of our worlds; we were openly a couple and as far as we were concerned: “grown.”
So, his meeting her was indeed going to be like him walking into a lion’s den, especially without him knowing that her finding out about us didn’t go over to well. As far as how she would act when she met him-I wasn’t sure. I just hoped that his pretty face and eyes and charming smile would warm her up. Bless his heart, he was so excited:
“Dear Boo.
About me coming over (if I can) I’m not scared just a little nervous. I hope she does. Tell her that I’m shy and don’t laugh me. Am I to tell her that I’m in love with her (my) Baby Boo! That would be hard for fear she would ask what made you fall in love how do I know its love and what does love mean? Not that I couldn’t answer her. I’d be…uncomfortable. I hope she likes me. Maybe I’ll ask her if the garbage needs taking out you know, the usual “butter.” Should I say yes ma’am! Or does she prefer yes and no! I would prefer yes ma’am! No ma’am! Should I call her by her last name? Should I shake her hand or just say “hi how are you doing?” I’ve been through this many times but this seems like the first. Maybe cause I’m wondering if she’ll disapprove of me and ask you to stop seeing me. That would hurt (I’m paranoid)
Is this the right time or should we wait… I Love You.
I hope mom likes me.
Love, Bucky”
After school let out, we behaved like the “grown” responsible “adults” we thought we were. And instead of us running home acting like jack rabbits, he went home to get prepared to come over to my house, and to pretend that it was his first time ever there. Unbeknownst to him, from the outside of the lion’s den looking in; he was going to be walking in [most probably with an Adidas] pork-chop suit on. He had no idea that Mrs. Cochran kinda-sorta snitched and charged her gangster to the game last night. If he knew, he would still probably give her some “cool points,” because it was still because of Mrs. Cochran that my mother was forced to change her mind to allow this meeting to happen.
I just wanted it all to unfold naturally.
I cleaned up the house in preparation for “company” and eagerly anticipated my mom’s 6:05pm (or early-5:45pm) arrival time home.
Santana was due to arrive at 7:30pm.
When mom arrived home, I was back in my room with the door opened about halfway; because it would usually be cracked just enough for me to peek into the living room while Santana would (usually) be preparing to leave out the back door. I knew she had already found out that he had been coming over afterschool, so closing my bedroom door (completely) would have rubbed her the wrong way, or sent her the same message that she sent me yesterday when she shut me out: “I do not feel like dealing you or this situation.”
So yeah, leaving it open about halfway was perfect, because when she would come home from work, my door was never left wide open-she would have definitely noticed that. It would have screamed her name right out, leaving it wide open for her to say: “Oh, you got your bedroom door wide open now that your lil’ boyfriend’s not sneaking out the back door today huh?” I knew her moves-I’m her child.
I was anticipating a good night and wanted it to go smooth, so I made sure that with every detail, everything was everything.
6:05pm is when she began fidgeting at the door-doing her usual: dropping her lunch bag and whatever else she had in her hand onto the living room floor until she would get done fidgeting at the door from trying to get the tough key out of the keyhole. Her bad key bought us a lot of stall time many-a-day.
I let her get all the way into the house and into the bathroom while I went back to the kitchen to wash dishes and give her some space. I could imagine all too well the horror and flashbacks that would have gone through her mind had I started another conversation on the opposite side of that bathroom door. She would probably hear “Psycho,” horror-movie music, in her head.
When I got done washing the dishes, I knew she would be good and out of the bathroom, so I walked right through my bedroom and opened the door (wide), walked through her bedroom and then into the living room. She was sitting there watching television while going through her bag.
“Hey Ma,” I said, while I kissed her on the cheek and balled my fist up and gave her a little nuggie against her forehead.
“Don’t be kissing me!” she yelled, playfully.
“You still love me baby?” I asked her.
“What time is this lil’ boy coming over here tonight?” she demanded to know.
“He’ll be over about 7:30, Ma.” I replied.
“Mmm.” She mumbled and rolled her eyes, tightly.
“Lighten up-acting like an old battle axe!” I laughed. She laughed out loud. That cut the tension in the air that she got right up and walked through. She then walked through her bedroom, through the (wide-open) door of my bedroom then straight to the kitchen (that she hadn’t seen-going on thirty-six hours by this time).
7:25pm came.
Santana knocked at the door like a gentleman. By this time, my mom had been resting in her bedroom.
I was in the living room watching television. I sat there and made him knock once more-having purposely ignored the first knock.
“Oh don’t try to act like you don’t hear that knock at the door-whore! Get up and answer it!” she said, halfway serious and halfway jokingly.
I laughed loudly and opened the door to Santana standing there looking like the fourth member of Run DMC with that Adidas pork chop suit on.
“Hey Red,” he smiled, with his eyes sparkling like diamonds.
“Hey Santana,” I replied, with a smile.
“Ma, Santana’s here…”
I looked into the slightly opened double-doors that separated the living room from her bedroom where she lay.
“I love your daughter and she belongs to me!” whispered Santana, playing around.
“Down boy!” I laughed and pointed.
The two of us sat on the couch at a distance between us like we were two virgins who were still corny and nervous around one another.
The lioness slowly opened her bedroom doors just wide enough for her to walk through it:
“Hi. Hello,” she purred, while walking towards Santana.
He stood up nervously and began walking towards her-so as to shorten her distance to him, as a courtesy.
“Hello, Mrs. Angie’s mom,” he said.
“I asked Angie what I should call you and she never wrote me back to tell me-and I wanted to make sure I addressed you the way you wanted to be addressed!” sounding like the juvenile he was.
I shook my head back and forth as it rested in my hand with my elbow on the arm of the couch-chuckling to myself at Santana; standing there with that pork chop Adidas suit on like a dunce cap, still knowing nothing about the storm that had blown through this very same house over the past forty-eight hours was the same one that just blew him through the door and into the wild.
I eagerly awaited to hear what my mom was going to say to Santana, as he stood there looking like fresh meat. The awkward long pause and stare ended:
“Yeah you lil’ fart! The next time you bring your tail to this house, you make sure you leave out the same way you came in! You hear me?”
Santana turned to me-startled. Just about as startled as I was when I looked up at him-having no idea that she would spew that out of that mouth of hers. He had no choice but to think that I told her, so he merely replied: “Yes ma’am.” I lifted my hand from my head and shrugged my shoulders as if to say: “Well, the cat’s out the bag now.” I played along with it.
Mom continued:
“That’s not gonna fly in here! You farts aren’t making any feet for socks up over in this establishment where she does not pay any rent!” she pointed over at me-making it seem to Santana that I just told her everything-every detail.
She wouldn’t let up:
“I’m the only grown-up in here that’s got permission to be laying up-because I’m the only one in here who’s paying up!” she said firmly, but in a way so as to not scare him off too bad.
“Yes, ma’am,” Santana replied, having no idea what the hell any of that meant. My mom spoke a language all her own sometimes. Something only my brothers and I could translate its meaning.
After she fired, she retired to her bedroom and grabbed the double-doors; hesitantly at first. By the middle of closing them-she looked in at us. And though not with her full blessing, pleasantly nonetheless. She backed off-leaving us alone for the evening, even without giving me instructions on what time he should leave or how close not to sit.
Though my mom was upset about what she found out, she always knew I was mature and could handle many things on my own without probe or prompt.
She remembered.
As a kid-unusually responsible; I was always busy, had a full schedule and trusted-why stop now?
She remembered.
She knew that come morning, I would begin the same responsible routine as every morning, five days a week: using her movement through the house, in the kitchen or the bang of her knuckles to my bedroom door to wake me up right before she left out to go to work-all with the surety that I was responsible enough not to lay back down the moment she closed the door to go on about her day.
She knew she trusted me.
She knew she could trust that from behind those double-doors, no feet for socks were going to be made opposite where she lay.
She trusted me, despite her angry feelings about it all. I never knew them all-we still never talked about it-remember? I could only assume and speculate.
The fact that she was the last one to know probably pissed her off more than anything.
Who knows, it could have been the fact that I gave her, what I felt, was a reasonable exit away from her love: my [dead] dad. Yet, there I was, all booed with up my love: Santana-sitting there smiling and looking all scrumptious-moving closer to me and acting silly.
The television watched us while the radio played one of our favorite classic love songs: “Crazy for You” by Madonna. All the while, my lonely mom lay beyond doors opposite us, probably listening in on us until she fell asleep.
Still, without us ever having a conversation about Santana and me, I could tell she was never going to be more comfortable with it at sixteen than she was at fourteen and fifteen. Because from this day going forward, she showed me better that she could tell me that she never did and never will forgive me for it…
Meanwhile, in other safe pastures, what a sigh of relief this was for the both of us.
School the next day felt different for us. We met up at our usual spot. When he first saw me, his whole face smiled. He hugged and kissed me and twisted me all around; lifting me off my feet-happy-like Richard Gere and Debra Winger in the “Officer and a Gentleman.” It felt like our relationship had started all over again. I was very happy too. I felt so normal, so loved and so adored.
He reached in his pocket to give me my letter:
“What’s up Boo!
Man you ate my KitKat and Doublemint. I was looking forward to that. You should have made the Kool-Aid to wash down the KitKat. But I love you. I like your mother, she’s real nice. I enjoyed being there with you. I felt so good. Let’s go outside at lunch somewhere to be alone if you want to, but you probably want to be with your friends and I understand but it was worth a true try.
…Hold on man. I sound like a sap talking like that, fuck it, it’s gone work because I’ll make it bye!
I’m ‘bout to move out.
I Love you
-Santana”
…and into the days following:
“Hi Boo!
How ya doing baby. You look good today (everyday) just some days you look extra special.
I’m sorry if I hurt you yesterday. I mean, you said bye first so I took it as if you didn’t want to be with me so I said ok. And when you took your picture…man! That hurt, I felt bad. I felt like acting like a bitch (crying) but I didn’t so I guess the tears caught up to me in my dream last night. Dam! I woke up crying and that tripped me out and I looked in the mirror and said you sap! You got it badder than I thought, (the love bug) I love you so much. I just got through taking this history and map test and I iced it. It was dead easy. Man, that kind of shit that happened yesterday we shouldn’t allow to happen because that’s how ice melts. I mean if shit like that keeps going on one of us ( I know you’re goin’ to say me) will get a attitude like I don’t need this no more and just walk away out of a very warm and loving relationship.
Man!
Angie I’m getting bored, maybe I’m just talking to be talking but it seems to me as though were going through a routine, what do you think. But anyway, I love you! Oh! I hope you’ve been telling your mom hi! Even though I haven’t but if you haven’t, tell her I said hi! And not to forget to feed the fish! But Boo. You’re my every…um let me see…you are my everything. I had to think about that Psyche! You’re my everything and I love you.
Love Santana
(Nikki this is Santana, Angelo is on a punishment until he learns how to control himself. But I told him about yesterday and he said)…
Love,
Santana.”
“Hi Boo!
What’s up? How are you doing? You looked good this morning. Real good. I love you.
I really don’t have much to write about, but I’ll come up with something…OK. When I come over today and if your mothers not home I would like to try to make love to you again without protection and I hope that I don’t pre-mature nut. I think I can control myself. And if I can’t then,?!!?!?
I don’t know but I know that I love you and will stand by your side if you become pregnant, it would bring me close as close can get. Man! You can kiss. You have improved since the first time. But even then, your kiss was alright but now when you kiss me, a funny feeling goes through my whole body. I love that. I love you.
Love, Santana
PS-I’m not sorry this is so short, I had nothing to write.
PS-I love you
PSS-I love you
PSSS-I love you
PSSSS-I love you
PSSSSS Don’t worry I’m just a little toasted.
Love Santana.”
“Dear Angie
Hi baby how are you doing? I’ve missed you greatly and I love you oh so much these two days seem to me as though they were weeks. I was so alone, unhappy, and felt very empty. God! I love you so much. And I hope your absence from me will no more be withheld so long. Baby! I’ve missed your warm slobbery lips and large beautiful eyes and the softness and warmth of your body. And most of all, I missed that I love you! Which seems like only you have the power to make those three words (special) work for me.
Angie from day one, my love for you has grown not all at once but gradually.
The things that we speak about lets me know that you trust me enough to tell me about very personal matters. That makes me feel so dam good! I’ve finally found a lady who will actually treat me with the utmost respect and love me dearly. One who is in my life for a purpose. Not to burden me, but to help lighten my burdens. I’ve found a lady whom I wish to spend my entire life with, a lady whom I want to mother our beautiful children (2) and I thank God for allowing you to walk my way. Angie you are a very special and lovely young lady to me. I am building my whole world around you and without you here, it would crumble into nothingness. But I’m not worried because I know you would do nothing to hurt or jeopardize my (our) future HOLD ON…
Ok I just got out of hot shower and speaking of showers, would you take one with me some time soon. It’s something I’ve never done, something I’ve always wanted to do. And I want to share my first experience with the lady I love: YOU! Well get back to that but anyway, I just got out of the shower, it feels good (my whole body does) I laid in my bed with no clothes on thinking of your warm wet love juices running down my erect shaft. I laid face up eyes closed. When I opened them, I expected you there to touch and violently caress my very warm and hard dick (If that word is too harsh) Angelo But you weren’t this thought caused Angelo to dwindle down to its once placid state. I need you and your erotic tongue love. I love you baby! I love you! And I miss the hell out of you!
