for the rest of the class,” Cummings said, handing me his chalk.
“Say what?”
Shoot, queen’s English? The United States did not have a queen, at least not the last time I looked. I scrunched up my nose and stared at the strange little man. The homeboys cracked up. People were howling and holding their sides.
Cummings sniffed loudly and wagged a finger. “This is exactly what I mean. Those types of expressions have no place in everyday language. You are here to learn to speak English, and that includes the use of proper grammar. You are here to articulate.”
“Yo, man. You trying to teach us to conversate,” one of the homeboy’s in the back shouted.
That produced another round of laughter.
Mr. Cummings gave him his stern look.
“You must eliminate all urban slang from your vocabulary, Ms. Adams. Now please continue.”
Yup. I was being made an example of. Lucky for me, I was wearing one of my hot little J Lo outfits, well maybe not so little. It was size 3X. I was working it. Rather than writing, I repeated out loud what I thought Cummings wanted to hear. He corrected me in his snotty manner and I slunk back to my chair.
The remainder of the two-hour class passed quickly. The homeboys had their turn, as did the Cuban couple. Cummings was mean. I’d almost decided I wasn’t being singled out. I knew people judged you by both your appearance and the way you spoke. They assumed if you were a big girl you were a slow, stupid ox. But being big had always been advantageous for me. My sense of humor and big mouth had made me popular in school and gotten me through.
The way I saw it, Cummings’s class was keeping me off the street these days. Before that I’d spent one night a week at the Haul Out. Not because I was a big drinker, but because it was a sure way of catching up on who was doing who. All that time hanging out got me a big fat nothing except the occasional pickup, then when he found out I was on lockdown I promptly got dumped. This elocution class would at least help me build a future.
I left thinking that even though Mr. Cummings had a stick up his ass, he might be onto something.
I’d only been home about fifteen minutes, and was thinking about going to bed when my telephone rang.
“Yeah?”
“Hey, sweet thang.”
Who the hell was this?
“Do I know you?”
The man chuckled. “Baby, how could you forget the best lover you’ve ever had? This is Richard.”
“Richard who?”
Why was he acting like I knew him, like we were close?
A long pause followed as he tried to pick up his ego from the floor. “Richard Dyson, baby, the owner of Dyson Luxury Limousines.”
Oh, that Dick! Rich Richard. Obnoxious Richard. Richie Rich who thought his Platinum American Express card bought him any woman. The last time he’d phoned was months ago. It had been late at night, he’d been drunk and on a booty-call spree. “What do you want, Dickie?”
“Can’t a man touch base with a beautiful woman just to see how she’s doing?”
“It’s been three months since you and I spoke.”
“Doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about you, sweetness. What are you doing now? I’d like to come over.”
“Going to bed,” I answered. “Without you. Good night, Dick.”
“Wait! Wait! How about dinner tomorrow night? You pick the place.”
“I’ll get back to you.”
I hung up while he was still talking.
I used Dyson’s Luxury Limousines when I was out to make an impression or didn’t want to drive. Like the time I attended my cousin’s wedding and knew that the sight of her in a white wedding dress, complete with trailing veil, would make me drink. Richard owed me because if it hadn’t been for my contacts, he’d never have gotten the Flamingo Beach Chronicle’s account. Then Jen got Richard the WARP account through Tre, her fiancé, who now used Dyson’s exclusively to pick up the people he hosted.
Richard and I had gone out a time or two when I was lonely, and being with him seemed better than being alone. He’d dropped big money on those dinners. Now I’m starting to sound like I’m a gold digger. Fast-talking Dickie isn’t too bad to look at and he liked his women big. Since the way to my heart is definitely through my stomach I thought I’d give him a shot. Feed me and I’ll listen to you bray on any topic. Richard’s gold card had taken a beating on those meals.
I yawned. My bed waited. I had to be up at the crack of dawn and I needed my beauty sleep. I was already planning tomorrow’s outfit in my head. As my grandmother used to say, “fat does not have to mean sloppy.” She was one smart old lady.
After I’d left class, I stopped at a discount store and splurged on a new workout outfit. The peanuts I got paid didn’t get me into Macy’s. I hadn’t gone hog wild with the colors and although it killed me, I passed on zebra stripes and polka dots, sticking to black. Black was slimming. I bought two pairs of capris and an oversized T-shirt and spiced up the outfit with hot pink socks and a matching cap that said, Love Handles All.
I was doing this for Quen Abrahams. I’d noticed the types of women he went for. They were fit, trim and looked like they stepped off magazine covers. I was going to be one of those women soon.
Bedtime. I was getting overtired and punchy.
A god-awful racket woke me next morning. It sounded like a freight train was roaring through my head. I hit the snooze button, sat up and looked at the clock. I had exactly one half hour to crawl into my outfit, plug in the curling iron and throw in some curls.
By the time I left my apartment I had ten minutes to get across town. It wasn’t even summer yet but it was hotter than hell in Florida, this promised to be a steamer of a day. The air-conditioning in my car was on the blink and I would be feeling it. Trying not to think about that, I wedged myself behind the wheel of my Honda, cranked up the engine, and lowered the window. I roared into that parking lot with a full minute to spare.
Quen was waiting in one of the workout rooms. He had on black track pants with a stripe on the side, and a body hugging T-shirt with a hot pink flamingo emblem that matched my socks.
“Morning,” he said, glancing at his watch. “You’re right on time. Cute getup.”
“Thanks.” Boyfriend sure as hell made my mouth go dry. It was going to be one painful hour and not just because of the exercise session.
Quen was one of those delicious, dark brown men, with a smooth complexion and square jaw. Everything about him squeaked cleanliness. He had wide shoulders, a tapered waist and hands just as scrupulously clean as the rest of him.
I set my fanny pack in the corner and made my way to the machine in the corner that he pointed out. The contraption made me think of that guillotine I’d read about in my English class, Madame Defart or something. Grimacing, I managed to mount the thing while he barked
