Humbled, Part I
Chenae’s POV
First sorority committee meeting of the year. I’m the president and I’m being humiliated by everyone.
“Soror Chenae, you’ll be in charge of the fundraising committee again this year, right?” Soror Christina asks, smirking. Bitch. She’s enjoying this.
“Unfortunately, Soror, I cannot. I have to concentrate on finals.”
“Nearly all of us have to concentrate on finals, Soror Chenae. It’s a tiresome fact of life in college,” she says. “You’ve done such a brilliant job the past two years. I think you can handle it another year. All in favor?”
Every hand rises. Technically, I’m not a part of this committee; I’m ex-officio. Christina, as first VP, is the head of this committee. The vote is unanimous and I’m now stuck with fundraising for the year.
I hate Tallulah Jackson. Thank god she’s gone back to New Jersey.
School’s only been in session a two weeks but I’m miserable. I hated moving back on campus and having to eat in the cafeteria with freshmen. It’s embarrassing and humiliating because freshmen have no couth. Worse, as the president of the most popular black sorority on campus, I constantly get poseurs and kiss-asses trying to sit with me and suck up.
Amitrice and Christina were quick to tell me that they’ll keep my future bitch-in-law’s background to themselves in exchange for running the chapter they want to. Gone are my plans for elegant parties and meaningful community service. Instead, we’re doing things that I never intended. Instead of mentoring and volunteering with the Urban League, we’re marching with the NAACP. God, the NAACP?! They’re irrelevant! A bunch of old people who see racism around every corner. Shit, they’re still in the 60s, marching like people pay attention to that.
People my age look at them and know they’re irrelevant. Proof? Our President. He followed the new path. Excellent education, community service, public work. No stops in divinity school, no marching necessary. Every black leader doesn’t have to be a preacher. He proved it and he’s not the only one. Cory Booker, Marc Morial, Ben Jealous (OK, yeah, he’s the head of the NAACP but he’s no preacher), all these guys are the new wave. No marching necessary.
The Urban League is about economic empowerment and promoting entrepreneurship. They’re about business! I’m not interested in marching for civil rights all over again. I want economic rights! I want economic prosperity. That’s the new fight. I want to own my destiny, like Pierre. He and his buddies started their own business and they are successful and rich. I don’t see Pierre worrying about immigration policy, stop-and-frisk, police brutality or any of that foolishness! He has a business to run.
I trudge back to my dorm room and pull my books. I have practicums and internship in social work this year and I’m already sick of it. I remember what Momma said about finding a group I can ‘lower’ myself to work with. I was insulted but she was right; I haven’t found a group I want to work with yet. I spend an hour staring blankly at the books before the tears start rolling down my cheeks.
You know what your problem is, Chenae? Too much fucking ego. Too selfish.
Fuck you, Robert Brown. I don’t think he could have said anything else to me that day to hurt me more. I’ve loved Bobby Brown ever since Pierre first brought him home. I mean, who wouldn’t? All my girlfriends loved him! Six foot, sexy chocolate brown skin, beautiful white smile, curly black hair, graceful and elegant in everything he did. Shortly before I went off to college, he and Pierre took me and my girlfriends to the YMCA pool one afternoon to cool down. They were sick of running laps but they still had to exercise. We sat on the bleachers and stared at him. Well, Nicey stared at Pierre but she likes ’em big. I chose to ignore her. That’s my brother!
We watched the way he cut through the water, like an Olympic swimmer, doing flips in the pool to make the turns. Then he got out of the pool and I think all six of us, all of 17 at the time, had a hot flash. Robert Brown fully dressed was one thing. Robert Brown dripping wet in a pair of swim shorts was another. The man put Blair Underwood to shame and we were obsessed with him. His chest was sculpted perfection, his butt was high, tight, and amazing but for me there was just something about his legs. . .
And he thinks I’m selfish.
I put the books away and grab my coat. I start walking the campus, searching for a way out of my predicament. Momma said that things done in the dark will come to the light and she’s never wrong. Tallulah’s background came to the light and instead of her getting tarred with it and embarrassed, I got hit. I don’t get it. Hell, she was the hooker, the prostitute, the ‘ho. Why is everyone treating me like I’m wrong?