I’m sorry I stood you up today. But I’ll make it up to you as I already promised…Can I stop and fantasize for a few seconds? Ok! Hold on…I’m back to tell the truth, I went to sleep and woke up…But anyway. I love you.
Love Santana”
“To Angie
How are you doing? I know fine cause you good as ever. Baby your kiss feels more provoking than ever. I mean, the way your tongue touches mine chills go up my back and my dick gets harder than a sack of quarters and your body feels different to the touch.
It seems as though I have been overlooking something or just been so wrapped up in sex that I have not took the time out to really notice things like your kiss or your sensual supple body. When I say sex that really what I mean because when you said I could be a little more romantic, I thought to myself as I do now I was fulfilling sexually (at least not completely) and that’s going to have to stop. I mean anytime my lady tells me that I’m not romantic enough; after making love many times, there is a gap in communication (your fault for not telling me and my fault for not asking). To tell the truth, there is no romance in you taking your own clothes off and me mine.
I don’t even attempt to put you in the mood. I don’t tease. It’s just a routine we go through and if I really love you, Ill change my unsexy ways, which you better believe I will, because I love you. I promise to stop being selfish as far as sexually satisfaction is concerned.
W/B Quickly
Love, Little Bee…”
“Dear Angie.
How’s my angel? (you little devil) Fine I hope. Provided you forget about yesterday at least for a while.
Baby I was just violently upset yesterday. I was totally confused and didn’t know what to think. I mean when you (and them) was in the bathroom asking if he looked good (I think it was you) then you told Chara that if I ask again who was she gone say and she said I’ll just say it’s one of my friends.
It sounded like y’all were making up a lie. I tried my best to just say she knows nothing (which you didn’t) God! I was so scared. I thought to myself that finally I found the right girl and she turned out to be
the wrong girl. God I needed you with me to ease the pain, to ease the fear. Why me! I never took nothing of nobody’s. I mean life is not fair! You find someone that is your world and someone else tries to make there’s. I asked you before we got started was there anybody else and you said no.
The reason why I chose you to be wife and the mother of my children is because you’re special and different. Our relationship was to be unique and far more superior than anyone else’s. I mean shit like this aint supposed to happen.
I love you dearly.
W/B Whenever you have time
PS I’ll get myself together, I promise
PSS Sorry if I’m acting stupid.”
“Dear Mami
What’s up? Damn you look smashing and that’s no lie. I couldn’t believe you were mine. It seemed as though you were too good for me. I was in a daze. But I love your sexy ass. Sunday was fun. And so was yesterday. You know what, I’ll be dead happy when we live together because
now I don’t care if I spend an entire day with you it doesn’t seem like enough and I’m sure you feel the same. Ha! People don’t feel we’ll last and that’s a laugh. Some of the best couples do eventually break up, but us? Shit they must be crazy. I aint giving you up for the world, you are the right young lady for me. I guess commitments must be lame this generation but I’d rather be lost in love than lame.
This morning I wanted to hold you tight in my arms and just say 1,000 times I love you (which is not enough for me) I want the best out of this relationship material and (uh! What’s the word) “personal.”
Our babies, money, a nice home, cars, family fun and family love. And a promise I have made since I was little I’ll never leave my family no matter how bad things get, and they won’t get bad.
My father left us I didn’t know the difference then, but now I resent him for that he was supposed to be my example as a man. I won’t let you down never.
Love Papi
PS-A Daddy is a man who brags about his wife and kids.
A father is a man who supports and gives.”
“Hi Angie.
Your letter was alright, but I expected more. When I said I “hope” about us getting together in the summer I meant if I’m not working half of everyday, but I’d love to spend my whole summer wit choo.
But anyway, I’m also pressured when it comes to promiscuous behavior, but I just swallow kinda hard and the temptation is no longer there cause I know even though you aint there with me, messing around sure won’t fill the emptiness. Cause it wouldn’t be the same. Don’t worry about those poems, they will never cause I wuv u and I always will I’m ‘bout to move out cause the bell is ‘bout ta ring ring Bye Bye
I wuv u.
- No mistakes
PSS. I was so happy to be with you this morning and the stuff you did to me felt so good.
PSSS I wuv you
PSSSS I wuv you
PSSSSS I wuv u.
…alright I’m back. Can you promise me that…
I’ve been thinking about this every since my father talked to me about the air force. We could get married before I went away or would that be rushing things.
Getting married would probably only be done cause we would be scared to lose each other. I want to be married freely, not scared into it. Now that we know we won’t lose each other. Tell me what you think about getting married before I go (or if I go) or when I come back. I love you so much baby you’re my everything and I love you. Man did you hear that punk ass cryin’ last night I was laughing at him.
But Angie, be strong for me ok. Baby I’ll be even stronger for you.
I wuv you,
Wuv, Santana
PS-Promise (remember) no more tears.”
Although my mother allowed me to go steady with Santana, she was always straddled with giving me the full “okay.” It was agonizing sometimes, but weird for the two of us because we were already a happening lil’ couple by this time-even before she was let in on our big lil’ secret.
The only things about us that really changed was that I had retired my pink Chuck’s with the light blue shoe strings for every color Reebok high-tops that he could afford to buy me.
The only thing that changed was that I substituted my bleached and dyed, and acrylic paint-splattered jeans and shirts for the designer digs that complimented his style-courtesy of him.
The only thing that changed was that I traded in my black rubber and silver bracelets in, for countless cool designer watches of his-that he would let me wear. He had them in all prints and colors and insisted that I wear every color of his to match whatever I was wearing, until the day could afford to buy me the one pretty yellow one that I wanted.
That day came.
That day came just as sure as the day came when I wanted to be the first to tell my mother about the sunny yellow relationship with the boy who loved me-so that I could avoid just what she was putting us through.
Not only was she the last to know, but she was caught by surprise and coerced [all thanks due to Mrs. Cochran] who by way of connecting dots and reason; made my mother approve of something that had it been asked by me, she would have simply said “no, not until you are sixteen.”
Off and on, she would make it her business to say or do something to rattle my comfort where Santana was concerned, when he would be over some evenings.
7:30p-nothing different.
The usual: retiring to her bedroom, pulling the double doors closed.
Me and my Boo all booed up-sitting close enough on the couch so as to not cuddle up.
Madonna on deck.
Television.
Us.
Out of the blue, the double-doors opened and the lioness began to roar:
“Nah, this can’t happen. It’s just too much. Much too much-I cannot approve of this. You two are entirely too young to be this serious. You can’t see each other no more. You see each other in school already, and I don’t like that, so that there is more than enough,” she said, uncaringly.
She continued:
“Come on here, let’s go. Santana, you have to go. None of this here, no phone, no courting, no coming over here after school and sneaking out my damn back door. Seeing each other in school-in passing-is enough! Come on, let’s make it!” she asserted.
Like a deer in headlights, we were both startled and looking at one another as if at any moment, camera men were going to come running in with key grip and microphones pointing in our faces to tell us that we had been punked.
That never happened.
So we sat there looking at her, waiting for the punch-line, thinking she was going to burst into a loud laughter and tell us that she merely wanted to see how we would react.
That never happened.
After coming to terms with the fact that she meant business-serious fucking business, like Nettie and Celie in the “Color Purple-” wrapped around one another while Mister tried to peeled them apart; Santana and me practically re-enacted that entire scene. We stood there in the middle of the living room, crying and mumbling words to each other with tears racing down our face and our smiles turned all the way upside down. We held on to one another tightly, and as if she was standing between us with a crowbar trying to pry us apart. But instead, she just stood there with her arms folded tightly, while Santana held me to his chest and pulling my hair like he was guarding a baby while running through a lion’s den.
“Oh cut this dramatic bullshit out already!” she growled.
She bit harder:
“Come on, right now, let’s make it!”
The sound of her apathetic and uncaring voice hurt both of us even more. We weren’t used to being treated that way-anywhere. In his family and amongst our peers at school, our relationship had always been about as respected as the love that everyone knew we had for each other. She had no idea that by this time we nearly relied on one another for the air we breathed, so this was a complete culture shock.
We stood there and cried out louder this time-still holding each other as if we were going to become one.
I nearly wanted fight her. That scene was much too abrupt and uncalled for. I was so angry with my mother because this was all so God-awful cruel in my eyes and I hated her for this one. It was a sad sight to see Santana slowly packing up his snacks and goodies to put in his Jansport backpack. As he approached the door, he put his baseball cap on, and grabbed my face. He then kissed me with a combination of rebelliously striking at my mean mother and like he was on his way to leave and serve his country-helicopter on the helipad: spinning loudly.
When he closed the front door, I immediately walked back to my bedroom and closed the door (tightly) while my mom was on the other side of it, yelling as if she had just got done passing out two ass-whippings. I could swear her shoulders were most probably hunched with her fists balled, while on the other side of my door she was talking-talking just like she should have from the other side of the door when I first knocked and asked her if I could go steady. She always knew how to get worked up and talk shit at all the wrong times. But the things that required diplomacy, parental advisory or conversation; she had no ability to handle. I was already (secretly) developing a special kind of disrespect for her inability to assert herself over situations where, when her authority was needed; she would run away, ignore it away or send it away for someone else to deal with it-for her.
Where Santana was concerned, she never wanted things between us to seem like everything was everything-like everything was merely back to the drawing board of life as we’d known it before she found out that I was no longer a virgin, and had sex in her house, who now had a cute boyfriend that went to the same school that I did, and therefore, had access to me over eight hours a day (evenings and weekends included provided that he didn’t have to go to work).
From night ‘til morning, a lot of things change. We repair, prepare and renew, despite our ages or situations.
Santana and me probably were a little dramatic the night before. But everything really was everything the very next day-we got over it. Because we knew we would still be seeing one another soon. As long as I was “pro-vert” and he was in love with me, nothing could come between us:
“Dear Mami Love Bear
This is non-other than your main lover: Papi.
Mrs. Harrell gave me a whole bell to write you a letter (laugh).
I’m sitting here crushing monster chews, slobbering all over the place but they’re good. Last night must have been truly rough. I felt for you after I left. I felt so helpless. I wanted to take you from all this. I know just run away but where are we gonna live? $50 a week aint gon’ get us nowhere but when I graduate I promise I’ll take you away, ‘cause you have two or more years in that house. If things get worse, I’ll provide for you. I’d love to tell your mother a thing or two but who am I, I’m not grown. She gives you no encouragement. She’s not proud of anything you do. That’s what I’m here for, to give you all the encouragement, love that you need. Fuck your mother, my mother, everybody.
Love,
Papi.”
12
COLD SHOULDERS and FROZEN DANCING FEET
“Hey! Angie
Remember me? Santana? About 5.9 wavy/curly hair, cute face, grey eyes? Yea! That’s the one. Hi ya doin! I feel lousy in hell. Baby I’m hurting real bad. Hurtin’ real bad. Something’s wrong and you’re not telling me, and that makes me feel as if you can no longer confide in the man you love (or do you?)
I feel as if I’m no longer any help to you. I’m supposed to be right? It’s either that or you’re trying to change your image or something.
All the times today I’ve tried to speak to you and you say nothing and the look on your face is saying get the hell out of my face and this morning when you resisted when I tried to bring your lips to mine that fucked my insides up. But I said what the hell. I should start getting used to stuff like that ‘cause you are the lady who my entire life will be about. Wont you?
I’ve thought about giving up but I can’t Angie, I love you so damn much and you’re hurting me with whatever you’re hiding, could you please stop. If it’s something I done, can it not be undone, can I not be forgiven. Please. I’ll do anything to bring our relationship back to higher grounds. Ok?
Fuck the Air Force. I won’t go. Fuck everything. I’ve got all kinds of shit (emotions) building up inside me, confused, angry and sad. All that mixed is pain that I’m bearing. Help me baby please. I love you and I’ll never let you go, not even if you wanted to because you are my wife, me your husband and together we are our child’s parents. Please Angie, don’t fuck my life around. Please stay with me. Am I losing you. Huh? I know I’m not but…to tell the truth I don’t know I just can’t get through to you and its hurting!
PS If I’m blowing everything out proportion I’m sorry.
I’m sorry for false assumptions and everything right now I’m just confused
PSS I love you
PSSS You’re not my same Angie, today.
PSSSS I’ll stay away for the rest of the day if you want me to!
Love Santana”
…as long as I was “pro-vert” and he was in love with me, nothing could come between us except for the silent treating that I was giving him and the thinking that I was doing-brought on by Ms. You Know Who in one ear and my mother in the other.
Santana was feeling the remnants of that rollercoaster ride. Things were getting very stressful for me with Ms. You Know Who because just like at home with my mom-we began to fight about any and everything.
She was so upset with me and knew that this Santana thing was bigger than she could have ever imagined-just like my mom couldn’t. Just like my mom, she was straddled with her role as my teacher versus her slowly diminishing role as my momtor and bridge between the gap of me making and being [in love] versus me making something of myself [in life].
