16. Psalm
Psalm
Bratty, obnoxious, self-centered, know-it-all, and the biggest pain in my ass was now sitting across from me at my kitchen table, a turkey club in one hand and a fresh mango juice in the other.
And this was after I was prepared to suck her off the bone in her brother’s studio.
Life came at you fast.
I watched her steal one of the fries off my plate, completely avoiding her own.
The Psalm before the possible takedown would've given her something to think about for sticking her hands in my food. The current me was trying not to stare at her dimples every time she smiled.
“Was Alonse okay?” she asked.
“As in normal? No. As in his laptop being broken? Yeah. He can afford another one,” I waved it off, reaching for my sandwich.
She grabbed another fry from my plate. I quickly snatched it from her fingertips. Popping it into my mouth, I smiled and nodded toward her seemingly untouched pile of fries.
“No, not his laptop. I mean—”
“Sign,” I requested, cutting her off.
“Huh?”
“Sign when you talk to me. How else am I supposed to learn?” I asked, lightly tapping her nose.
Watching her beautiful eyes flutter behind those ridiculously thick lashes made me feel all warm inside.
Yeah, Echo. I get it, man.
Because I'd knock a nigga clean into next week whenever I felt like it to keep this one safe.
“You could just come down to one of my free ASL classes on Saturday mornings,” she answered, this time using both sign language and verbal communication.
“Me? Up on a Saturday morning? Ha!”
Juliet laughed and shook her head.
“Anyways, like I was saying. Laptop aside, Alonse looked spooked when he saw me.”
I took a bite of my sandwich before responding.
“He has agoraphobia. He’s like... scared of trees and shadows.”
Juliet paused mid-chew.
“Trees and shadows?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s not what agoraphobia is.”
“Aight, then outside and whatever comes with it.”
She laughed so hard she nearly choked on her juice.
“Psalm!”
“What?”
“You cannot just make up medical definitions.”
“I ain't make it up. That’s what it looks like from where I’m sitting.”
She pointed her sandwich at me.
“You’re impossible.”
“Yet, here you are.”
Her expression immediately softened.
At first, I thought she was being bashful over my flirting, but then her eyes filled with something else.
Compassion.
And dare I say, sorrow.
She looked down at her food, and before I could ask what was wrong, she spoke.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have come.”
“What? Why?” I stumbled over my words.
“If I knew you had a family member with a disability that can be triggered by social interaction, I would've suggested we meet somewhere else. We could've gone to Flip’d, the library, or even my house. If there’s anything I understand, it’s neurological differences and the boundaries that come along with them. ”
Okay. Let's cancel out self-centered.
I reached across the table and lightly tapped her wrist. Her eyes held sorrow, her face carrying the rest of an apology I wouldn’t dare allow her to speak. If one tear dropped from her eye, on my mama, I was whooping Alonse’s ass.
Letting out an exhale that both prepared me to comfort her in this completely overdramatized situation and helped me digest all the words I'd spoken over the years about Echo’s approach to shoot first and ask questions later over this girl, because here I was ready to trip on Alonse for simply being himself.
“Aye, don’t blame yourself. I invited you over here. Believe me when I say I checked with him, and he said it was cool.”
And by checked with him, I really mean told him, because who was I to check with a man who wasn’t Mr. Mitchel about my own house?
“Truthfully? I think that agoraphobia claim is bullshit.”
“Psalm,” she signed, smiling. “You can’t just decide somebody’s diagnosis isn’t real.”
“Aye, man, if it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck, and calls itself a tiger? Something ain’t right.”
“You are so silly. Explain,” she laughed, folding her arms.
“Gladly.”
Removing our empty plates from in front of us, I walked to the refrigerator and grabbed the already-plated slices of pineapple upside-down cheesecake.
The second I set a slice in front of her, her eyes widened.
Her little greedy ass.
“Okay,” I said. “Let me ask you this. What are some of the traits of agoraphobia?”
She nodded.
By this time, she was comfortable in the chair, one leg tucked underneath her, already halfway through her first bite of cheesecake. Unlike me, Lucky waited to chew and swallow before speaking.
“Behavioral traits include avoidance. Steering clear of specific environments like shopping malls, movie theaters, bridges, or public transportation.”
“Mm-hmm.” I motioned for her to continue.
“Emotional traits can include intense fear. Experiencing disproportionate dread when thinking about being far from a safe environment,” she concluded.
“Exactly.”
I pointed toward the living room.
