Then #2
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. Fletcher.” 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 Fletcher 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.