Having still never had a conversation with my mother about Santana, and nothing but two to three hours of Mrs. Cochran’s liquor and low-down to play in her mind; I couldn’t even imagine the version that Ms. You Know Who had gotten (from my mother). Regardless of whatever version she was in receipt of, my inaction and inattention was enough to prove whatever my mother said to her-right.
During my whirlwind with Santana, she continued to grade and critique me fairly, but I had pushed her so far away from me, that even if my mother never said one thing to her about it; she absolutely, positively refused to care anymore. She even refused to sit at her desk and stare anymore. It was strictly business of the “I can’t wait until this is over,” kind, with her.
With the huffs and puffs and the sighs in her voice plus her frowned brows; I could feel her thoughts.
If it wasn’t for the fact that I was mere child and subordinate to her (that at one time-she really cared for); the sound of my voice would have sickened her. She did not want to see my face-she was hurt-very.
A momtor, she was no more. There were no more once a month weekends, movies, house visiting, beauty counters makeovers and long drives discussing my plans for my near future. The bridge between the gap of me being in love, and making something of myself in life-was broken. She meant business: instantaneously.
She treated me like everything we had was a fable. My being serious about Santana definitely was not a part of the design and she proved to me that where she was concerned; my life would definitely be lived by default-all by my choosing…
I was still hopeful. Hopeful that there was still a little bit of a chance that she cared. I needed her attention-just one more time; something to pick her momtor-brain.
I wore a pair three-inch burgundy boots into her class. My [dead dad] had bought them for me some time ago. I refused to wear them ever. They remained in my closet, new and with a $200 price tag hanging from them. They sat there, annoying me-representative of the total oxy-moron he was; how he could kirk out at me from trying out a face full of makeup, yet buy me sexy swimsuits and boots with three-inch heels-despite the fact that the heel was chunky. He was now a moron who had been dead to me for quite some time now, but at least he was good for something that I didn’t want to let go: Ms. You Know Who. So I pulled the boots out of the closet.
I knew that she would have a problem with me wearing some boots like that to school or around her-period, but I was desperate. I was pulling out any stop I could-to try and get some attention and a rise out of her-in hopes that she would try us again.
When I walked into her classroom with my boots on, she frowned at me and began to scold me:
“Angie…what are you doing with those boots on?” she asked.
“Wearing them. You like?” I stuck my right foot out and looked down at them-so that we both could admired them.
“They’re too grown for you-you look ridiculous,” she insulted.
“I like ‘em, my dad bought them for me a long while ago,” I offered.
“Your mom know you walked out of the house like that today?” she asked.
“My mom leaves the house before me,” I replied.
There was a long pause.
“Don’t come in my classroom with those boots on-ever again,” she warned me.
I didn’t reply. I didn’t care-that was the plan. I had that glimmer of hope that we were on our way to fighting like we used to and all would be well again. Instead, this fight was more of an annoyance to her. And those three-inch burgundy boots seemed to remind her that I was just trying to be grown. Whereas many months ago-before the light-bulb head boy; she would have merely saw it as me going through growing pangs and trying something out that was too much before my time. But the fact that I was now sexually active and with-boyfriend, in her eyes, it was no longer the innocence of a girl who had a lot to learn. It was merely me wearing a pair of boots that were too grown for me-trying to impress my light-bulb head boyfriend when I should have been focusing on keeping up with the formula of the dainty sweet little girl that she was grooming for success as a woman.
Considering the fact that Santana had her class the last part of the day, I could only imagine how she was treating him-but I never asked him. I figured if anything significant were to occur, he would tell me anyways. Although Santana was two years older than me, Ms. You Know Who felt that he was way too young and immature for me. She had no problem warning me that in time, I would see.
All she wanted for me was to graduate high school and concentrate my efforts on college and a career by my design and her direction. I wanted that too, but I guess I didn’t want it bad enough to resist my chance with the light-bulb head boy who chose me to stay with, and be his official and steady girlfriend over all the other girls-many school years. I was just happy. I felt normal and what we had, felt “right.” She didn’t understand that, and Santana and me we were much too tight and serious at this time. It wasn’t open for discussion as far as I was concerned any more than she cared about or understood it. I started to accept the fact that she absolutely positively refused to contend with or even work around it, with what she had in mind was best for me.
So eventually, my study halls would be substituted by my being hugged up in some corner kissing and making out with Santana. My lunches would be spent in its entirety; eating, walking, talking and or cuddled up in some corner with Santana. Every now and then, I would drop by to see if she would be in her classroom-sometimes she would, be most times she would not. The times she would be there, she would let me hear the radio playing from the other side of the door. I would knock a few times, then walking away feeling sad until I’d see Santana. The times when she would not be there, I would expect a note on the door explaining her departure and projected return times, but that never happened either.
She gave up on me so quick and swift that if I didn’t know any better, I would have sworn ours was a mirage or dream of some sort. She closed down shop with me as if it never was open, so, I let go, too.
As my teacher (during class lesson demonstrations) she would practically set me up. She would purposely forget to bring an item to the demonstration circle so that I could volunteer mine-my desk was always closest to the circle. One day she needed scissors. I hurriedly reached over to get mine (trying to ingratiate myself to her). I handed the scissors over to her like an orphan begging for porridge and acceptance. She sucked her bottom lip and smirked at me as if to say: “Got’cha!” then underneath her breath (but loud enough so that the class could hear) she said to me: “these aren’t the best scissors in the world.” The class laughed. She then slid them back to me and went to her desk to get her own-as if my scissors were nowhere near worthy. I was so upset with her-she had her payback coming, I tell you. I was steaming mad.
My turn:
One morning, she was strutting up the steps on the way to her classroom when some wild boys had come running through the hall and bumped into her-causing her to drop her bag. An individually wrapped sanitary napkin came flying out, and everybody (including me) pointed and laughed. She looked around at the immature kids as she reached to pick it up. When she looked up, our eyes met. She gave me the look of death-squinting her eyes and turning her head in total disbelief that I would participate in such silliness. I froze like a popsicle and turned away from her gaze. I can’t lie though, I did feel a little vindicated for her cutting my lifeline to her.
I wasn’t done with her yet, vengeance was mine-I was still steaming mad inside. When the next opportunity arose, I was still going to be sure to take it. I needed some attention from her so badly-but she turned completely cold. I never felt so completely ignored in all my life. She kept my heart nervously beating.
It’s still on though. My long-awaited opportunity of vengeance finally back came around.
My turn, again:
While in class, we found an acrylic nail that happened to have matched her nail polish that she was wearing. We knew it was hers. Everyone dared me to walk up and give it to her. Obviously I was glad to do the honors, seeing as though it was in front of these same people-that she embarrassed me, too.
So two minutes before the bell rang for class to let out, (when it got quiet), I walked to the front of the room, nail in hand, and handed it to her. Everybody laughed so loud. She just looked at me with no expression whatsoever. I knew she was shocked at my childish behavior-but I didn’t care. I stared into her face and it didn’t move and inch, as if all that I did-had no effect on her. I knew better though. I knew she was hurt, and that it took everything inside of her body to keep from snatching me up by the collar. She couldn’t, however, because the entire immature class watched while I smiled at her as if to say: “Got’cha back, bitch!”
My timing was perfect after handing her that fingernail. When the two minutes hit, and the bell rang; I blended in with my fellow immature classmates-hoping that she would form a beak at the tip of her nose and lift me by the skin of my neck. That didn’t happen. No white flags were rolled out, and no olive branches were extended. Instead, she let me out of her classroom door on a straight and narrow path and no resistance. And that was the last time we had anything personal, or anything resembling: care, concern, contempt or scorn, ever again. All was lost-any interest in or for me: gone-as if it were never.
I had to learn to accept that…
I loved her to life, but during this time-we had underlying issues far bigger than the heel of my boots. Only about five percent of our issues had to do with the sanitary napkin, the boots, the fingernail and my disrespect. Throughout those months of my dating Santana, we fought about boys and babies and how a situation as such would ruin my life-all my dreams would go down the drain. I didn’t want to listen. Although I needed her, I wanted Santana, and I wanted her to accept Santana-but he wasn’t a part of the plan.
I had to learn to accept the consequence of that. Santana was worth it to me…
With just a short time before the school year was coming to an end, for five days per week and two hours per day, she was merely my teacher-nothing else. Outside of that, pretty much the only thing we had in common at this point was the fact that my birthday was the same date as her wedding anniversary. If it was left up to her-I’m sure she would have probably thrown that away too, if she could.
I heard that after the school year-she would be moving on to another school to become principal there.
I do know for a fact that she never said goodbye to me and neither did I, her.
Sometime later however, I felt like all that time we had been momtor and mentee, she had either been playing a cruel joke, holding on to a big surprise or both. Because one day I sat in my living room flipping through the pages of a popular magazine and turned it to a picture of Ms. You Know Who with: you’ll never guess who…
Turns out, Ms. You Know Who was a sorority sister of, and did business of some sort with my dancing idol who I loved to watch every Saturday. Tears filled my eyes as I focused in and brought the magazine closer to my face:
“Got’cha back bitch!” I imagined Ms. You Know Who saying (back at me).
There, on the glossy picture was Dr. Huxtable’s wife on the right, Ms. You Know Who in the middle and to the left-there she was: Dr. Huxtable’s real-life sister who in my mind, at that very moment, pointed her stick [at me this time] like she’d do every Saturday from the television screen; screaming her notorious line: “YOU WANT FAME? WELL FAME COSTS AND RIGHT HERE IS WHERE YOU STARRRRRT PAYIN’IN SWEAT…”
13
PILLS & FRILLS
July 14
“What’s up Chick? Nothing much over this a-way! I’m just kidding. But seriously, what’s up? Are you and Santana still kicking it? How long has it been since yall started going together-gosh!
Me and Ken Grant still don’t go together yet. But, we are talking and that’s good enough for me you know Vern? It’s just like we go together because I’ve been up here for three weeks and he hasn’t messed with anybody.
Girl I couldn’t believe it. He told me he loved me. I almost had a fit! Girl you’re gonna have to come spend the night with me before the summer is over! I asked Ken who had he kissed and he said “my mother, everyday!” I said ha ha very funny. I’m serious who? And he said nobody, I haven’t got my beaters down or kissed anybody since you left!
Girl do you know how glad that made me feel? Well go ahead and imagine had good that made me feel. (Stop laughing ) I hope you haven’t forgotten my phone number or have you? Well in any case, I forgot yours so you can write me back before July 25, (because that’s when I leave to come back home anyway) and give me your phone number.
You know I’m gonna go fuck happy when I get home you know why? Cause I miss him, his dick and just making love itself. Angie stop laughing. Tell Santana I said chello! Oh! My brother saw your picture and said, “Damn that girl is bad, she got a boyfriend?” I said yeah she does, he said, “Shit!” I said, “Too bad.” Don’t laugh. But girl you know what? After me and Ken had made love that Sunday, he made me have my period about 3 weeks earlier than I was supposed to. Do you know what? I got 3 weeks earlier than I was supposed to again. I don’t know what’s wrong with my cycles. But when I get home, I’m getting on the pill!
Have you started yet? Do they make you fat? Do they also change your period cycles? Because I sure don’t want to be fucking fat!!!!! I’m going to tell Ken and see what he thinks about it. What do you think, I should get his opinion? Or just go ahead and get on it? I don’t know how to go about telling my mother without having to hear why? That’s a killer question…as you well know. But I have to go so be cool sweetie!
Love Always Sis
Aya Nile (Grant)
—————————————————————————————-
Aya was a hot lil’ number. Her mother had to keep her busy and preoccupied. For the summer, she had gone away to some creative arts camp to be a youth leader for part of the summer. She would write me to catch me up on how things were going with her, as well as following up on the subject we agonized over most: “The Pill.”
I was very secretive about everything (and especially where Santana and I were concerned). Aya and I had been friends for many years-even before Santana started attending our school. We told each other (most) everything. Aya was good for always slipping in the invitation to meet or hookup with someone else if ever I wanted to. She, like a lot of girls and mutual friends of ours in school, had been in the league of girls who had kissed Santana before. And because he kissed so many girls, his kissing me, at first (to all of them) was nothing more than me being the next girl up to bat, while everyone waited hear about who he would be gone on to kissing next. The expectation was that I would be just another girl on his roster, but much to their surprise, I hit the home run: Santana did the running and everybody else had to return to the dugout-Aya included. Almost a couple years had gone by and we were still alive, in love, and kicking it.
Because of the fact that we were steadily going steady; I could only foresee trouble ahead for Santana and me at the rate we were going. No babies for me. So without trepidation and despite knowing my mom would rather I not be with Santana; the fact (still) remained all which was sustained: our relationship-and we were still together in it. I had no time to worry about my mom’s silliness about such a subject as the next one I was about to dump in her lap. I went to her to tell her that I needed to get on the pill. This time, I didn’t ask her from the opposite side of the door. This time, I asked her face to face.