“Since he’s been here, he’s been out on the courts with guests. He interacts with Christian. He drove my father's Rolls-Royce around the estate to see if he wanted to purchase one when he got back home.”
I held up another finger.
“And last but not least, how he get here, Lucky? Teleportation?”
Juliet couldn't control her laughter.
“And you say I’m dramatic,” she giggled.
“He literally confirmed that you visiting and being in your presence wasn’t a problem. Now tell me, what about that screams intense fear?”
“And what is that supposed to mean?” Her face wrinkled with curiosity.
“You know Freddy Krueger, how he only haunts dreams?”
“Yeah?”
I stretched my hands toward her like I was presenting a grand prize on a game show.
“Welcome to reality.”
She immediately smacked my shoulder.
“Shut up, fool. I ain’t that bad.”
The smile on her face said otherwise. And honestly? I hoped she never changed.
“It’s a cover,” I continued, laughing.
“A cover for what?” she asked, taking the cherry off my slice and devouring it.
I leaned back in my chair, unsure if my speculation was out of line.
Nothing in my character allowed me to judge people for their differences.
Here I was, a Black rock-and-roller who, amongst my friends, would find more thrill in collecting vintage Burger King Disney cups than traveling to Martha’s Vineyard to BBQ with Kareem Abdul-Jabbar.
Seriously, Kareem made a big thing out of that shit every year, and my father made us go.
So needless to say, I knew a thing or two about being different.
In fact, I had the utmost respect for people who embraced their differences, whether they were medical, neurological, or just plain preference.
But something wasn’t sitting right about Alonse’s claim.
My mother had a better chance of training a penguin to fly than convincing me the tea she was spilling about that man was true.
“I feel like maybe there’s someone he doesn’t want to face,” I said. “Like he owes somebody money and they owe him an ass whooping or something.”
Juliet immediately laughed.
“I’m serious.”
“I know,” she giggled.
“His social reactions are not adding up to the side of the spectrum he claims to be on.”
I pointed my fork toward the ceiling as if presenting evidence before a jury.
“Now don’t get me wrong, he’s a few fries short of a Happy Meal.”
“Respectfully,” I added, throwing my hands up in mock surrender.
“But it ain’t because of agoraphobia.”
“Ooo, I forgot. You are a medical major. Talk yo shit, Dr. Mitchel,” she teased.
“I’m saying though.”
I popped an imaginary collar and brushed off my sleeves.
“You see me.”
Juliet laughed so hard she nearly dropped her fork.
“Oh God, here we go,” she chuckled.
The conversation after that drifted, as most conversations do.
We talked about my love for the guitar, her becoming an official sister of Alpha Rose Society, and how Mega and Yahya flirted more than a little.
Our project was to argue whether nepotism should be accepted as a legitimate practice in workplace hiring and promotion. We were on the side of yes, that it contributes to generational wealth, but we would defend our stance with a more professional response.
I motioned for her to follow me to my study so I could show her how I used Canva to merge the slides she'd emailed me for our presentation.
Allowing her to sit in the computer chair, I powered on the desktop. She looked at me and smiled.
“Can you answer my question?”
“Yup,” I responded, and said nothing else.
“Well?”
“Well what?” I played along.
“Psalm,” she signed, aggression all in her hands.
“You asking me if I can answer your question?”
“Boy, don’t play.” She sucked her teeth.
A hearty chuckle erupted from my diaphragm. “My fault. Go ahead, remind me of your question.”
She hesitated. “Why Lucky?”
I rubbed the back of my neck. For some reason, admitting this felt more vulnerable than asking her to be my girl. Taking a seat next to her, I sighed. “As you know, Mega and I became cool after the incident at Sunday’s.”
“Speaking of,” she cut me off, her eyes widening.
“Aht, aht,” I cut her off right back. “Water under the bridge, young lady.”
She rolled her eyes.
She wasn’t about to have me looking like a simp, just down bad in my own study. From Sunday’s to the studio, she knew why I did what I did. Just like a woman, always wanting a nigga to spell shit out loud.
“My bad. Continue, Mr. Mitchel.”
“Thank you,” I joked. “So, I asked Mega about your condition.
No disrespect, but your voice doesn't sound like that of a deaf person. From my experience around someone deaf, their voice has a distinct cadence and flow. Yours, although very clear and sounding normal at first contact, has pauses in it.”
She tilted her head.
“Pauses?”
“Yeah. Like your voice has to play catch-up with your hands.”
“Well yeah,” she smiled. “In a way, it does.”
Her smile gave me reassurance to continue.
Lord knows I didn't want to offend her.