I want Pierre to marry someone elegant. I thought Momma was pushing Patricia on him for a while, but she stopped. I wished she’d kept at it. I keep in touch with Patricia and she asks about Pierre every so often. She’s what Pierre needs: educated, refined, independent and obviously interested in my brother. I would be proud to be her sister.
Tallulah is just as country and ghetto as the rest of our uncouth, embarrassing family.
That’s what your brother has been trying to teach you. This shit doesn’t matter. Women in Atlanta look at me and see another thug. Black man, with braids and an Army background. They don’t know how I clean up and what my background is. So I choose the women who talk to me when I look like a thug. Because they’re interested in the man they see, not the wallet. Not the degrees. Not the money.
Those women need to get an eye exam. No one, no one, could mistake Bobby for a thug. He’s too elegant for that. The man moves in grace. A few moments speaking to him quickly highlights that he’s cultured. He has a good background. He’s educated (Morehouse! Morehouse, for Christ’s sake!) and he speaks perfect French. I took four years of French just hoping to impress him with my proficiency!
I look at Bobby and I don’t see his wallet or his degrees or his money. OK, I do but I see more than that. I see the results of having money, what having access to the best clubs and schools can do for a man. I look at Bobby and see the kind of man Pierre wanted us to marry. I see grace and culture and good manners. I see elegance and wisdom and a sexier than sin body.
I see the man who showed my brother how to achieve that sort of grace. Pierre used to walk like he clunked everywhere. Even after he came home from Basic, he moved like that. I noticed a few years ago that he’d started to roll his feet and I realized Bobby always did. It gave him a gait that looked like he was floating across a floor. My brother holds himself like Bobby. I clearly see Bobby’s influence on him. If not for Bobby’s privileged background, who would have taught Pierre those things?
Richard James suits? Charvet ties? Who in Lafayette could have taught Pierre about that level of fashion? Richard James is Savile Row! Fela Kuti? That’s clearly Bobby’s influence, his background, his education, which he shared freely with my brother. My brother took those lessons on and they filtered down within our family. Antoine used to dress like every other thug around here. He had a purple suit, for Christ sake! A purple suit! No one except preachers and pimps wear purple suits! Pierre came home in that custom Richard James and the next thing I know, Antoine has a conservative black Brooks Brothers suit. He even had a tailor work on his so it looks good on him. Bobby experimented with dreads (fashion mistake, but he still looked good); Antoine grew dreads.
My brother sounds as country as the rest of us when he’s home but I’ve seen him operate around other people. He sounds cultured, like someone took a file to all his rough edges. Bobby has had just as much influence on Pierre as Lucille Graves did.
I look at Bobby Brown and I don’t see a wallet. I see a man I’d make babies for for the rest of my life.
And he dislikes me.
I look up and my dorm is in front of me again. I look around. I walked the campus that fast. Sigh.
Back to the books.
Antoine’s album debuted at number one. The entire family is shocked. Pierre and Bobby come over to Louisiana to congratulate him and throw him a party, minus the weed. They leave tomorrow for New Jersey. Business related. Something about a clearance.
Antoine grins. “You sure, little bro? Cuz I just got a sample of that good cush.”
Pierre and Bobby laugh. “Hell no! The first time was enough,” Bobby grins. “I got a contact high from your damn studio!” For some reason, Pierre laughs even harder at that and Bobby flips him off.
The guys start talking about the discarded tracks from the first album. Antoine plans to rework them with new rappers and see what happens. They’re proud of this and I’m still at a loss to understand why.
I took a few of my precious dollars and bought Antoine’s album. I have to admit it’s good. I don’t understand half of what’s on it but it’s smooth. It’s hip-hop. It’s not mindless rap. It’s Late Registration with a southern edge. Less Funkmaster Flex, more Cee-Lo Green. Everyone is thrilled at Antoine’s success and Momma has been cooking all his favorite meals all day. My fingers are raw from chopping, dicing, and baking. I don’t want to make another pound cake all year.