She practically pulled the classic soap opera stance where the two actors would be talking face to face about something emotional and one would turn his back to the other actor-his hand holding his own shoulder. She confused me so-all over again-the same way. Rather than answering me, she did what I figured she would do: she ignored me all day as if I never said anything to her about it. I was so annoyed.
Into the evening and night, she still ignored me. But when the sun came up, I raised up. Mom was gone off to work. The telephone rang with Ms. Ananda on the other end of it, asking me to come see her the moment I got up to get my day started.
Later into the morning, I reported downstairs to her apartment where she stood with that same deer in the headlights look on her face-feeling too embarrassed to laugh and joke with me about what she had to say to me this time. She broke it to me gently:
“Your mother told me that you wanted to get on the pill?…” she asked-emphasizing the word: “pill.”
“Yes. I do.” I confirmed, confidently and simply.
Getting straight to it-nervously-Ms. Ananda said my name in an almost whisper:
“Angie… I’m going to make an appointment to take you because your mother just wasn’t ready for that question okay?” she finished, with an almost identifiable motherly plight, as if she understood what that feeling would be like (for her) the day her own two daughters proposed that same question (to her).
I know Ms. Ananda-very well. The other half of her was more embarrassed to be forced into handling a situation that she knew should be handled by my mother. She just couldn’t tell my mother that. My mother was so many ways out of line to have Ms. Ananda face a situation that she had yet, years, to have to contend with-with her own daughters. My knowing Ms. Ananda though, I was more than sure that the topic of gossip on the phone to her friends later that day would be what she was unable to defend and say-to my mother: “that’s yours and Angie’s situation, I can’t step in on that.”
Well (for now), she was in on it. And I know that to alleviate the pressure of this whole thing, she probably wished that by the time I made it down to her house, I changed my mind about wanting to get on the pill so this whole thing would be over, but that did not happen, I confirmed and I agreed:
“Okay then, Ms. Ananda, you can take me,” I said to her, as if I was challenging her.
She told me that she would let me know the time and date she set up the appointment for shortly.
Santana and I had already gone over the birth control pill conversation several times throughout our relationship, but this time-this summer, we were serious. I talked to him about this situation that my mother elected to put Ms. Ananda in on, and how uncomfortable she really felt about it.
He got his youngest auntie, whom he was close to, in on it. She made the appointment for all three of us to go the clinic for the end of that same week.
Later that day, I lifted that load and responsibility off Ms. Ananda-that my mom dropped in her lap, by telling her that I changed my mind about needing the pills after considering all the precautions and side-effects and that, condoms would better suit us “if or whenever again…”
At this point, I just didn’t want my mom or anyone involved with my mom to know anything about me and the goings on in my relationship with Santana going forward. Everything was more messier and crazier than I ever could have imagined. I was ready to just shut my mother out of this completely, since it was obvious that she couldn’t handle it-any of it.
My plan to weed out and hoodwink didn’t go over well-for too long, after my mother found out that Santana’s auntie took me to get the pills. I confessed it when she found them in my room on my nightstand-amongst some papers and such. I think I got too excited with the idea of the maturity and responsibility of taking the pill that I tried to match my situation with the picture on the brochure where the pill pack sat out in open view on a night-stand and under a night lamp, so as to remind the woman not to forget to take her pill before bed. My situation was a whole lot different than the fantasy of a picture on a brochure and I should have know better than to try something like that.
Although this thing with Santana and me obviously blind-sighted my mother, I too, was blind-sighted by the thoughts I entertained of that “mother-daughter bonding” and closeness that occurred at that time in life when the daughter began to like boys, and all “age-sixteen”-like things that came with it.
I guess I had watched one too many movies and soap operas that summer, because it was nothing like that for my mom and me.
14
YOU KNOW WHAT: I TOLD YOU SO
Santana’s senior year had finally come. And just like Ms. You Know Who would constantly remind and promise me-he would soon be “smelling himself” and his immaturity would rear its light-bulb head. She was right-as usual.
From school years past, unlike the few alter-egos that he would spring on me in many-a-letter back then; when he became a senior, he seemed to have a new alter-ego every other day. I could barely keep up with who “he” was, who “he-he” was, or who Santana was, in conjunction with the constant bullshit that would find its way into our “love bubble,” as he would call it (back then).
If I watched one-too-many movies and soap operas about how the mother-daughter bond occurs at certain stages in life, Santana must have watched one-too-many movies or read some book I hadn’t heard about called: “The Boys’ Guide to Senior Year High-School Life.” This school year-his last one-our entire relationship was being tested-everything about it: everything about him, everything about us, and everything we had built thus far. Everybody (secretly) wanted to get their last chance with or back with him. He didn’t know if he was coming or going with all the female attention [and inattention he was getting-used for bait] from girls who were pulling out all the stops-like landmines: doing any and everything (from being rude to inviting), just to get a rise or some attention out of him that, for nearly two school years now; he had been too steady with me, to slow down and give or see. Him being “off the market” in a way like he had never been, was apparent and real to them. But his last year at school, everybody damned near wanted to be the exception to the rule, and Santana was breaking some of our rules-exceptionally.
His senior year was the biggest and most unexpected roller coast of a ride of our entire relationship. Nothing about him was making sense to me: nothing he did, nothing he said, or nothing he wrote in his few letters to me during his senior year. But what did make sense to me was how he had become a walking open book. Although the reasons behind the personality changes and rollercoaster rides were never written all over his face, or in his actions toward me; like never before-still, it was written (all between the lines):
“I Love You. And you know it. First shit that doesn’t even matter, that one bitch Lisha! Talkin’ bout why did I tell you what she said. And I think she wants to fight cause she said to tell you what her homeroom was. But I told her that nobody was pressed for that shit! God I felt like socking her ass. Damn school just started back and people are already starting shit. Now down to business. Baby I’m sorry but I was just playing. It seems as tho’ you’re worried about me running off with her. I don’t care if she has a little place somewhere. Nothing could turn me away. Nothing. God dam! Can’t you see that? I love you and no one else. You know I felt like saying what the fuck do you think I’m gonna do run off with this chick and just forget about my true love. (I love you) sheeet you must be crazy. To tell you the truth, I was hurt (real) That’s why I walked away cause I would have started to act like a bitch…Dead up. I’ll try to call.
Love,
Santana.
I Love You”
—————————————————————————————-
“Alright!
What’s up? What choo thinkin’ bout. I hope cause I’m thinkin’ bout you here in math. I don’t ever get no work done cause I’m always writing you, that shits gone have to stop. I left my bus card at the pezad. I’m
gone bum some money. Yezes! Me The Rock gon’ bum sum change.
I LOVE YOU SO MUCH.”
—————————————————————————————-
“Hi!
How you feel? Me, I feel like fucking my baby! You looked so pretty today, I wanted to take you to the pezad and just Do you all day! I’m thinking about holding out…
Ok my minds made up we’re making love today after school, but I didn’t bring any protection.
I’ll find some somewhere, don’t worry. I’m ‘bout to move out cause the bell’s about to ring.
But I’ll write back.
Love,
Santana 10:22am”
—————————————————————————————-
“Dear Angie
What’s up! Sorry for not writing for a while, but I just wasn’t up to it. I love you and you’re my heart. No one will take you or keep me from you. This marker is kinda sporty huh? Baby I Love You.
Yesterday, I was happy to see you. You looked so good. When I get some protection I won’t take Angelo out like I’ve been doing cause I know that leaves you unsatisfied. And me too in a way but girl the way you do what you do…
You know I’ll do anything for you go anywhere and go against anybody’s word to get to you and make you happy. I’m getting kinda tired of this color I’m switchin’ to a color I can relate to. I can’t wait till the break, I’m gone fuck you senseless. I know I’m ‘gon bust. On my bed there is nowhere to tie each other up too Angie. We’ll probably make due.
I’m ‘bout to move out.
Love, Santana
PS- Think we should hold out til Wed?”
—————————————————————————————-
“Hi Gopher.
What’s Up! Baby I’m sorry for upsetting you with my so called “hard rock roll” maybe I do that subconsciously. But I must I admit that it is rather silly and sort of immature. I’ll try to stop. Promise.
Naw I’m sorry about you too I was only thinking of myself. That won’t happen no more. I felt real bad about doing you like that but I promise this weekend we’ll go.
I enjoyed being with you Sunday. My love for you overflowed deepened and everything else. And I wanted to fuck the hell out of you God! You looked so good and I just wanted you to feel how much I loved you.
I LOVE U LOVE U LOVE LOVE U LOVE U LOVE U LOVE U SO MUCH.
I felt so damn stupid for doing you so wrong Sunday.
I’m sorry, yesterday was a trip. Do you think UUUHHH! You threw up on me. We’ll have to do that more often caused it felt kinda good. Gross but good. I like fucking you like that, it feels good. I know you liked it so I was trying to do it harder to make you feel as good as possible.
Love,
Santana”
—————————————————————————————-
“Dear Red How do ya do!
I’m alright. But my thumb fuckin’ hurts! That’s why my writing is so sloppy. You do look fine today.
Finest of the fine. I’m thinking about yesterday. That was one of the best experiences for us both.
It felt good to us both. Especially to me. I felt sort of dominant but not fully. I wanted to hurt you and make you cry. But then again, I didn’t. But next time, I’ll show no mercy…”
“Hi! How are you? Yo! You look high.
You really do. Your eyes trip me out.
I asked Rochelle for some paper and she said no so I’m writing on no line paper.
Baby you looked like you felt down 2nd bell I was trying to figure out a way to cheer you up.
And I came up with maybe a hug, a kiss, and I love you would work and sure enough, you smiled from ear to ear. I was so pleased that I had made you smile. I love you so much.
Maybe instead of making love we could just get fully unclothed and get into the bed under the covers and just talk about you’re so much of a woman and you’re so damn sexy.
I doubt that talking would get my feelings across. And I am so much of a man and so damn sexy I doubt if you could keep your legs closed (smiles) My nature rises just thinking about it. You got some money? I don’t! You do?! Good give me some.
Love, Santana
B.K.A Dennis (your) Menace REEBOK NIKE LEGEND”
—————————————————————————————-
“Hi!
What’s up Surprised you this morning Huh? Should I come get you every morning? I mean there’s nothing at school and at home. I have a better attitude and it is sustained throughout the day. But if not, that’s okay. It helps me feel closer to you knowing that we’re leaving the same place at the same time to the same destination almost as if we live the real one, just us. But my imagination will just have to keep running till it happens………Do you want it bad? Real Bad? Real Bad?. I do too. I love you so damn much! I can’t wait to see and hold your naked warm body in my arms and smell that sweet aroma of sex and love juices. I fuck as hard and as long as you want provided that you climax!
If you do…if not, I won’t. Deal? Deal. Move your hips to meet my every thrust and you’ll get what you want. You’d like that huh I’m sure. It will feel like a hot spray of liquid being sprayed inside you both filling you and fulfilling you. You’ll be on fire ready to fuck again even harder. You will start doing things that you have never done before. I know you want it but you’ll have to cum get it (work for it). Maybe if you fuck me hard enough, I’ll forget and climax right inside you but I doubt it!
Love, Dennis The Menace”
—————————————————————————————-
“Red!
Baby you look so damn good today. I love your hair and your bulging cheeks and your big pretty sexy sensuous baby doll eyes! Just thinking about it makes my love tool feel as though it would rip through the skin. The way you lazily blink your eyes…Damn! I could probably full ejaculate just by looking at you.
I can’t wait to get between those thick soft supple thighs with my pelvis violently smacking yours with every powerful thrust and your soft round wide tight ass ripping you apart with just a powerful thrust to let you know I might cuss you out just to add a little excitement and I expect you to cuss back or do
what you feel no matter what you wanna do no matter how erotic I’ll follow.
Love, Dennis Your Menace”
“I love you (a hell of lot) damn! It’s been so long since I’ve held your supple body in my strong and very secure grasp. I miss you! I miss you! I miss you! Your kiss, your sexy eyes, your sweet way of speaking or saying how much you love me. I sorely miss it all oh! This is not a diamond ring, a car nor a cheeseburger (smile) but the way I feel now, it’s the next best thing or maybe better! I love you! I love you! I love you! I’m gonna treat you like a queen even though you’re just my princess and me your king.
I’ll never leave you! Never cheat! Never lie! Or anything to hurt my precious princess. You better had came over cause my feelings for you are bubbling over and i need you to sit back and open your sweet sexy legs and let it all pour in.
Love your man Santana
PS-what are you waitin for? Take your clothes off lay down and enjoy the show.
PSS-the real surprise was a blue convertible sports
Benz but you wouldn’t guess, someone stole it! (smile)
Love, Santana Papi Love Bear”
—————————————————————————————-
“Dear Angie
How are you. You look fine. You feel fine, you taste fine so you must be fine huh! I was just wondering what time you had?
I have the new watch’s time. You know what. I read your little thank you card you wrote me. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen it before which means I don’t pay as much attention as I used to.
I really love you, it’s just that there is so much going on in me. I don’t open up to you like I used to. Because you have your school life and after school life and me mine. What I don’t understand why we can’t attract more when we do find time together I read your more recent letters and began to think to myself why? Why has our relationship gone so much more downhill instead of up and over the hill.
