Then…Takira
THEN…TAKIRA
High School – Senior Year
“How’s the soup coming, Kira?” my mother shouts from the dining room. “It’s done?”
I roll my eyes and sigh, but not too loudly because I don’t want licks from Mama tonight, and she will pop me if provoked. Or toss the nearest shoe at me.
“Yes, ma’am.” I lift the lid from the fish soup, drawing in a deep breath of the flavor-rich aroma and letting the steam mist my face.
“Good,” she yells. “I hope we have enough of everything. All them boys’ll be hungry.”
The last thing I want to do in the middle of the week is help my mother prepare a full Trinidadian spread for twelve immature jocks. Bad enough I live with one. Now I’m cooking dinner for Cliff’s basketball team instead of watching Vampire Diaries .
I survey the dishes, pots, and pans of food splayed across every surface in our kitchen. In addition to the soup, we have curry crab and dumpling, pelau, salt fish, coconut bread, aloo choka, rice, and every other Trini dish Mama had time to make.
“Go upstairs and check on your brother,” Mama says, the faintest lilt of the islands languishing in her words even though she’s lived in America nearly twenty years. “He lolling off. His friends be here any minute, and he not even down here.”
I grumble under my breath but turn the soup off and cut through the living room to climb the stairs. My hand is on the handle to open the door, but I catch myself just in time. Growing up, Cliff and I were closer to each other than to my sister Janice, who is four years older than him and five years older than I am. Cliff and I are what some call Irish twins, born only 13 months apart.
Ain’t no child of mine Irish nothing , Mama always says. Instead we’re her “Trini twins.”
Still, the days when I could barge into Cliff’s room unannounced are long gone. You interrupt a boy’s quiet time with his bottle of lotion in one hand and his dick in the other, you learn to knock quick .
“What you want?” his newly deeper voice demands from the other side of the door.
“Um, I want to be watching Vampire Diaries , but I’m cooking dinner for your friends. Mama says come down. The team’ll be here soon.”
The door opens, and my own dark brown eyes stare back at me from more than half a foot above. Not only are we “Trini twins,” but we could be fraternal as much as we look alike, despite the dramatic height difference. We have the same high cheekbones, though mine are set in the rounded curves of my face and his are more pronounced. Identical clefts in our chins passed on from Daddy. Heavily lashed eyes under a thick, dark slash of brows. Well, mine were thick before I experimented with wax and tweezers last week. Right now they’re what’s left.
“Help me with this tie,” Cliff says, turning back into his room, leaving me to follow inside. He holds out a tie with the word “fabulous” stitched into the burgundy and gold pattern of his private school’s shield of arms.
“Isn’t this from your school uniform?” I frown at the altered tie.
“Yeah, but we had Kenneth’s mom sew the ‘fabulous’ on for the starters, kinda like Michigan’s Fab 5.”
“Won’t you get in trouble for changing it like this?”
“We’re about to give St. Catherine’s its first state championship,” he says, his smirk cocky, his tone assured. “We could stitch suck my dick on that tie, and the headmaster wouldn’t care. Long as we bring home them Ws and sponsor dollars.”
“I still don’t get how a high school has corporate sponsors.”
“It’s a private school cranking out top athletes. You wouldn’t understand with that basic public school education you getting,” he teases.
“You cried like a little bitch when St. Catherine’s recruited you and Mama said you had to leave all your friends and accept that scholarship. So watch who you call basic, bruh.”
“I did not?—”
I cut him off with a who you trying to fool look, and he grins, showing off the straight, white smile my parents are still paying for.
“Okay, maybe I cried a little at first,” he concedes. “But that was sophomore year. It was worth it. Look at us now. ‘Bout to be champs.”
I snatch the tie from him and motion for him to bend. We were the same height—five nine—until his freshman year in high school. Over that summer, he shot up in a growth spurt of more than five inches. He grew a few more to reach his current height of six feet, six inches.