Antoine looks over at me. “Hey Baby Shug, you got a hug for yo’ big brother?”
“Will I get high if I hug you?”
Antoine straightens up. “Nah, but why chance it.” He walks off and I look at Momma. Her face is set in stone and I dare not look at Pierre or Bobby. I look at my sisters, who are looking at me in pity.
“Come on, Chenae,” Wilma says quietly. They motion for me to follow them out of the door and into the backyard. I clench my jaw, waiting for them to start yelling. Instead, Thelma and Wilma each hug me, me sandwiched between my sisters. I burst into tears and cry into Thelma’s shirt.
“Why is everyone treating me like I’m wrong? I don’t understand,” I sob. “OK, so Antoine’s a success now. Doesn’t make up for the 30 years of bullshit he put everyone through. Doesn’t wipe the slate clean. It doesn’t make everything OK.”
Thelma rubs my back and sighs. “We know baby, but here’s the deal. How long you want someone to hold your mistakes against you?”
“What mistakes?” I ask, wiping my eyes.
Wilma snorts. “Well, we could start with your future sister-in-law.” I roll my eyes. “See, right there. How long should Pierre hold your nasty attitude against his future wife against you?”
“She’s not good enough for him.”
“And who gets to make that decision, Chenae?” Thelma says. “Pierre will have to live with her for the rest of his life. He’s happy, happier than we’ve ever seen him. Why won’t you accept that, at a minimum, she makes him happy?”
Because she’s not good enough for him, that’s why. Patricia’s still interested. There’s still time.
“It doesn’t matter what we think of the decision. Pierre made it and he’s standing by it, just like we all have to accept responsibility for the decisions we make in our lives. Now, with Antoine, Pierre apologized to him.”
I look at them in shock. “No way,” I breathe.
“Well,” Thelma says, looking at Wilma, “he didn’t so much apologize as make the effort to start ensuring Antoine was included in family things, and he’s stopped giving him the cold shoulder. You see it. Antoine and Pierre are speaking and trying to get along. Lula encouraged him to forgive Antoine for the decisions he’d made 20 years earlier and give him a chance. That’s what she wanted Pierre to do for her and they’re in love. Pierre has his brother back—”
“We have our brother back,” Wilma says firmly, “and no one should stop family from being close. When you said what you said a few minutes ago, that was cruel and unnecessary. We all know Antoine smokes weed. Bobby had just made a joke about it. You were just being a little pissant. You could be covered head to toe in shit and I’d still hug you if you wanted a hug.”
My sisters rub my back and Wilma walks off. Thelma looks at me. “Shug, you need to get over your crush on Bobby.” I look up in shock. Thelma smiles sadly. “Yeah, you’re obvious. We all know. He knows. Honey, Bobby is Pierre’s age. He’s never going to see you as anything other than Pierre’s baby sister.” I’m shaking and Thelma takes me in her embrace again. “Start looking at some men your own age. They aren’t all uncivilized. There are good men out there. But Bobby isn’t the one for you.” She presses a kiss to my forehead and walks back into the house.
I sit on the patio and choke back tears. I thought I hid it well. I didn’t realize . . . I didn’t realize . . .
I take it back. This is the most humiliating experience I’ve had this year.
Ever since Pierre cut me off, my money has been extremely short. I have enough to just take care of living. My car was driven to Momma’s and left there. I take the Greyhound back and forth on a student discount.
Pierre has never been wrong. I found out who my friends were three days after I announced I was letting my apartment go. I tried to round up some help to move out but people came over, ate up all my food, half packed my boxes and didn’t help me move at all. I was stuck trying to figure out how I was going to get it all done when Momma showed up with David and Barry.