Don’t deny it hasn’t gone down because that would just make it worse. We pretend too much.
For example: when your friends come around, we act like so much in love but after they leave we fuck up again. Sometimes it doesn’t last we fuck up when they’re still standing there because you are so stuck on being the most loving couple.
Nothing is wrong with that but let’s be true to ourselves first. Then other people.
My suggestion is for us to take our time and go slow and build up the relationship up and beyond.
The love is there (strongly) but not the right attitude.
Baby I love you. Baby let’s try harder, please cause I want to be yours forever and vice versa.
Let’s work real hard, talk openly. Express hates, loves, likes, dislikes, whatever, let’s do it.
Love, B-Zerk
Senior 9:40 (my new watch’s time)”
—————————————————————————————-
“My Darling Red
Hi baby, and how’s my pretty young lady. I’m feeling better, really. And I’m sorry about my dumbass attitude. And yea! I respect myself to a certain extent. And I do care to a certain extent. And yes I respect the hell out of you, but I’m getting the feeling that I am not respecting you as my fiancé’ am I right? I thought so. I just don’t want to unload my problems on you and then we would both be under. I mean I know you love me but there are some things that I have to do for myself in order for me to become a man (your husband) and after I master that, your help would be much appreciated. Not that it’s not appreciated now. Yea I remember the promise and I am keeping my end. I do my work. But anyway. This pertains to the above. All I need is you by my side 100% and I know you’ll be there always and I will expect you to, just as would me. I LO––––––VE you to. No I take that back I LO–––––––––––––––––––– –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– ––––––––––––––––––––––––––VE YOU. You haven’t put me through nothing, you just want to be a part of the problems and it won’t work. I promise to confide in you. And I put all my trust in you, but I just think there is no need for me to burden you too. Make it so bad my problems are sappish and if I can’t handle them, I’ll never be the best of anything to you. But I want to be the best to improve myself as a person as well as a friend, lover and fiancé.
Love,
Santana
PS It’s easier said than done, but I’ll do it.
I LOVE YOU RED”
—————————————————————————————-
“Dear Angie
I know times are not as good as they used to be, but just to assure you that I love you just as much, if not, more. I’m sorry. I’m not saying I’m sorry cause you won’t believe me but I hope things get brighter.
Love, Santana
B-zerk”
—————————————————————————————-
“Hi Angie.
It’s me. B-Zerk again.
I’m really happy to know that were gonna try to work out a beautiful relationship. Yesterday I thought all was lost. But there was a glimmer of hope. I really love you and that’s true. (strongly) Today when we make love, I want it to last, to be the best as if it were our first time. We really need to try to understand each other. We seem to be strangers in love. And I hate that feeling. You are so pretty. God! Are you pretty. Only reason I don’t write as often is because you don’t respond quickly.
Well Bout to move out Mrs. B-Zerk
I’ll get back B-Zerk B-Zerk B-Zerk
SENIOR CREW!“
—————————————————————————————-
“Come out here! Come out here!” demanded Aya-standing in the doorway of my classroom and looking in at me with her eyes squinted-wiggling her index finger. I had never seen her like that, so I knew it must have been important. She interrupted my class session despite knowing that lunch was in twenty minutes. Since it couldn’t wait that long, I rushed to the front of my classroom door, expecting her to whisper something in my ear. Instead, she forcefully grabbed me by the arms, and held my shoulders steady as she turned me around to face her. She then rested and squeezed her hands on my shoulders; positioning me as if she was about to tell me something that, like a soap opera, was sure to force me to place my right hand upon my forehead and pass out onto the floor. She went straight in for the kill:
“It’s Santana girl. He cheated girl. Santana cheated!” she yelled out angrily, anxiously.
My heart was beating faster than a mile a minute, my eyes stretched really big.
“What! How? With who?” I asked her.
“Carmen! The girl named Carmen who still comes down here every day afterschool-the one that got kicked out last year!” yelled Aya-with the kind of intensity and anger as if it was she who he cheated on too…
“No. You are lying to me,” I said to Aya.
“Yes, it’s true. I overheard Carmen’s friend telling someone else while we were in class! That bitch didn’t know that I was right behind her! I was listening to her tell her home girl about Santana and Carmen fucking at her house last night. She and Santana’s friend Tony were hooking up, and while there, it’s a fact that Santana and Carmen fucked too!” reiterated Aya-whose heart was beating hard as mine and looking as if she, too, was about to place her hand upon her forehead and faint and fall to the floor. She nearly dared me to discount this could be true and I sure as hell wanted to. Because we were reporting to one another when we were apart and hogging up so much of each other’s time, I couldn’t figure out how and when he had enough time to do this. And to think that he did-he had to make room and a way for it. My mind was running a race with my heart.
Santana had never met the queen bee in me and he was sure as hell about to meet her.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, because everything was so busy and so were we. We were busy and overwhelmed with preparing for his prom, other senior year extravaganzas and excursions, as well as his graduation. We were busy preparing phase I of our fairytale and on to the next level-getting married and moving in together. Where did all this fit into the equation?
My mind was winning the race right now. My heart had dropped and gone away.
Eagerly, I approached.
He sat by the doorway of the class he had before lunchtime. I walked right to the doorway, reached in and grabbed him by the back of his shirt, catching him by surprise: “Come with me, right now, right now!” I whispered forcefully.
He took a deep breath and his face totally surrendered and dropped to the floor-almost like a kid that knew exactly what he was about to get an ass-whipping for. Aya was standing there with her arms folded and rocking back and forth; waiting on an answer from him that looked more like an apology she expected to be given to her…
I didn’t shed one tear. I was angry-way too angry to cry.
“Why did you do it Santana?” I asked.
He wouldn’t answer. He was standing there biting his lip-looking at me like he needed to hold me. I could feel the dramatics coming on-but I wasn’t having it. I backed away from him some, so that if he reached for me-he would drop to the floor.
“Why’d you do it?” I repeated.
“I didn’t, I didn’t,” he kept repeating, as if somehow, repeating it over and over would work for him like going home worked for Dorothy after repeating: “there’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.” He sure as hell wished he could click his heels and do the same.
He couldn’t even look me in the face. That’s when I knew that he did do it.
I could feel Aya’s energy-it was much too involved in [what was now] our busted “love bubble.”
Santana looked so pitiful-like if he could snap his fingers and rewind this moment to make it all be a bad dream-he would. He was that ready to faint.
“Come with me,” I said to him, nodding to Aya-so as to excuse, but thank her. I lead him into our school’s darkest room where mime class and performances were held every other day. Santana was unlucky-this was that “every other day” and I was all up and in his face with my hands-while he was mute as a mime.
The dark room was all one color. The one and only window that the room had was painted to close out the light, as well. The only things with any color in that room was Santana, me and what we had on for clothes. We entered, I turned the lights on:
“I’ve got to have it, Santana. What the hell happened?” I said, standing over him as he sat on the wooden stoop. The darkness of the room was filling up my head and my body. I was fuming. My brows turned up like he’d never seen before. Finally, he began to speak-looking at the floor:
“Me and Tony went over to her friend’s house because Tony had just started hanging out with her friend. She happened to be over there,” he mumbled.
“Oh, so this wasn’t planned? Is that what you’re trying to say (in other words)?”
“No! No! It was not planned,” he answered.
It got quiet.
“So what happened? You heard me. What happened?” I demanded to know.
He mumbled some more:
“Tony was in the room with her friend and we were in the living room talking,” his face was still looking to the floor.
“We, who? You scared to say her name?” I jabbed.
He continued as if he didn’t hear a word I had just said:
“…Then all of a sudden we ended up being upstairs and that’s where it happened,” he finished.
“We-who? Santana” I yelled.
“Carmen,” he answered.
“These girls have been at you even harder-by the day and you bit the bait! Santana why would you do this to me-to us? When you know that ever since the very day we’ve been together-somebody up in this school was itching to get a hold of some news like this. And now-you scratched it for ‘em! Idiot!” I yelled in a tone like he had never heard before and with a facial expression that he had never seen before.
Feeling the anger from the thought of all that could have happened I decided: to hell with probing him bit by bit; this bastard will sit here and recite every fucking nook and cranny and detail. The anger I felt at the thought of the mere summary he thought he was going to give me, sent me into an angry tailspin. To keep from crying, all I could do was yell. I refused to cry.
I began to yell in his face as if I was interrogating him:
“Okay, you said: ‘where it happened…’ what happened Santana. I didn’t ask for a summary!
E-LAB-OR-ATE-DAMMIT! Every single detail! Tell me what happened!” I forced.
I listed how I wanted the details:
“What did you say that lead to you both being upstairs.”
“What did she say?”
“Who lead the way?”
“What room did you go to?”
“Who got who undressed?”
“What was said?”
“Where did you touch her?”
“Did you kiss her?”
“How long did you fuck her?”
“What positions did you fuck her in?”
“Did your hands touch her pussy?”
“Did you suck her titties?”
“Did you suck her pussy?”
“Did you moan at all?”
“Did she?”
“Did you enjoy it?”
“Did she enjoy it?”
“What were you saying to her-during?”
“After?”
“What did she say to you-during?”
“After?”
“So how was the pussy? Was it wet, dry? Loose? Tight?”
“Awkward?”
“Did you kiss the bitch before you left?”
“Did you make plans for another hookup?”
“Did you talk to her on the phone when you got home?”
“I know goddamn well you didn’t tell her you were breaking up with me!”
“Nawww! No!” he interrupted me.
“Well, tell it! Tell it all! Tell it all! Tell it all! Tell it all!”
…I yelled, with a force so strong that I could damn near feel him levitating up off the stoop right where he sat. He began to grab his head and crying-telling me how sorry he was-over and over; looking as if he was about to have a nervous break-down, I did not care at this point.
I had every thought going through my mind about all the things I gave up for him, fought for-for him, and how much I loved him for all those years; only for it to end because he cheated. I would’ve accepted the downfall of our relationship being because he got tired of me or me-him. Our relationship had no signs of tiring even through the day before I found this out-no indication that there was (this kind of) trouble ahead for us. The only trouble ahead I foresaw was getting pregnant.
You don’t fall out of love and do anything to cause a downfall in love-in the middle of being in love. I might be young, but I know that much about love-regardless the age (if it is real love). So, that confused me. I thought we had (real) love.
Because of that, I wanted to punish him. I wanted his head to bust open like my heart was. I wanted to rip him from the inside-out, and to make sure that before we left that dark room, the two of us would be walking into whatever light was left in this, and like this was all a bad dream. I wanted it to be.
With his head still covered and crying, broken-down and regretful, he threw it up and admitted:
“Nobody lead anybody upstairs, I had carried her up the stairs.”
I interrupted: “You romantic fool! You carried her big tall ass?” I shook my head shamefully-at him.
He continued without pausing; listing all the details as he slammed his right index finger into the palm of his left hand:
“We were downstairs talking about it, and during the conversation, she told me she was still a virgin.”
“That was the only reason I persisted because I wanted to see if I could get her upstairs.”
“When I did get her upstairs-I did kiss her.”
“I didn’t eat her pussy.”
“I didn’t put my hands on her pussy.”
“I kissed her-only for a minute.”
“Then I kissed her neck.”
“Then I kissed her breasts and only for a minute!”
“And I didn’t even get to finish because she was uncomfortable. It was kind of greasy-not wet. I don’t know what she put in it when she used the restroom or whatever-beforehand-but it was,” he said.
I paused-not know what the hell to say to that. I went on to ask:
“Did you make her think in any way that this could continue to go on?” I asked.
“No, I did not,” he said, with his head still hanging down, exhausted and sitting there biting his bottom lip looking like a sad puppy.
I replied:
“She’s a girl-I’m a girl, I know how girls are. So I know that she expects something from you. She may not go to this school anymore but she’s down here afterschool as if she just walked out of the same doors that we do-so you are going to run into her. That being said Santana-you’d better handle that shit! Get her gone-or we’re through! Make her wonder if that really ever happened-because I don’t give a damn,” I demanded.
“I will! I will!” he yelled eagerly.
I drilled in:
“She, like all of her other lil’ goofy-ass friends liked you when she attended school here. Now, those silly rabbits are left with something to talk about. The school is left with something to talk about. You let them all in. We are nothing sacred anymore,” I said, while he kept shaking his head-refuting what I said.
“Yes you did! You can’t be in denial about it Santana. We kept everybody out and now they’re all-in!” I said.
He still kept refuting-in total denial.
“So do you want to be with her?” I asked.
He used that as his perfect opportunity to stand up and hold me in his arms, because for the entire time since I first started to grill him, the closer he moved in to hold me-the further I would back away.
He caught me this time. He hopped off the stoop to overpower me; crying and holding me, rocking me from side-to-side while repeating: “No, no, no, no-please, no…” squeezing me tight until I almost couldn’t breathe.
My heart had returned and was winning the race now.
With my chest pressed up against his; tears shot to my eyes and rolled quickly down my face. My heartbeat must have played the sound of the saddest song of heartbreak ever made: “I’m Only Human” by Human League. Nothing fit the situation and danced with the beat of my heart and matched my tears-more, at that moment.