“Why you wearing a tie anyway?” I ask, looping it deftly. How I know how to do this and he still doesn’t is beyond me. “For dinner at the house?”
“We’re taking some pictures. Capturing the road to our championship.” He frowns down at me, his smile flattening into a line. “You wearing that?”
I double check the fitted Gap jeans and cropped T-shirt that Mama says must be from Baby Gap it’s so short.
“I mean, yeah.” I angle a defiant look up at him. “What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s slutty, and I don’t want my boys checking you out. We too close to the championship for me to be kicking a teammate’s ass.”
“It’s not slutty. Boys get on my nerves expecting us to dress like nuns because they get hard every time we wear clothes that show our shape. If your boys are disciplined enough to be in that weight room at the crack of dawn and practice every day, they should be able to see a little bit of ass fully covered by jeans without getting it up. And if they can’t? Not my problem.”
“I’m just saying I don’t want them getting no ideas.” His scowl deepens. “And I don’t want you getting any either.”
“Don’t worry ‘bout that. Your teammates are the boyest boys I ever met. I know them all except that new guy.”
“Don’t get any ideas about the new guy. Not that he’s that new. He’s been on the team all season.”
“He ain’t been to the house.”
“He’s kind of a loner.”
“Maybe he just doesn’t like you,” I offer sweetly.
He turns to the mirror and checks out my handiwork with the tie. “Everybody likes me.”
Arrogant, but accurate. The boy’s charisma rivals his jump shot. Which makes him charming to everyone, but sometimes unbearable to his younger sister.
“What kind of name is Naz?” I ask. “Like Nas the rapper?”
“Pronounced the same, but short for Nazareth. Who names their kid that?”
“His mama, I guess,” I laugh, leaning against the dresser and watching as Cliff removes his wave cap and brushes his hair. “I think it’s kind of sexy.”
“Tee, what’d I say?” Cliff shoots me a glare. “Stay away from my teammates—especially that one. He’s gunning for my spot.”
“Your spot? He’s a two-guard?”
“He plays the two or the three. He’s my backup, but Coach Lipton ain’t taking my ass out ‘less he has to. Got good old Naz riding that bench,” he says with obvious satisfaction. “Scrub ass.”
“Sounds like you got beef with him.”
“Nah. Long as he stays in his place.”
“Which is where?”
“Outta my way and on that bench.”
“Well, you’re the star,” I say dryly. “Everyone stays out of your way, right?”
He narrows his eyes, brows lowering. “You being sarcastic?”
“No. Derisive. See the big words my basic public school education taught me?”
He huffs out a laugh and hooks an elbow around my neck, pulling me in close. “You’ll be at the championship game, right? It’s beat up you didn’t make at least one game this season.”
“Excuse me for having a life,” I say, my brows peaking at his nerve and self-centeredness.
“What you doing that’s so important you missed my games?”
I pull back to peer up at his handsome face. “Do you really not know I’m working at Ms. Hattie’s shop every day after school?”
“Doing what?”
“Whatever she tells me to do. Sweeping. Washing and drying towels.” I beam with pride. “I just started shampooing.”
“You still thinking about skipping college to do hair?” he asks, grabbing his school uniform blazer from the back of his desk chair.
“I’m thinking about going to community college to do hair. I need training. Just because it’s not a four-year degree doesn’t mean it’s not what’s right for me. You’re planning to skip college to ball in the league as soon as you can, right?” I wait for the nod I know is coming. “What’s the difference? We both know what we want and see the path to get us there.”
“Well, I’m guaranteed one and done. I’ll be drafted after my freshman year.” He slips Air Force Ones onto his feet. “I just don’t want you to settle and be stuck here all your life.”
“What’s wrong with Houston?”
“Nothing, I guess. It’s just where we grew up. What we’ve always known. If I had to stay here forever, not see anything else, not be anything else, I’d suffocate. It’s the dream of getting out that keeps me motivated.”