I haven’t always gotten along with my brothers-in-law, mostly because I saw them as leeches on Pierre, but they helped me repack the apartment and move on campus. Momma cleaned the apartment so I could get my security deposit back and Barry drove a U-Haul back home filled with everything I couldn’t move into my dorm room and towing my car. I found out later that Antoine pitched in to prepay for a rental unit to store my stuff for a year. Barry and David passed me $500 dollars, Barry telling me, “That was part of my anniversary fund with my wife. We decided you needed it more. Don’t expect another transfer from us because we aren’t Pierre. Our money isn’t like that.”
I was grateful and, for the first time since I’ve known him, I hugged my brother without him having to initiate it. I’ve hounded that money ever since. I don’t eat out and no one invites me to go. All those times I paid for a round of drinks or dinner and no one invites me to go out with them. The first few times I tried to suggest going to free places or less expensive places, everyone looked at me as if I’d lost it. I was suggesting the same places I used to scoff at when I was flush but needs must.
Christina took me to the side and asked what was up. I told her about Pierre cutting me off, about my money being short my last year, and needing to hold on to what I have. I thought she was my friend. I thought she’d keep that to herself.
Nope. She told every damn body. People now get around me and suggest going to the most expensive places to eat and drink, knowing I can’t go. They smirk while doing it, so I know it’s aimed at me. Girls I brought into the chapter snicker at me since I’m not balling like I used to.
Men on this campus ignore me now. My manicure is a thing of the past, my hair has seen better days, and I’m no longer wearing the hottest outfits and shoes. Everything I have is last season right now and I remember Antoine once joking that any man who paid that much attention to fashion must be gay. Well, I’m not sure but I’m not getting any play anymore.
I suppose, with my loss of money, I’m supposed to be desperate now because hoodrats are now sniffing around me, trying to get me to give it up to them. Sniff. No thank you. My brother’s lessons still hold. I see why he preached respect for body and self all the time. The girls in this dorm have boyfriends who damn near live in and I constantly wake in the middle of the night to moans and sighs. It’s irritating when I’m handling that by myself and always have. Worse? If I step out in the middle of the night to walk to the vending machine for a drink, they’re eyeing me like I should be next. No thanks. Your dick isn’t that interesting to me.
I hate Tallulah Jackson. If not for her, I’d still be my big brother’s precious baby sister and he’d take care of me.
I look up and Antoine is right in front of me. He snorts and sits.
“Be smarter than me, Baby Shug.”
“I am smarter than you.”
He looks at me and laughs. “Nah, you me at 17. You stupid and full of yourself. Ain’t a damn bit of difference between us ‘cept you got book sense.” I look at him coldly and he smiles. “I put other shit, other people, ahead of family. I shoulda done my time instead of making Pierre take the fall. That one decision, which seemed reasonable at the time, caused a near 20 years rift between me and my brother. You? You fucking up worse than me.”
“How?” I’m really interested in this answer.
“Cuz Lula is for life. She ain’t going away. She can get Pierre to consider shit like no one else can and they love each other. Do you really want Pierre to treat you like the family treated me for the rest of your life?”
“He wouldn’t. He loves me.” I’m certain of that.
Antoine snorts. “Which is why you’ll never starve and you’ll never have to trick but I’m telling you, Shug, you settin’ yourself up for a painful fall.” I look at him and he shakes his head. “Nah, you haven’t fallen yet. You’ve been bumped onto your ass. I fell.
Momma kicked me out. None of you girls would talk to me. Pierre acted like I didn’t exist unless all us was together and he did just enough to ensure Momma couldn’t bust him for not acknowledging me. The rest of our family ain’t good for shit. Who was gonna help my black ass? Where was my support? You a girl, so Pierre will always make sure you have just enough that you don’t have to trick but you won’t get shit else outta him.”
“I’m not getting anything out of him now.”
Antoine smiles. “You think not? We’ll see.” He stands to leave and I decide to say what I should have earlier.
“I bought your album.”
He turns around. “Word?” He looks pleased.
“Yeah. Late Registration with a southern flavor. More worldly, deeper.” I bite my lip and look at him. He looks pleased. “Great beats and good artists.”
“And the misogynistic lyrics?”
I slump. “Weren’t there.”
“Exactly.”