I was winded like the air let out of a balloon, and feeling just how one looks-as a result of.
I was crushed that day while crying in his arms-feeling like everything I had given to him, I wanted to take back: my heart-and everything up to and including my virginity. Everything I had given up for him, I certainly could not get back. I wanted so badly to reverse everything and place myself right back on top of that ladder in that library. My life would have gone entirely different. But the reality was-I could not take anything back from him any more than I could reverse life and put myself back up on top of that ladder. So I held him back, with my world was crushed and crumbled. This was something I never entertained the thought of happening. He continued to cry and hold me tightly while grunting in my ear: “Don’t leave me, don’t leave me, don’t leave me, please…..”
He then grabbed my face and began kissing all around it, with my tears.
We left the dark room, cut the lights back out and walked into the light (somewhat).
The nightmare was over (somewhat).
Our fairytale-for me-was as well (somewhat).
In just that instant, it wasn’t quite the same for me anymore.
My mind told me to walk away but my heart begged me to stay.
I was willing to try.
After school, we went home (he-to his home and me-to mine). I couldn’t imagine him coming home with me just yet. He wrote:
“Dear Angie
Hi! I won’t ask how you’re doing cause I know. I know you love me and as far as my stupid ways, you will have to put up with it order for us to succeed (our marriage) but it’s not fair for you. I really know how you feel. And you wonder why I feel like killing myself. Am I of no worth, but my love for you is priceless and I would die for you and when I die it will be for you.
You know life has been alright. I’ve had my share of fun and good times and bad times and it has really been nice knowing a lot of fun people and I thank God that I have met you baby.
I love you and today when you said you can’t take it anymore, that’s when I decided that I am nothing but a burden, and burdens only make people miserable.
You know. I am really hurting. I just could not live with knowing that unhappiness is what I’m putting you through. Yes! We’ve had good times. It makes me cry knowing that we could come to this after all the “I love yous” and smiles and the feelings we’ve shared in bed where our true feelings just overflowed. I can’t live knowing that the lady that I love does not trust me.
You say you do to convince yourself, but you really don’t. I’m hurting. But you’re tired of that line so I’ll keep it to myself.
And I mean, I just don’t have the heart to say to someone that I don’t like you. I mean they have feelings too. But it no longer matters because I love you and I’ll tell her flat out.
And if I never get to have wife and kids and necessities and luxuries in life, at least I know I had the chance with a very special and most attractive young lady. I’m not giving up, don’t get me wrong and I don’t want to die, I have so much to live for. You, our family, our kids, and our family life but I don’t
want to ruin or mess you up! I love you, please believe me.
I won’t say I’m sorry again (although I am) because that’s something else you don’t want to hear. And don’t say that killing myself shows how much I don’t love you ‘cause you are wrong.
I love you and I love you so dam much (I’m crying) but I’m making you unhappy and I can’t live with that.
Love, Santana
PS- baby I need you right now!”
15
DICHOTOMIES & DAZES
We made it through his senior year and all the plans, and excitement that came with it. I didn’t want to be a Debbie Downer at a time in his life that he would never be able to repeat, but would certainly be able to hold onto the memories of-even if we ended up being a memory to each other.
I continued to be the doting girlfriend; wearing his class ring around my neck while being in receipt of anything else he would give and do to solidify our relationship and rebuild our “love bubble.” Santana was trying hard to prove to me that what we had was built to last. It was working for the most part. He was my man and I was his girl-“Angie and Santana” were household names in both of our households and throughout our extended families by this time. It just was what it was.
If I had any plans on leaving him, they were halted shortly after prom. All that sex we were having and my-on again-off-again relationship with the pill: straddled between gaining one pound and panicking or getting sick from taking them every morning, was proving to be a bit much for me. Over time, Santana and I would see-saw between either using condoms or resorting to the old-fashioned rhythm method until our beat went off the track. In between time, we would just take the plunge and cross our fingers since it had worked for so long.
Well after prom, when I didn’t get my period-we already knew. Ooh if Ms. You Know Who could be a fly on the wall of my life right now.
Part me was disappointed in myself because my life was headed in one direction but then Santana and all things that came with it-in the name of “love,” took me in another direction and my heart followed it.
I knew what I should have been doing and should not have been doing, but we were so tight and no matter what, I knew he would have my back. He loved me crazily, and he also fulfilled for me, that fairytale girl-meets-boy fantasy that every girl dreams about. Now, we were on to real-life and needing to make real-life decisions.
After he graduated, that summer, my mom found out that we had officially made feet for those socks that she would talk about. The decision had to be made as to whether or not I would abort, put it up for adoption or have it.
Our Madonna classic love song “Crazy for You,” eventually turned Madonna-tragic, singing: “Papa Don’t Preach.” Down to the very last lyric, it was as if that woman’s songs brooded over our relationship and every aspect of it from love and now life: the feet that were being made for socks. As irony would have it, Madonna rode with us from conception of our relationship and the theme song for it, all the way through to what was a kind of immaculate conception growing inside of me: the product of two virgins who made love and a baby from love-regardless our interruption and situations. I could not hear “Papa Don’t Preach” without crying uncontrollably and clutching my stomach. Everything about it resonated with what I was feeling about, Santana, our relationship and me being estranged from my dad-who, if he found out I was pregnant; no question about it, would have forced me to stop the music for all dancing feet involved-immediately. Thanks to me being estranged from him, along with Madonna singing all up in my relationship, with abortion omitted from the list of options; the fact still remained that my belly was going to grow bigger. Her goal was to deal with first things first: pull me out of that school. The dream was officially over, as far as she was concerned.
As far as the school itself, the dream had been over long before I even met Santana, little did she or my dad know. That was a big secret I kept from him over the years of my even attending the artsy-school. Because he had a different perception of my inclusion at that school than what actually was. Although I didn’t abort, I still had a second chance at life and a career going forward-hence why I chose adoption as an option. My father however, though estranged and out of the know of it all; the dream would never be over in his eyes-oh hell no-over his dead body. He was far too obsessively ambitious and loved playing fantasies in his head; his idea of success in the making (being cultivated vicariously through me).
Reminiscing on the time from back in third grade when his insatiably ambitious self interrupted me from my language arts classroom with a bunch of papers in his hand. He had the kind of excitement on his face as if he had hit the lottery. I was his lottery ticket: his golden-child.
He grabbed me by my tiny hands and dragged ninety-five pounds of skin and bones down that hallway so fast that dust probably followed us. He sat me in that empty lunchroom with the packet of papers telling me about this new school that was exclusive to kids with talent of a wide variety.
All my dad knew was that I could sing, I could dance, I could act, I could spell, I’d won spelling bees, I was articulate, I was theatrical, I had a lot of personality, good penmanship, nice handwriting, I was loved by my teachers (parent-teacher open houses were big to-do’s and major strokes to his paternal ego)-my hood loved me. So in my dad’s eyes, that was all the ingredients it took to make “Star Pie.” So he signed me on for the school, when little did he know, my: acting, the written test, my dancing, my creative writing, my music and my drama portion of the audition that opened the doors for me to step right in to the world of non-mediocrity (from the outside looking in) wasn’t what it took to actually make it in that “exclusive” school that he felt was built just for me.
All of that was merely behind (the entry) to door number one. That door merely squealed open to let you in the school-to separate you from the “mediocrity” of the traditional neighborhood high-school.
Door number two slammed behind you: hard. It consisted of politics of the economic, political and social kind:
The: “Nobody’s”: usually quiet, exceptionally multitalented, kept to themselves. Fashion was definitely not a priority or forte’. Most of them wore tattered and recycled clothes. Some were groomed acceptably rather than exceptionally well, other’s-not. For many of them, their circumstance was visible and on their sleeve. They were friendly, stayed out of the way, probably had one hell of an opinion about the remaining cliques:
The: “Why-The-Hell-Are-They-Here-Don’t-They- Belong-In-Some-Neighborhood-School-Rather-Than-This-Exclusive-Schooler(s)”: This was Santana’s group. Hardly anyone in the school knew what their special talents were. Amongst one another they knew (I think). But to all other groups, you kind of just wondered why in the hell were they even in school but more importantly: our school. This group consisted of those who were most probably poor to middle class but wore the latest fashions that seemed to camouflage what, if any, talent they really had. It was such a mystery. They were the typical/local/neighborhood high-school type of group that seemed like they floated into the artsy-school on some island and got stranded there. Some of them laughed at the “Nobodys” and other cliques for not having the latest clothes like them and thought people outside of their cliques were lames or just flat out weirdos. They speed dated amongst each other and would rather be caught dead than to date anyone in the “Nobodys,” but would occasionally date or speed date some in this next group:
The: “Artsy- Talented- Popular-Attractive-Part/Nerd-Part/Hood-Part/Normal’s”: This was my group. We cared nothing about the latest fashions, but rather, expressed our fashion sense through what we could do with our clothes to create our own style. Some of our friends were in the “Nobodys,” outside of that, we were friends amongst each other-that was of the utmost importance to us. Our group dated amongst each other, some would date within the “Nobodys” and the “Why the Hell’s” if they summoned (and only if they summoned).
The: “Wanna-Be’s”: Sigh. Rhetorically, I would have to ask: where do I start…
For starters, if this group of people’s fashion choice consisted of white top shirts, white bottoms, white tennis shoes and (whether guy and girl), if they wore pink sweaters tied across their shoulders and they walked around with tennis rackets; it wouldn’t be too far off from all their personas in school.
This was a pretty cool group (a very small part of them). The large part of this group would literally sicken you to your stomach if you let them (or hadn’t eaten yet). They weren’t trouble makers by any stretch of the imagination, but the large part of them would rather fight Goliath or ban together to hold open the mouth of a whale and fight tooth and nail than to digress to the clique in which many of them really belonged: “Nobody’s,” “Why the Hell’s” or the “Artsy’s.”
It was funny because in truth, this large part really did consist of a mixture of “Nobodys,” “Artsy” and “Why the Hell’s” but you better not tell nobody God, because if you brought that truth out, you probably would have been in for a knock-down, drag out whatever-you-wanna-do-about-it-off.
The “Wanna-Be’s” had one goal and one goal only: to be friends with, known by, connected to or connected with and/or besties with the “Be’s.” They lived for that. The “Wanna-Be’s” dated amongst each other-period. The black guys (and black girls) in this group would rather be caught dead than to be caught dating a “Nobody,” but would [in secret and only in secret] let it be rumored that he or she dated or kissed a black girl, or black boy, or an “Artsy”-and only if that “Artsy” was an “Artsy” that wanted to be a “Wanna-Be” or a wanted to be a “Be.”
Eventually, most “Wanna-Be’s” would get their chance in being a “Be,” but the actual “Be’s” were set in stone. “Be’s” had the social power to make a “Wanna-Be” feel like a “Be” and especially depending on that “Be’s” popularity at the time.
The bottom line was-since the “Wanna-Be” wasn’t a set in stone “Be”-they would still have to take their place back in their “Wanna-Be” spot and remain happy that they were friends with, known by, connected to, connected with and/or besties with the “Be’s.” And in order to maintain their “Wanna-Be” slash want to be a “Be” image; it was best that they: deny that a “Nobody” existed, ignore the “Why the Hells” and act like they didn’t know any “Artsy’s” unless it was one of the “Artsy-10.”
The “Artsy-10:” They were like: “reverse-moles.” Moles of about ten guys and girls in our “Artsy” clique who if given the chance, would do anything to be a “Wanna-Be,” and would kill to be a part of the “Be’s.” You could always tell when one of the “Artsy-10” got a chance to step out and hang out with the “Wanna-Be’s” or “Be’s.” Because (for a short while) they would talk different, walk different and carry on a whole persona befitting of a “Wanna-Be” or “Be.” They would feel so accepted and grateful that they stood a chance (even if it was a mere conversation with a “Wanna-Be” or “Be”). That would be enough to send them on these highs that (like clockwork because it was all a matter of time) the “Wanna-Be” and/or “Be” would send them right back into the clique to which they belonged: “Artsy- Talented- Popular-Attractive-Part/Nerd-Part/Hood-Part/Normal.” Their little fantasies and hopes of actually being a “Wanna-Be” or “Be” (for good) never-ever came to fruition and they would steadily try: year after year. It was crazy to observe. Aya and my other friend Carren were two-tenths of one such type. It would be a mixture of pathetic and painful to watch their ups and downs as a result of it all.
The “Be’s”: They were a mixture of three types of people and it was just this simple:
1-Either their parent or relative worked at the school (and/or had some control over the school program or any particular performance art or academic).
2-They were the kids whose parents were on a committee of givers who donated significant monies to the school (on a continuous basis).
3-They were close friends/besties of both. I repeat: close friends/besties of both. Not: known by, connected to or connected with. Their real friends and besties only.
“Be’s” had their way with about 65% of the teaching staff. The teaching staff was kind of like a teaching staff at a college. In college, you have some professors who may have athletes as students, who pretty much have a “pass” in their class no matter what. Athletes’ schedules are methodically chosen by their coaches and the athletic staff on a “preferred professor” basis: the professors who would always cut the athlete some slack because they are in cahoots with the sports program (secretly).