“What if you get drafted by Houston and your butt ends up staying right here after all?”
“If I’m playing ball, even here ain’t here . I’ll be at a different place in life. Traveling all over the country, all over the world. Nothing but money and opportunity. You think I’m being scouted now? Wait’ll we win the big game.” His mouth hardens. “So Naz can forget playing time. I need every minute on the floor I can get.”
“Well, I’m sure you have nothing to worry about. You the best, right?”
“Damn right.” The irritation clears from his expression. “You know wherever I end up, there’s a place for you with me.”
“What? With your groupies? No, thank you.”
“I’m serious, Tee.” He pulls me in for a side hug. “If I’m good, you good. I mean that. I’mma always make sure you straight.”
“I know.” I loop an arm around his waist. “You may be a pain in the ass.”
“Excuse me?” he asks, pulling back to glare/grin down at me.
“But you’re my pain in the ass,” I finish, giving him one final squeeze.
“Kira!” Mama’s voice booms from downstairs. “Cliff! Get down here. Somebody just pulled into the driveway.”
“Here we go,” he mutters, heading out the door and down the stairs.
A steady stream of towering boys invades our house over the next twenty minutes. Mama may have grumbled when Cliff first asked if he could host a pre-championship party at the house, but she’s in her element, surrounded by hungry people. Her smooth brown skin shines with a light sheen of perspiration from living in that kitchen all day. The more people who crowd into our house, the wider her smile grows.
“I know we’re still getting our plates,” Cliff says, standing at the mantle over the fireplace, “but I wanted to say a few things before we get lost in my mama’s food. Y’all thank her for a taste of the West Indies.”
All the boys whoop and holler, some pretending to bow to her.
“Awww, thank you, sweet boys,” Mama says. “But it wasn’t just me. Takira helped.”
I feel the weight of all eyes on me, and I smile stiffly, sliding my hands into the back pockets of my jeans. A few of the guys sneak glances at my bare midriff and down the length of my legs. It makes me want to cover myself, to hide myself, but I stand still despite the discomfort.
Like I said. The boyest boys.
“Yeah, thank you to my baby sister,” Cliff says, slipping a little steel into the mild words to warn them off. I’m surprised he didn’t douse me with a pesticide to keep them away.
Myron, one of Cliff’s first friends at St. Catherine’s, offers a mocking salute. “We hear you loud and clear, Cap. Hands off.”
My cheeks heat, and I shuffle my feet uncomfortably. Passing around plates, Mama pauses long enough to glare like she might take her shoe off and throw it at anybody she catches looking too hard at me.
“You got that right,” Cliff says, looking each of his teammates in the eyes. “But we’re not here to talk about how I’ll break your hand if you even think about it.”
He pauses for the nervous laughter before going on. “We’re here to celebrate the best season St. Catherine’s has ever had,” he says. “And party like that trophy is already ours.”
They whoop and high five, which to my thinking is premature since that trophy isn’t actually theirs yet. Cliff walks through life with this sense of inevitability, like his success is only a matter of time. I try to forecast everything that could go wrong, whereas Cliff seems to expect that nothing—at least for him—ever will.
When the doorbell rings, Mama, who just sat down, rises from her recliner in the corner.
“I got it, Mama,” I say, shooing her back down. She’s been on her feet all day.
“Probably Coach,” Myron says. “He’s supposed to be stopping through, even though he can’t stay.”
I walk to the foyer and pull the door open.
And the world stops.
My breath can’t quite seem to make the trip from my lungs to my mouth. My heart pounds against my rib cage like a tassa drum as I stare up and up at the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen in real life. Dark brown skin stretches over the chiseled planes of his face. I’ve never actually seen anyone with a square chin, but he has one. Everything seems to be at odds on his face. His nose is too bold. His lips too full and soft looking. His brows too heavy and severe. His eyes, warm and dark like velvet, framed by a feathering of sooty lashes. But somehow, all those disparate parts cooperate into a face so striking, my jaw falls open.