“Antoine?” He looks at me. “I’d buy album II, too.”
Mrs. Jacobson is my advisor. Well, she’s more than that. She’s the deputy head of the department, my research professor, and my other big sister. We’ve had fun many a night putting together research papers and proposals, doing fieldwork, and going to conferences. Working with her is how I’ve managed to get published, another feather in my cap. Shirley Jacobson is my advisor, yes, but she’s also a best friend. So when she called me to her office, I went, wondering if she had another study she wanted to work on.
It’s nearly time for midterm grades and I’m struggling. I just need to make it through this year. Then I’ll figure out a game plan. I noticed the Urban League is looking for academic case managers to help struggling high schools students achieve. I applied for that, realizing I met every qualification and, in my cover letter, pointed out that as a first-generation college student, I understood their unique needs. I’m hoping for a call-back. That should be an interesting job. Those kind of kids I can work with, already motivated to do better and achieve. I may have found a group I can work with.
“Chenae, come in.” Mrs. Jacobson moves a massive pile of folders from her chair, looks around, and sits them perpendicular on top of another pile of folders. I smile.
“Someday, you’ll file those. I’ve watched you move that pile for three years now.”
She frowns. “It couldn’t have been that long.”
I stand up and quickly pull one file from the stack. “This article on TB rates in Louisiana was written when I was a freshman. That’s how I know when you just move the stack.”
Mrs. Jacobson throws her head back and laughs. “OK, maybe I do need to get in here and clean a bit.” She shakes her head. “Anyway, I need to talk to you.” She sobers and closes the door. She turns her chair around to face me and looks at me closely.
“Chenae, I’m worried about you. I’ve been getting feedback from your practicum and internship supervisors and it’s not as positive as I assumed it would be.” I swallow hard and fight the tears. “Sweetie, you are my best student, but it’s not translating in the field. I’m getting reports that although you show up on time, you are diligent in the work, and are personally a pleasure to be around, professionally you have no passion for this work. Do we have you in the wrong internship? Do we need to see if we can find you something different?”
My throat has closed and I have no answer for that. I shrug. Mrs. Jacobson pops me on my knee and I smile. She’s been doing that for years.
“I need a verbal answer. Look, I’m not fussing at you. This happens. You came into social work fired up. You wanted to be like Lucille and I don’t blame you. She was an outstanding woman, one of our best graduates, and I knew you were going to be special the moment you mentioned her name. But have you lost your enthusiasm for this?”
Again, I shrug. I have no answers. Mrs. Jacobson sighs and sits back.
“Fine. What does Pierre have to say?”
“He’s not speaking to me much.”
She stares at me in confusion. “Pierre? Why on earth not?”
I swallow hard and slowly start telling her the story of Pierre’s move to Texas, his new fiancée (only mentioning that she has a less than desirable background), my discussion with Lula, and I gloss over the disastrous lunch at The Cheesecake Factory. I finish with my discussion with Pierre the day he cut me off and I’m sobbing by the time I get to the end.
Mrs. Jacobson holds me in her embrace and pats my back as I cry. “Oh baby. It’s been a few tough months for you, huh?” I sniff and she smiles and hands me her box of Kleenex. “OK, I’m going to put on my licensed counselor hat and tell you what I think, OK? Ready to hear me out?”
I shrug. “Sure. You can’t say anything worse than what my entire family has said.”
Mrs. Jacobson smiles. “Don’t be too sure about that.” I smile. “OK, here’s what I think. First, I agree with your family.” I slump. “You owe your brother an apology. He fell in love. He’s happy. You should celebrate that and get to know the outstanding woman he’s chosen. It doesn’t matter that her background is not as good as you hoped it would be. Everyone has something to teach someone else.” She smiles. “Have you ever known your brother to misjudge someone? Be fooled into thinking someone is better than they really are?” I shake my head. “Then what makes you think he isn’t well aware of all this woman’s faults and liabilities? Do you think he’s been fooled into this engagement?”
I bite my lip and think. No, Pierre’s ability to size someone up is legendary. Even his partner, Señor Scary, relies on it. I sigh. “No. I’m confident that he’s investigated her.”