It was like that here, at our artsy school.
Probably about 65% of the staff was in cahoots with parents or relatives who worked at the school and/or had some control over the school program or any particular performance art or academic and as well, parents who donated money to the school.
So having to take a class with a “Be” could be quite the experience. Not as a result of the “Be’s” behavior or presumptuousness (because they indeed were). The “experience” would come from the “Be’s” real friends and besties or the “Wanna-Be’s” behavior-that was the irony of it all.
The “Be’s” besties, real friends and “Wanna-Be’s” loved for it to be known that they too, were exceptions to most rules. Most all “Be’s” were very assuming and presumptuous (subtly so). But they weren’t pathetic or painful to observe. The “Wanna Be’s” and the “Be’s” real friends and besties were-at all times. “Be’s” never had to do anything but just: be. They knew their place and knew it was solidified, and knew they had the most social power in the entire school-effortlessly.
All of that was what my dad did not know about this artsy school that he was so eager for me to get in. The doors had shut behind me, and the politics of the economic, political and social kind was a well-known secret that none of us ever talked about (in either group). It just was what it was. I’m just breaking it down (to how it “was”). I never explained it or broke it down to my dad because he would have taken my inclusion into that school to a whole new level, and I wasn’t interested in that kind of fighting to get in and fighting to stay in kind of illusion that I was watching. It was really a circus act that neither one of them even understood.
When my dad had come to grab me out of my third grade class to do that school’s paperwork, got me auditioned and in; he thought he knew-but he had no idea…
He merely expected that because I was multi-talented, I would get early training at a school that would hone in on that in a big way and from there-the world would be my oyster.
Well, unbeknownst to him, getting trained for the world to be my oyster-did not happen outside of evening recitals from well-rehearsed dance performances, drama recitals or art-exhibits for required classes. I tricked him into thinking that these performances, demonstrations and exhibits were major.
The bigger training and experience took place on the stage. That gave you the feel for what it would be like gigging in New York. The closest I got to that experience and on that stage (outside of my evening dance recitals) was auditioning for the major/school box office plays.
A callback list would go up. It had gotten to the point where I never had to check the first or second callback list-I made all of them. But when that final list would be posted, it was always 77% populated with the: “Be’s” and “Wanna Be’s.” 10% Artsy’s, 10% Nobody’s and 3% “Why the Hell’s”.
Unbeknownst to my dad, by eighth grade (many years before Santana was ever a twinkle in my eye and had even started the school), when I started to take notice of the social politics and began to pay attention to the list of student’s parents who donated big monies to the school-I totally quit auditioning. I would be obsessed with strolling that first floor area near the administrative offices watching rich parents with full-length mink coats stroll in and out of the principal and artistic director’s office; either cutting checks or finding out why their child was the understudy rather than the actual lead in a major. I would run to the front of the building just to take a peek at their big expensive Jaguars, Mercedes and BMW’s parked sideways-presumptuously knowing that the meeting they came for wouldn’t last-because they knew all too well how their money talked and bullshit runs the marathon.
By eighth grade, I refused to be the bullshit running the marathon through callback list number two and higher. I started turning a deaf ear and a blind eye to it all. If you understood the social, economic and political dynamics (that at the age, I didn’t have name for); you would have understood-like I did-how that social politic game went. I had zero interest in being a “Wanna-Be.” I found too much comedy watching, listening to and hearing about the pressure and rollercoaster ride that some of them would go through to be where they were socially. It was so pathetic to me.
In hindsight it was all so pitiful; watching the five cliques outside of the “Be’s (including me). The pathetic way that those who were in control of the performance art program, would come to classrooms and stand there like big suits-folding their arms and looking down from their eye-glasses and placing their hands on their chins, looking around at everyone and squinting their eyes like they were about to pick their next superstar. We would sit up with our backs arched straight and one-hundred watt smiles (looking all stupid and shit) from being told in advance that they would be coming through scouting for local commercials. No words were ever spoken, it was a classic case of the psychological Pavlov Dog Experiment.
By eighth grade, I quit barking and jumping. It never phased me anymore. I started turning my head to the direction of the window when the suits would show up. To myself, I would crack up laughing when they would leave-from how stupid some people looked-having no idea how that social politic game went. It was sad-watching my peers do just what I would do my first five years there for those suits (that were merely looking for the kid whose parents just strolled through with the mink coat-double-checking to see if the kid had the look for the next commercial they had just promised rich mom, rich dad).
It was hard not to, but I never told my dad about the politics that existed there because secretly, he too, was classist, elitist and insatiably ambitious and so was I, to an extent. Though I hated that school because of it-I understood what was going on. He (secretly) never forgave himself for having kids by a less than ambitious mother, so he was going to make at least one of us pay for it. Between Twin and me and my other brothers; I was the best fit. So he executed his plan, set me on the mark, put me in position and threw me into doors-that once closed behind me-he knew nothing about. He just knew I belonged and would have paid top dollar to put me where he wanted to see me: on a main stage even if it was up on a harness flying across that auditorium with a diaper on and sprinkling glitter throughout-that would suit him just fine. My dad played the game-always had. He had a formula for success and life: no sleep. To be the boss, you have to pay the cost-and usually, by any and all means necessary…
The only thing that made me happy there, were my friends-I loved my friends and two other teachers [outside of Ms. You Know Who, who respected me, knew my worth and talents]. I had nothing to prove to her outside of following her rules.
When I got home to the where I lived, my experience was altogether different.
If I say to someone (who is not from my hood: “my hood held me down,”) that person would probably think I meant that my hood stifled me. But no, that school stifled me, but my hood “held me down” (up-in the highest esteem). I was fortunate because of that. And I always knew and was grateful for that.
Without my hood, I would have had no self-esteem or confidence, because that school would have broken me. When I left that school at 3:40p (many years before meeting Santana) my show began there-that was my main stage and bright lights with people cheering me on and appreciating being entertained by me at whim and request. My hood was my main stage, but while in school from 8a-3:40p; I was amongst a game of social politics that I refused to be the butt and bullshit of. That balance kept me grounded. Everything I learned and any skill I honed was the result of the ones who truly loved me, respected me and knew me-not the school I attended. My hood was merely disillusioned, bedazzled, and dazed by it all, because I was the only one from it-able to make it through those doors, that they (like my dad) knew nothing about-once they closed behind me.
In secret, I continued to let my dad (and even the people from my neighborhood) think that it was the school that was grooming me to blossom. Even Ms. You Know Who (who taught there) thought the same thing. I was learning, dreaming and inspired by way of her and my hood-not the school.
I wasn’t learning shit at the school. I wasn’t inspired there. I didn’t dream there. That school wasn’t preparing me for a life of what she and my dad thought I was attending there for. The school only taught me one thing and one thing only: the game of social politics, where by age thirteen, I was a pro at it and recognizing it. I knew my worth to people, my talents and what I was capable of. I didn’t need that school to validate that for me-all for a financial, social and emotional large fee.
As far as I was concerned with my [dead dad], my faith and disinterest in the school plus my estrangement from him all worked out. I was no longer under his pressure in more ways than he knew (and little did he ever know)…
As far as I was concerned [with my mom on pulling me out of the school], it was a favor to me. Because little did she know, after about my eighth-grade year there, it only became important for me to attend because of the school’s reputation and big name-in the eyes of other people. The school was something I could most certainly live without.
But now, I was faced with a decision to make and to decide if I could live with or without: this growing child inside of me. My mother merely felt that it would be distasteful for me to be in that type of school with a growing belly. She not only did what was best (and a favor to me), she also did what was natural for her and what she did best whenever she was faced with an important issue: run away from it, or ignore it away or send it away. So plans were made for me to be sent away to a home for pregnant girls that had a school campus but to me-was more like a pregnant jail filled with other pregnant and mean big-nosed bitches who like me, had a decision to make as to whether or not we were coming home with our brat, or give them to some happy couple waiting in the wings (which is what most did-as was my prospective decision) because I still had plans for a real life, with or without “real” love.
Couldn’t necessarily say that Santana had any serious and major plans for his life after he graduated, because although I personally knew his creative and artistic talents; they were about as obscure to other people as about as obscure as what he was going to do in life with his talents.
Although I played a part in creating the feet for socks, mending socks were not in my plans. All I could see was a hard life, and a hard-working man; working hard for a minimum-wage job, coming home stressed, over worked and pissed at and resenting me.
No thank you (to that “life”)…
16
SITUATIONS, TRANSITIONS & DECISIONS.
In the meantime during preparation for my transition and decision making process; my mother was up to her same ole “let me fuck with Santana” Jedi Mind Tricks. He was hard-working his ass off-continuously trying to be for me: a good man and a good dad. He took a job in the vicinity where my mom and I had moved to-which was in a whole other community a ways away from all of my school friends, umbrella friends and my TGGF.
Santana had come over to my house one day while I was gone to the mall with one of my big brother’s girlfriends. By the time I made it home, Santana looked like he had been held hostage. The look on his face when I walked into the door was the type of sigh of relief that you can imagine from being rescued after being tortured. I found out that my mom and her friend Ms. Andrea-Dana’s mom-had told Santana that I was gone out on a date-trying to explore my options, since it wasn’t set in stone that I was going to keep the baby.
He had no reason not to believe her, because my stomach wasn’t showing at all. Immediately, he had flashbacks on his cheating on me, so, he didn’t know what to think. When I walked in on it and found out about what they had done to him, I screamed at my mother and her friend. I then walked back to tend to Santana and his hurt feelings, and there he was: standing there in his funny-looking work uniform, with the funny-looking polyester pants and the funny-looking pancake cap; looking like he was about to have a not-so-funny looking panic attack. Since the beginning of my pregnancy, he was about as pregnant and emotional as I was-we were both pregnant. I felt so bad for Santana-he could hardly breathe, he was so hurt. He just looked up at the ceiling at the light and held his head back; trying his hardest to hold his tears back. I reached out to hold him and he broke down and cried in my arms. I cried so hard with him. It was a sad day for the both of us. We had already had a lot to think about and were going through so much already, and my mother couldn’t have picked a worse time to fuck with his head like that.
~~~~~~~
Twin had still been on his send-off and vacay spot for rambunctious boys that my mom sent him to, and once he returned home, plans were still set in stone for him to go live with my [dead] dad. Mom was still on my don’t ask, don’t tell policy that I had asked her to adhere to-and especially at this time. It had been a couple years that I had been knee-deep in with this boyfriend of mine and now pregnant since last my dad saw me, so now was just a good a time as any for my mom to keep her mouth shut. She knew that by the time I would be showing, I would be good and gone off to the pregnant jail anyways.
My send-off would be coming around the time the new school-year was beginning.
The pregnant jail was a campus located about a half-hour drive away, where on the weekends, Santana and his mom (or sometimes Santana alone) would come get me. I would sometimes go home to my mom’s house, and other times I would stay over in Santana’s private cul de sac, neglecting to talk about what I was deciding to do with this “thing” growing inside of me. My way of not attaching myself to it-was to refer to it as an “It” or a “thing” versus referring to it as a baby or a child, as yet. I replaced getting attached to “It” by keeping in mind, my plans for a life that had no room for new feet. Because the first order of business was to complete my senior year of high school. I was insistent on graduating on time and the same year-as if my life hadn’t been put on pause with this thing growing inside of me. With all the schooling I had missed (because of my mom wasting no time pulling me out before my belly even got a chance to get a bump), I had a lot of work to do.
Although through the pregnant jail, I could earn school credits, but the credits would not be enough to graduate on time-night school was my only option in addition to day school (full-time) plus summer school. I had already been looking at colleges I wanted to attend out of state and a couple nearby and in-state just in case this trial time away in the pregnant jail became too much to bear for Santana and me. That would let me know if I could handle being without him, although I knew in my mind-chances were-that Santana and I would not be together. For me, for a while, though I loved him; I was getting to the point where I was just going with the motions and being lead by my heart. I knew these mixed emotions weren’t because of my pregnancy, because I never felt that way until he cheated on me. The newness, specialness and sacredness wasn’t there for me like before. And even through the day before I found out that he cheated, I used to see forever with him.
17
UP, OUT & AWAY
The campus was so private, dim, and quiet that you could hear a pin drop.
I was so lonely that pregnant jail-one of the loneliest times that I could never imagine-it was claustrophobically unbearable and depressing. It really felt like “jail.”
I spent a lot of time crying and sitting in my room alone: just-thinking…
After some time, I dried my tears and tried to toughed it out.
Though phones were free, and the comfortable little phone area was always available, I never used it anymore, after the one day and one day only-I placed a phone call home; crying to my mother about how lonely I was. She spit new idioms that she had thought of since last I saw her-all of them created to remind me that my being in the predicament I was in was a consequence of mine and Santana’s actions.