“Um…” His voice is a low, quiet rumble as he peers over my shoulder into the foyer. “Is this Cliff’s house? I took a wrong turn, but…”
Just as I’m about to shake myself out of the stupor, I stop because, all of a sudden, it feels like the same rapt way I was watching him, he’s now studying me. I go still as if with his eyes, he’s painting me, and I don’t want to distract him.
“Who’s at the door, Kira?” Mama asks from behind, drawing up beside me. “Oh, hey, Nazareth.”
Wait. Nazareth as in…Naz?
She extends her arms, and with a smile, he crosses the threshold and walks into them, bending to return her squeeze.
“Mrs. Mosely.” He pulls back and offers her a bouquet of wildflowers I hadn’t noticed. Who cares about flowers when you’ve got this guy standing in front of you? “These are for you.”
“Hmmm. Thank you.” Mama buries her nose in the flowers and smiles up at Naz. “And how’s your mama doing? Didn’t she have surgery on her knee a while back?”
His expression clouds, and he nods. “Yes, ma’am. She just went back to work.”
“She teaches, right?” Mama asks.
“Seventh grade, yeah.” His eyes flick from Mama, settle on me briefly, and then shift back to Mama. “I guess the team’s already here? Sorry I’m late.”
“You right on time.” Mama links her arm through his and guides him toward the living room and the increasingly rowdy basketball team. “Come on. We’re about to start eating.”
I haven’t moved, my feet sealed to the floor like I’ve stepped into fast-drying cement. He glances back over his shoulder. Our eyes catch and hold, some odd understanding passing between us. Whatever that jolt was when I first saw him, I think he felt it, too. I know it, but I don’t know what to do with it. How could I when nothing like this has ever happened to me before?
I take a minute to collect my scattered thoughts before heading back into the living room. Everyone’s eating, plates balanced on their knees or on the big table in the middle of the room. Mama, making sure everyone has drinks, looks up when I return.
“Go check on Naz in the kitchen,” she says. “Make sure he doesn’t need anything.”
My pulse quickens at the thought of me and that beautiful boy alone. “Yes, ma’am.”
When I enter the kitchen, sure enough, Naz is staring at all the dishes, his empty plate held between two huge hands.
“Need help?” I ask, walking farther into the kitchen to lean against the counter.
“Uh, maybe.” He points to a few covered dishes. “Is any of that fish? I don’t really eat chicken or beef.”
“What about duck?” I ask, nodding to a plate of curried duck.
His nose scrunches. “No, and not any goat either.”
“Oh, well, goat is all we have left.”
He looks at me like he’s not sure if I’m joking.
“If my granny was here, you’d be eating goat tonight. You don’t turn that woman down.” I laugh and lift the lid on the soup. “How about fish soup and a few vegetables and coconut bread. Sound good?”
“Perfect. I don’t wanna be difficult.”
“Difficult?” I scoff. “Cliff makes me crack his crab legs and dig out all the meat. He’s the resident diva.”
Naz laughs and raises his brows but doesn’t reply. I take his plate and start loading it with the dishes I know only contain vegetables and seafood.
“I’ve never had food from Trinidad,” he says, considering the abundance of dishes spread across the stove and counters.
“Then you been missing out. We may live in Houston, but we Trini through and through.”
“I see.” He nods to the scroll hanging on the wall by the fridge. “What’s that about?”
“Oh, you gonna find one of those in just about every Trinidad-American household.”
“Trinidad and Tobago, Land of Calypso,” he reads, stepping closer to inspect the souvenir scroll depicting our islands, population, exports. Even the limbo dance and national bird are pictured there.
“We never forget where we come from,” I say, repeating something my father has said all our lives.
His eyes shift from the wall scroll to study my face. “I really appreciate your family sharing your food and culture with us like this.”