“And he still loves her?” I nod. “Then she’s quality. Your brother, from all you’ve ever told me about him, only picks quality. There’s something about this woman you’re overlooking and you need to find out what it is.”
“She wants to go into social work,” I mutter.
“Really?” Mrs. Jacobson looks pleased. “Why?”
I sigh and level about Tallulah’s background. Mrs. Jacobson whistles.
“Tough break. Tough life. And now she wants to help others?” I nod. “Then she is extraordinary.”
I look up sharply. “Why? Why do you think that after hearing she was a prostitute?”
Mrs. Jacobson looks at me oddly. “Because most women who were once in street life deny it ever happened. They stay far away from the reminders. They don’t want their pimps or former clients to find them. It’s an embarrassing period in their life they usually want to forget. Your future sister-in-law doesn’t care, not if it means she could help someone else. It takes strength and true character to ignore the rumors someone whispers about you and focus on others.”
I open my mouth to argue that point but I have to shut it fast. She just described Momma in that last sentence. No wonder Momma loves Lula. They’re alike in that. I sigh. “Second?”
“Second, your brother cut you off for your actions. Tallulah had nothing to do with it.”
“But—”
“Tallulah had nothing to do with it,” Mrs. Jacobson repeats firmly. “She was the catalyst, but not the reason, Chenae. You’d pushed your brother’s buttons too far. He asked you to respect her and you didn’t. I’m going to ask you to do this. Put your mother in Tallulah’s place during that lunch at the Cheesecake Factory. Were your actions, and those of your friends, still appropriate?”
A red haze settles over my vision before I remember where I am. “No. I would’ve beaten the crap out of Christina and Amitrice.”
“But it was acceptable for Tallulah?”
Crap. I’m not enjoying this conversation.
“You see, your brother treated those incidents in the same manner. The woman he loved, regardless of whether it was your mother or Tallulah or Wilma or Thelma, was attacked and you were the instigator. So he punished you.”
For the first time since Pierre cut me off, I get it. I truly do understand. If that had been Momma being attacked by Anjette and her cronies, I would have pitched a fit. I nearly did once, before Pierre took care of the problem in his usual calm, brilliant way.
“Now, I’m going to switch tracks here. Tell me why you want to be a social worker and don’t refer to Pierre or Lucille in the explanation.”
I sit back and think. The clock ticks. Mrs. Jacobson shuffles papers. I think.
“Can’t come up with a brilliant response?” she teases. I shake my head.
“What’s the University motto?”
“Not for one’s own self, but for one’s own.”
“The School of Social Work truly lives and breathes that. We do the work that others don’t want to do. We help those in distressed situations. We train men and women to help and shepherd those in crisis.” She looks at me closely. “This doesn’t excite you, does it?”
I’m scared to shake my head but I finally do. She nods.
“I’ve worried about that for the past year. When we talk, I notice the enthusiasm you have for business matters, for management and entrepreneurship. I notice the love you have for the stock market and CNBC. I’ve wondered why you didn’t become a business major and thought, ‘Well, maybe that’s a hobby and this is her passion’. I see now I was wrong. I should have encouraged you to change your major last year.” She sits back and sighs. “Now, what are we going to do?”
I trudge back to my dorm room. I have no idea what to do and neither did Mrs. Jacobson. I take a quick shower and pull the books. This 3.85 doesn’t maintain itself.
Two hours later I’m tired again. Mrs. Jacobson’s words are stuck in my brain.
It takes strength and true character to ignore the rumors someone whispers about you and focus on others.
What makes you think he isn’t well aware of all this woman’s faults and liabilities? Do you think he’s been fooled . . .
Professionally you have no passion for this work.
I pick up my phone.
“Momma?”
“Hey, Shug! How’s college?”
“It’s fine. What’s going on at home?”
Momma launches into the home gossip. Antoine’s studio is booked solid so he’s had to raise rates. He’s thinking of getting a business manager. Pierre is busy in Charlotte. Tallulah’s still in New Jersey, packing to move to Texas and he’s moping. I smile at the idea of my big brother moping.
