always works out up front by Dwayne. Didn’t see her.”
“She came in a few minutes ago, huffing and puffing. Said she was bone tired because she had been up there working out. Ain’t but one aerobics class at six-thirty, right?”
“Didn’t see her.”
“You drinking water?”
“Yeah. Sorry about that. Thirsty.”
“Ain’t got no kinda phone etiquette,” he said, then asked, “Were you there the whole class?”
“Didn’t miss a move.”
“Where were you in class?”
“My same old spot, up front by Robert and Jodi. Everybody asked about you.”
“Yeah. I need to get back to going to the gym.”
“Maybe Rosa Lee was downstairs riding the bike or something.”
“Said she was in class. Told me that five minutes ago.”
“Where she at now?”
“Upstairs at Daddy’s place. She ran up there to put clothes in the dryer. We’re doing all of our laundry up there and down here at the same time.”
He made a troubled sound, something so unlike him.
I asked, “What was that all about?”
“Nothing, nothing.” Then my buddy changed the subject. He perked up. “How thangs working out with that girl you just met?”
“They ain’t. She’s a flake. I’m done with New York.”
But two days later, I called Dana again. Irresistible impulse.
Four weeks of hit-and-miss conversations, another brief moment at the Starbucks in Ladera. Then for days, not a word or a returned phone call.
Friday evening, since our conversations had been going downhill, since it was an I’ll-call-you-don’t-call-me kinda thing, I had pretty much written Dana off as another flake. I didn’t expect her to ring my phone as soon as I got in from work and ask, “So, what we doing tonight?”
We ended up at Magic Johnson’s theater, ragging on people, wondering why black people in the neighborhood were so damn loud at the movies, chomping popcorn warm enough to melt the Raisinets we scattered on top.
Saturday night we drove out Pacific Coast Highway, ate dinner at Gladstones, then went out on Malibu Beach. Under a half-moon we rested on smooth rocks and talked. Wave after wave rolled in and dampened the dirty brown sand. She wore a short jean skirt that exposed her smooth legs, kissable thighs, a faded oversize Levi’s jacket, a red and yellow tam on her head. She looked like a rebel artist. I had on jeans too, baggy Levi’s I’d bought at Robinson’s-May that day just to wear while I hung out with her.
The temp in L.A. dropped at least fifteen degrees at night, and the beach was even cooler, borderline cold, so the chill that came with the night made Dana snuggle next to me to keep warm, her shoulder against mine, close enough to know there was a taste of magic riding the ocean’s salty breath.
She was relaxed, serene enough to talk about how she grew up. Went to four elementary schools in three years. A rough time for her and her mom. Her dad was in Florida, remarried his first wife and started a new family. Things were tight. In those early paycheck-to-pay-check years, her mom moved a lot, sometimes trying to stay one step ahead of the landlord, but things got better.
“So.” Dana sighed. “I said what the hell. I needed to get away. Nothing was keeping me there. Nope, nothing at all.”
Leftover love was in her voice.
Dana told me, “I used to put on events with this guy I was seeing. Bands in Harlem, did quite a few book signings with some writers—those were a headache. Rappers were hard to deal with, but some writers and their Talented Tenth egos . . .”
This wasn’t the conversation I wanted to have, didn’t want to hear her ramble on about her ex, not when I was sitting on the beach on a star-filled night. This was buddy plan kinda talk. She’d put me on the friendship train. I sneaked a peek at my watch, gave up on the romance, ignored the sounds of the ocean and the glow of the moon over our heads, and went with the flow. “So, what happened between you and your ex?”
“Picture this: middle of the night, we’re in bed, this girl shows up.”
“Sounds scary.”
“It was. When I woke up, she was over me, screaming. I hadn’t figured out left from right, or up from down, before she attacked me.”
“What happened?”
“I opened up a family-size can of whup ass on that bigtitty heifer. Police came.” Her words trailed off, faded the way a person does when they wish they hadn’t told you the first part. “It was a mess. Wretched.”