No results or comfort with my mom, so I called my friend Dana whose voice had an all-too familiar sound, sort of like mine once did: as if the sun was calling her name and together: she, the sun, life and our friends, were playing a game of tag and running with the wind blowing through her free fingers. I did not want to interrupt her joy by dampening her sunshine with my tears that were falling like rain. I still managed to get through the conversation with a smile in my voice, but the truth was-I was now in a different element and my mind was echoing my mother’s reminder that I was in the middle of a consequence of mine and Santana’s irresponsibility. Dana had nothing to do with that, so I let her go as if nothing was wrong with me on the other end of that phone, but the truth was; everything was wrong-everything.
In search of comfort rather than conversation-just someone to listen to me while I sat there shaking and crying uncontrollably from feeling like I was about to have a nervous breakdown, who better to call than my accomplice and partner in my crime: Santana. He wasn’t home. He too, was out with the wind blowing through his free fingers-most probably feeling the newness of being unattached at the hip that we stayed at conjoined at for many years. He probably didn’t know what to do with himself, with me gone and put away for five point five of his seven days of the week.
I had to tough it out. I never liked feeling sorry for myself. So, after that day, I vowed never to pick up that phone again. I never even looked at it anymore. I decided it would be best to deal with the predicament I was in as best as I could and on my own. I was beginning to feel far too emotional for still having not made my final decision about whether or not I would be giving this thing up for adoption. I didn’t want my emotional state to force me to give it away any more than I wanted my emotional state force me to get attached to it and keep it; merely out of being temporarily emotional.
I tried mingling with the other girls. I made friendly with three of the girls. Nobody really wanted to be friends with anybody. The way the pregnant jail was structured-we all had the option of having so much privacy that you really did not have to make friends. Most everyone took the privacy option, and so did I after a while. There were two other girls in particular that refused to be nice to me. I think they knew each other outside of the pregnant jail. They were unbelievably rude and mean on purpose. I think it was because they got jealous when they’d see Santana come get me every Friday, and kiss me guiltily as he’d leave on Sunday afternoon’s after dropping me off. It was obvious that we were in love, at least once upon a time. Those two mean bitches never got visitors. One of the girl’s fathers would pick them both up for some weekends home, but they’d remain on campus on the weekends, most of the time-snapping at one another.
Every girl was so full-bellied, pregnant, tired and mad. I was still able to make my way around just fine because I was barely showing-you could only tell that I was pregnant if I undressed, and then you could see a tiny little circular protrusion in front of me-from side view, only.
It seemed like overnight however, that thing sprouted inside of my belly like the sun hitting a flower that blossomed in a day. It made its presence known one morning after I woke up and masturbated. I lay there on my back while my stomach began to flutter rumble. It turned around and poked its butt in the air-sort of like how babies do when they are taking a nap. I felt so embarrassed. I was wondering if it knew what I had just done. The moment was cute, a little bit scary and a little bit creepy at the same time because I was at my bottom and it was in my belly-resting…in a child’s place.
Considering the way I had been feeling, I needed that little bit of attention that thing inside of me gave me for that moment. I hadn’t smiled and laughed like that in a while.
I proceeded to bathe and get ready for my day, and it did not move about anymore throughout that day. I guess it decided to rest…and stay in a child’s place.
When morning came, I wanted to see if it would show its butt again.
So I did it again.
I then lay there and waited to see what would happen.
It began to rumble just like the day before.
All of a sudden, it turned around and poked its butt in the air again. I sat up some so that I could see it better. It had poked its butt out so far that I could see where its little butt cheeks separated. I covered my mouth and giggled-not wanting it to hear my voice and laughter. I felt so happy that I had some company-finally.
It hid throughout the morning and then all of a sudden, while I was in history class, at exactly 11:10am; it began to move about as if it was waking up. It ran to the left side of my stomach and kicked its foot.
That startled me. It then ran to the right side and kicked its foot. I tried to grab it. It ran back over to the left: kick! To the right: kick! It was so funny. I covered my mouth and laughed over and over again.
Day 3 and 4: It slept. After I did it-it woke up with its butt in the air. I smiled and lightly spanked its little booty and then rubbed it. It could feel me nurture it through my skin as it lay there and it went back to sleep while I bathed and prepared for my day.
11:10am into the morning. History class. It began to move about-waking up. “Time to play!” this rambunctious little must’ve thing said. It ran to the left side of my stomach and kicked its foot again. I was a little startled, but somewhat expecting it. It felt so funny-this life inside of my belly-this “real” life and living thing growing and moving about inside of me.
It then ran to the right side and kicked its foot-I tried to grab it. It ran back over to the left: kick! To the right: kick! Still, I covered my mouth and laughed-again.
Day 5 and 6: It slept. After I did it-it poked its butt in the air and I rubbed it gently. It was like I calmed it down because it went right back to sleep. I bathed and prepared for my day.
11:10am. History class. It began to wake up and start moving about-again. It ran to the left side of my stomach and kicked its foot, then ran to the right side and kicked its foot. I never could catch it, but it was fun trying though.
Throughout these days and moments, my mind started to play out scenes in my head of holding this thing in my belly from behind my belly and into my arms. I started feeling emotional about all inside of me that was literally protecting it and giving it life, while knowing that soon after being born into this world and right after taking its first breath of life; it would be handed over to be held not by me-but to the arms of someone else who is somewhere in this world having no idea about these special morning moments that I was sharing with this child, and wouldn’t bit more understand the experience if I explained it to them.
I was feeling myself getting attached to “it”…my baby…
But into the lonely night by day 6, my mind began to play out the realities according to how things were looking in my life at that very moment; my mother’s voice ringing in my head-continuously referring to my predicament as a “consequence” as if it were a punishment rather than a human life. I couldn’t imagine what life would be like-bringing a baby into that house with her-that was punishment enough. I could see so clearly-her trying and make me feel punished for it every single day. From behind a door, if she couldn’t handle my asking her if I could to go steady, then telling her I needed to get on the pill; there was no way in heaven she could handle a real-live crying baby from behind another closed door.
There I was, sitting up in that pregnant jail while life was still going on at home. My friends were living life and enjoying theirs, just like Santana was living his. If ever I needed time and attention-this was that time and the cure for feeling claustrophobic and lonely was merely a half-hour away. I wasn’t that far away in distance that Santana couldn’t make it during the week (in the evenings) for a visit or two. But he never took the initiative to do that. He was out in the wind enjoying his five-day a week, born-again freedom. Although it hadn’t been decided as to whether or not I would be keeping the child, he never put up a fight or stood his ground about me giving the baby up for adoption. Yet he stood on many-a-floors of my mom’s apartments crying ugly cries; holding on to me like nothing but death could keep him from me. I had seen him fight before. I knew how he could do when he fought for love and something that he really wanted. He didn’t fight for this baby at all-not like he fought for me. He wasn’t fighting the wind to get up here and see me with this child in my belly-not like the way he would fight to see me when I wasn’t with-child. He was nothing like he would write to me in many-a-letters-talking about how he would fight for our (future) kids. That future was growing right now-inside of me without a fight being had for this kid, me, and from what I could see: our future, either.
I began to think about love and the reality of it and how it is never “forever.”
I reminisced about how when we first lost our virginity, his light-bulb head use to be sitting in that chair in my bedroom beaming just like one. I couldn’t peel that fool off of me. We spent so much time honeymooning, letter-writing and all things unimaginable in our fairytale; yet he found it easy to lift a six-foot tall bitch off her feet and carry her upstairs as if she were a bride simply because she told him she was a virgin (too). So he stuck his dick in her-in the midst of us still honeymooning and me having lost my virginity with him (too), as if it didn’t matter anymore and he was on to something new. My lonely lil’ vacay at the pregnant jail plus what I learned from his cheating episode was slowing teaching me that whether it be love or sex; it’s all good and right as long as it is in front of you-in the moment. Love seems to be only as good and true as it is in your face. Because the moment that the moment is over-it roams free. The biggest reward you get out of love is if somebody loved you back. But in the bigger scheme of things, you didn’t do anything but teach them how to love and make love to another person. Virginity and the newness of things are physical trial basis’ with expiration dates of the heart. People are here to learn love-lessons from each other until they end up with the one person [later on who at that time] will be in receipt of that person having finally gotten right: all that you taught them about love and making love. Santana and were merely were one another’s first stop. I began to understand that no matter your age, “love” must really be this way.
I wanted and searched for a bright-side in this. But outside of a pretty baby in my arms-conceived by two people who once upon a time in this fairytale-loved one another, and were inseparable; I saw none. Except for the fact that the baby got a chance at life, so here we are, as we lay:
I’m back on “it,” again…my tears and feeling sorry for myself is over. “It” lived, and I have to make it and take it from here…
Day 7: It slept through the morning because I didn’t do it. I didn’t do it because I did not want it to wake.
I did not want to see its butt. I did not want to smile. I did not want to touch or nurture it. I did not want it to expect me to nurture and touch it going forward. As if we had already bonded; it still raised while I lay there-as if my masturbating had nothing to do with waking it up anyways. This time, it raised as if it could read my mind and feel my resistance. This child insisted on waking with its butt in the air-regardless. I sat my head up some to look at it but I still refused to touch it. Instead, I gripped the sheets with my fingers and just stared at it like I was peeking; wanting it to put its butt back down. But this time, that baby wiggled its butt slowly and stretched it out farther than I had ever seen it do as if it wanted me to touch and smack its tiny little cute booty. I still refused to.
It lay there in its place…and went back to sleep. And I did the same.
Still, at 11:10am like literal clockwork, and while in my room watching television; it began to wake up and start moving about: “Time to play!” the rambunctious little thing must’ve said. It ran to the left side of my stomach and kicked its foot-ready to play.
I was stiff and stoic.
I didn’t expect that…
My laugh from the 11:10am days previous turned into a frown.
It ran to the right side and kicked its foot.
I didn’t reach for it.
It ran back over to the left: kick!
To the right: kick!
I still frowned and remained stiff.
This time, I tightened my mouth with resistance rather than covering it with my hand (with surprise, joy and laughter).
While I resisted, it insisted. Like never before, it was kicking and playing games in my belly as if was kicking conversation to my mind:
“You mean to tell me that you don’t want me?” (kick!)
“I won’t be a problem-I promise I won’t get in your way!” (kick!)
“These pretty eyes-these little fat thighs?” (kick!)
“You mean to tell me you don’t want me?” (kick!)
“Look ma! No hands!” (kick!)
“How come you don’t want me?” (kick!)
“Wait’ll you see these chubby cheeks!” (kick!)
“My skin is as smooth as my butt!” (kick!)
“When I’m out of your belly and you hold me underneath my arms, you can look me in my face while I yawn and stick my butt out in person!” (kick!)
I remained stiff.
This time, it tried something different. Instead of it lying on its stomach and sticking its butt out the front of my belly; it turned sideways and stuck its butt out on the side of my belly-as if was showing off for me.
Still, I did not reach to rub it or spank its little booty, although I thought about it.
But then, I gathered my thoughts, emotions and attachments to it-and in my mind, I said (back) to it:
“Nah, I’ve got living to do. After I hand you over, I get a second chance to do it right this time. Can’t mess it up. I love you and I gave you a life to live.”
“Look ma! No hands!” (kick!)
I kept my hands in my lap…
“Look ma! No hands!” (kick!)
I continued to keep my hands in my lap-balling my fists tightly.
“Look ma!”
I kept my fists balled up-no hands.
It rested in its place…
Day 8: Morning came.
It slept.
I did not do it, even though I knew It did not need me to-to remind me that it was there.
I did not want it to wake.
I did not want to see its butt.
I did not want to smile.
I did not want to touch or nurture it.
I simply did not want it to expect this of me going forward.
Unlike yesterday and previous mornings when I’d wake and lay there, shortly thereafter-it would wake and raise. But this time-it did not.
I got scared.
I gave in, and did it-just to see if it would wake and raise.
It still did not wake or raise.
I sat my head up some to see if it would, but it did not.
I lay there and went back to sleep, right along with it.
11:10am.
It’s history…
Into the morning it did not move about or begin to kick and play-at all.
I lay there waiting to see if it would, but it still did not move.
“Ma…no hands?” (no kick…)
I lay back down with my fists balled up. Tears rolled down my face but I held on to the sheets between each finger tightly…tight like the rest of my life depended on it…”
_____________________________________________________________________________
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PREFACE 5
- The Roots of Picked Fruit 17
- The Precocious Ripening 33
- Ripe & Ready. Gangs, Bangs & Pangs 39
- The Queen Bee in Me 63
- Another Level. Blossoming. Beautiful. 80
- TGGF, Male Model & Me 101
- TGGF & Me 112
- Divorcing Dad 124
- You Know Who 130
- First Flings First 139
- In the Lion’s Den 170
- Cold Shoulders and Frozen Dancing Feet 195
- Pills & Frills 204
- You Know What: I Told You So 209
- Dichotomies & Dazes 228
- Situations, Decisions & Transitions 241
- Up, Out & Away 244
MEET the AUTHOR Q & A 254
READING GROUP GUIDE 257
SNEAK PEEK into book2
(“Angie Situation NAIVETE’” )’s CHAPTER ONE 260
OTHER BOOKS BY ANGELA SHERICE 269
ABOUT the AUTHOR 270