Bobby had a date with Patricia. She’s in love. Bobby? Momma doesn’t think Patricia is the one for him.
“He didn’t look excited to see her. I don’t think he can take all the religion. He tole me he was a non-practicing Baptist. Pierre and Lester asked him what that was. He said it’s a Baptist who remembers he’s one when he’s in a foxhole.”
I laugh at that. Sardonic wit. I add that to the list of Bobby’s perfections. Is it wrong of me to be relieved that his date with Patricia didn’t work out? I like Patricia but Bobby is mine.
“Wilma’s been made the night supervising nurse at work and Thelma is doin’ fine. How about you, baby?”
I sigh. “I’m OK, Mommy.”
I can hear my mother thinking. ‘Mommy? Uh oh.’
“What’s really wrong, Shug?”
“I talked to Shirley Jacobson today. The reports from my fieldwork aren’t that great. I show up on time, I do the work, but everyone is reporting I have no enthusiasm for the work.”
“Ooooh . . . OK, are you in the wrong thing for you?”
“Yes. We both realized I should have been a business major.” I sit my books aside. “I don’t have a passion for this.”
“Then why did you do it? Why choose social work?”
I sigh. Mrs. Jacobson and I discussed this for hours yesterday. I went through boxes of Kleenex but we finally got an answer. “I did it because Pierre’s pride in me meant more than anything else. I never wanted to disappoint him. Mrs. Lucille made such a difference in his life. I chose that instead of following my heart and doing what mattered to me.”
“Oh baby …” Momma’s voice is soft. “He would have been proud of you no matter what major you chose.” I’m crying silently. I know that now. Pierre’s support of me has never depended on me doing or saying anything for him, just my achievements and what I accomplished. It hurts that he’s really not speaking to me like he used to. “So what are you going to do?”
“Well, my scholarships can’t be extended, so I have to finish in social work. On the upside, I got a call from the Urban League here. The case manager job I applied for is mine and it’s something I like. Working with kids to make college standards. I think I’ll do this for the year and finish the year, then figure out my next move.”
“OK. Well, Antoine is headed your way this weekend. Why don’t you talk it over with him?”
“Why?” I stare at my phone in confusion.
“Antoine is a businessman. He should be able to help you. Maybe both your brothers can help you, if you get Pierre on the phone. You need to start working on your plan now.”
“OK …”
“Call Antoine tonight. I know he’s gonna be busy in New Orleans this weekend, so see if you can get some of his time. Make sure you do that, Chenae.”
“Yes, Momma.”
“Bye, baby. Study hard! I love you.”
“I love you too, Momma.” Click.
Well, if nothing else, talking to my momma refreshes my spirit. I need to go to church this weekend and get a good refill. Maybe that’s why I’m so down. I need a Jesus refill. I dial Antoine.
“‘Sup?”
“Is that really how you answer the phone?”
“It is when I know who’s calling. Need something, Baby Shug?”
“Yeah.” I wonder how to ask Antoine for help. This is a first. “Um. Well . . .”
“Spit it out. These minutes ain’t free yet.”
I grin. Don’t I know it. “I need help.”
“And you calling me? Shiiiiiiiiiit, you must need a fucking miracle.”
“Maybe. I’m not sure yet. I need a game plan.”
“Game plan? I’m good at game plans. What’s up?”
I give Antoine the quick recap. He whistles. “You decent?”
“Yeah.”
“Aigh. I’ll be at your school in 20 minutes.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m in the Dirty, scouting talent. Get dressed and get to the gate. I don’t feel like being stared at by students.” Click.
I quickly pull a pair of blue jeans, some cute flats, and my belted trench. I hurry down to the gate and wait. Antoine pulls up in an Impala and we drive off.
“Aigh, level. No bullshit, Chenae.”
I sigh and start telling him about my discussion with Mrs. Jacobson about my future in social work. We end up at Boucherie, a favorite of mine, classy and upscale. I look at Antoine. “My money’s too short for this.”