“It’s nothing,” I say with a shrug, though it’s everything to us. There’s no greater pride than Trini pride.
“So why haven’t we seen you around this season?” he asks, eyes following my hands drifting between dishes and heaping food on his plate. “Your mom’s been at just about every game.”
“I have a job after school, so I don’t have many free nights.”
“What do you do?”
“I work at a hair salon,” I say, facing the stove to serve up some of the fish soup. “I want to be a stylist.”
“You’re what? A junior?”
“Actually, a senior.” I turn and hand him the plate. “Cliff had a late birthday and I had an early one, so we ended up starting school together. We’re really close in age. Mama and Daddy didn’t waste no time having us kids.”
His chuckle is a deep, husky thing that makes me shiver. I fix my eyes to the tile floor, afraid that if I look, I’ll stare. There is just something about this guy. It’s deeper than his good looks and gorgeous body. He seems to be around the same height as Cliff, but broader and leaner. It feels like his arms and legs are still trying to catch up with how his body grew so big so fast. It lends him a ranginess, an almost physical uncertainty Cliff shed years ago.
Silence stretches between us to the point of awkwardness, so I hazard a glance up at him only to find him staring at me. Uncomfortable, I slide my eyes to the side, away from the intensity of that look. Of the way it heats me up inside until it feels like my heart may melt and puddle at my feet.
He clears his throat. “Sorry.”
My eyes snap to his. “For what?”
“For staring.” A rueful grin crooks his full lips. “No wonder Mosely warned us to stay away from his sister.”
I suck my teeth, huffing out an irritated breath. “That boy works my nerves.”
“He was just looking out for you. He knows how guys are and wanted us to know the shit some of them try with other girls, they better not try with you. Protective big brother. I have three sisters. I get it.”
A roar of laughter from the living room cuts into our conversation. He turns his head toward the sound almost reluctantly. “I guess I better get in there.”
“Right.” I grab one of the red cups on the counter already filled with ice. “Lemme get you something to drink. Soda? Tea? Lemonade?”
“Water?”
I grab a bottle of water and hand it to him. Our fingers brush, and that shiver returns, shimmying down my spine. A slow smile inches onto his mouth, and he looks from where our fingers touch to my face.
“You should go,” I say in a rush. “You’re missing everything.”
“No, I’m not.”
The air throbs between us like a pulse, and we hold each other’s gaze hostage. In the living room, the team claps for something, and it snaps the thread between our eyes, freeing me to look away.
“I better…” He points his thumb over his shoulder and leaves the kitchen.
I slump against the counter, my breath coming out in a stream of forced air. What the heck? I’ve had boyfriends. Kissed guys. Gone all the way a few times. Nothing to write home about. If anything, I made it out to be more than it was when I told my friends because…surely there was supposed to be more ? More than fumbling hands and squishy lips and boozy breath and a guy getting his, but never thinking about mine. Besides not getting me off—which I can do in my bed by myself—those guys didn’t touch me. Not with their clumsy, seeking hands, but in my heart. Shoot, in my soul. They were so worried about touching all the parts they got to see, they didn’t bother with the parts invisible to the naked eye. Those parts— the under the skin, stirring in my chest, burning up my heart parts —Naz somehow seemed to touch in a matter of glances, with a few words and a simple brush of my fingers.
“You been watching too much Vampire Diaries ,” I mutter, laughing at my own whimsical thoughts.
I know that’s television, fantasy, fiction, but if love ain’t epic, I don’t want it. If it ain’t life and death—not literally, the way it is for Stefan, Damon, and Elena—but if it’s not something that makes you risk, makes you ache, then why bother?
I’m scarfing down some coconut bread when the guys start bringing their paper plates into the kitchen and tossing them in the trash.
“You guys ready to take pictures?” Cliff asks. “For posterity, I think is what they call it. The night before we shook up the world.”