He grins. “I see you already growing up a little. Nice of you to automatically assume that big brother’s not footing the bill. If I’d been Pierre, you would not only have assumed it, you would have directed me here.” I frown and punch his arm. He laughs. “It’s cool, Baby Shug. I got it. Come on.”
We step inside and I wilt. My old gang is here. I look at Antoine, who smirks. “Damn shame they didn’t invite you. Why not?”
I roll my eyes. “You already know.”
His face is serious. “And now you do too. Now that you ‘ain’t got shit’, they ain’t got time for you. Been there, know that. Remember this feeling. Always.”
I swallow hard and nod. We’re seated close to my old crew. I nod as we pass and they stare in shock. I push away the menu. I already know what I’m getting. Antoine takes a look and decides quickly. We order when the waitress comes around for the drink options.
Antoine and I are discussing my case manager job when a shadow falls across the table. I look up and it’s Christina and Amitrice.
“Chenae!” I nod and they smile. “How great to see you.” They turn to Antoine, eyes wide. “Are you Antoine LaPierre?” He nods. “Oh my God, are you two related?”
Antoine looks at me with an odd expression on his face. They look at me and I nod. “My eldest brother.”
Half of my old crew is now surrounding us and they’re staring at us in shock. “Wow,” Christina breathes. She holds out her hand to Antoine, who takes it without smiling. “Mr. LaPierre, I loved your album! Are you working on another?”
“Yes, I am. Everyone, I need to have a talk with my sister. Thank you for the enthusiasm, but I’d really like some privacy right now.”
Everyone murmurs apologies and compliments on the album before moving away. Antoine stares at me. “Why do I get the feeling that your ‘friends’ thought you only had one brother?”
“Dunno. I told them I had two brothers. I’ve never hidden or lied about you. I just never had much to say about you.”
Antoine stares at me then nods. “OK, back to your problem.”
The waitress brings my fried green tomatoes and Antoine’s beef brisket. We’re chowing down and Antoine is thinking and shooing people away from our table.
“Does this happen a lot?”
“Yeah. I thought it would be nice. It is, but not when I’m eating.” I smile and tuck in. “Aigh, Baby Shug, this is what I think. You don’t really wanna go into social work, right?” I shake my head. “Good time to figure that shit out. Anyway, this case manager job will be good for you, but you need to either get a job in management or go to B-school. Pierre ain’t payin for it, so what’s your plan? What you thinking?”
“I dunno. I just realized I’m in the wrong thing today.”
“Well, I got a couple of ideas, but I want you to think on it. Really decide how you wanna live yo life. Other thing, how you gon’ get to this job?”
I put my water glass down and swallow hard. “I’m still trying to figure it out.”
“How much it pay?”
“$13 an hour.”
“Then that’s enough for you to afford to get your car.”
“Not without paying for a campus parking pass and their steep rates.”
“How much?”
“For the full year? Nearly a thousand.”
Antoine chokes on his meal. He swallows some water and stares at me. “You shittin’ me?”
I shake my head. “Nope. And I’m only allowed to park in Diboll garage.”
“Fuck! Now that’s a hustle,” Antoine grins. “Imma get in the parking lot business.”
I laugh. “So besides the fact that I can’t pay for the parking pass, I still have to put gas in the car. I did the math. Assuming no taxes are taken out, I’m making $300 a month. Take $100 out for gas and that’s $200 a month. I’d end up working for the parking permit. If they take taxes then it’s ridiculous.”
Antoine nods. “Nice. You did the math. You factor in tickets, insurance, car washes, trips to Momma’s, cuz you and I both know that the moment you get your car, you’ll burn the highway up again to see her”–I grin– “and the maintenance?”
I slump. “Shit.”
Antoine laughs. “Think about it. Cars ain’t cheap. The job is good. You better think about how you gon’ manage it.” He orders the Krispy Kreme bread pudding (my favorite!) and smiles.
“Welcome to the school of hard knocks on the ass, Baby Shug. You just gettin’ started.”