“Wow,” I mutter, tying off a bag of trash. “It’s a ball game, not a revolution.”
“Don’t let them hear you say that.”
I glance up to find Naz standing beside me.
“Oh. I just meant…well.” My words tangle up. “Just meant that, um, you guys think the whole world revolves around that court.”
“I don’t.” He shrugs. “But it may be my best shot at a full ride for college, so it’s important, yeah.”
“How good are you?” I tease, smiling and leaning against the edge of the sink.
“Not as good as your brother, but who is?”
“Strongarm,” Cliff calls from the kitchen door, his glance pinging suspiciously between Naz and me. “We’re going up on the roof for pictures. Come on.”
“On the roof?” Naz frowns.
“My daddy made it a rooftop we could use for cookouts and stuff. It’s actually kind of cool.”
“And totally safe,” Mama says, entering just behind Cliff.
“Mama, can you come take some pictures of us?” Cliff asks.
“Get your sister to do it.” Mama shakes her head. “I spent my whole day cooking all that food for you. Don’t ask me for another thing.”
Cliff rolls his eyes up to the ceiling and releases a long-suffering sigh. “Will you do it, Tee?”
“Um, yeah.” I make sure not to look at Naz so Cliff won’t kick him out.
By the time we’ve climbed the steps to reach the roof, the guys are lined up in their sports jackets and ties. They’re all laughing. That same sense of invincibility Cliff carries—he’s managed to imbue his team with it. They’re all so boisterous and cocksure, except Naz. It’s obvious to me these guys have been together for three years, and that Naz is still trying to find his place. Even in the photos, there’s something that sets him apart, makes him seem alone even in the midst of boys dressed exactly the same.
I use Daddy’s camera and also take a few with my phone. After thirty minutes of them posing and me snapping, I stop.
“Cliff, I have enough pics for three championships,” I say. “We done?”
“Yeah, yeah.” He comes over and squeezes my shoulders, bending to kiss my forehead. “Thanks, Tee.”
He turns to his team and lifts his arms, releasing a shout. “That’s a wrap. Now take your ugly asses home and get some sleep. Tomorrow will be here before you know it.”
I hang back, waiting for the roof to clear. When the last of their shrieks dies out, I grab the blanket from a storage bench, spread it on the cement floor, and sit. Between my parents and siblings, and all of Cliff’s friends who are always at the house, it can get pretty crowded. It can be hard to think in all the noise. It can become impossible to dream, so I come up here every chance I get to be alone.
“Thanks again for taking the pictures.”
I turn, smiling when I see Naz standing at the top of the stairs leading back into the house. He walks over to the wall where the team posed minutes ago.
“Forgot this,” he says, grabbing his uniform jacket.
“No ‘fabulous’ on your tie?” I ask. Immediately, I regret the comment. Cliff said it was just for starters. Naz might be sensitive about riding the bench.
“Not for backups.” He smiles, watching me stretched out on the blanket. I resist the temptation to fold my arms over my bare stomach. His eyes are on my face anyway, and he doesn’t creep me out like some of Cliff’s other friends do.
“Well.” He holds up the jacket. “Guess I better go.”
“What’s your name?” I blurt, sitting up on the blanket. It’s the first thing that came to mind that might keep him here a few minutes longer. I take a deep breath of the cooling night air, hoping to calm how crazily my heart is beating.
He freezes, turns, and walks over to where I sit on the blanket.
“You know my name,” he says, sliding his hands into his pockets. “It’s Nazareth. Naz.”
“Yeah, but some of the guys called you Armstrong and some said Strongarm.” I slant a curious glance up at him. “Which is it?”
“That’s kind of a long story.” That mouth God took extra time with pushes into a one-sided grin.
“Your name is a long story?”
“Well, the story behind why it’s both kind of is.”
Knowing Cliff will kill me first and then kill Naz for what I’m about to do, I pat the blanket beside me anyway. “I got a few minutes.”