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My Fine Lady PROLOGUE Where does the hope for love begin? In the heart? Where our insides are shaped like honeycombs with people buzzing in and out, turning our emotions into a syrupy sweet that drips out for us to taste? Or is it in the mind? Where emotion sticks and stains like paint splatter against walls of doubt? For nine-year-old Imani, it began both in her heart and in her mind. It was 1988, in a Maryland town that was the urban seam between Baltimore and D.C. Imani was sitting on the front steps of her best friend’s house with the other little girls in their downtown neighborhood. Imani had her ankles crossed and her knees up, needle-thin legs knitting the air. Her reddish-brown hair was unraveled and being tamed into long, even rows. Imani’s best friend Shari was doing the braiding. A little boy named Taz stopped by to tease. “How come your hair’s always standing on top of your head? How come?” “How come your stomach’s always growling? I can hardly think in school ’cause your stomach’s always growling.” All the girls laughed. Taz was embarrassed. “Maybe you’re just stupid.” Shari tugged on Imani’s braids. “You gonna take that?” Imani bolted off the steps and pushed Taz. Taz wasn’t about to be punked either. So he pushed her back. Imani fell to the ground and bumped her elbow. Shari dropped her comb, lunged off the steps, and slapped Taz upside his head. Taz didn’t want any part of Shari. She was two years older and, at age eleven, bigger and badder. But Taz knew someone bigger and badder than her. He threatened, “I’m telling Biggie.” “Biggie’s your friend but he’s my big brother, remember? How you gonna get Biggie on me? We family—something you don’t know nothing about.” Taz was really hurt now. Everybody knew he lived in the group home up the street. Why did Shari have to broadcast it? And he didn’t mean to push Imani that hard. He didn’t. Now she’d never like him. Never. “Tell Imani you’re sorry, Taz.” He shook his head no. “Sorry didn’t do it. He did,” Imani yelled as she got up from the ground, tears streaming down her cheeks. “And he did it on purpose.” “Well, Taz,” Shari reasoned, “you gotta give her something.” “Why, Shari?” “’Cause that’s the way it goes. When a boy hurts a girl he’s gotta give her something. That’s what my mama says.” Imani dried her eyes. “Something like what?” “Like flowers.” “I don’t want no flowers.” Shari thought a second then whispered in Imani’s ear. Imani blushed. “I don’t want none of that neither.” “Well my mama likes it.” “How do you know?” “I heard her through the door hollering, ‘Don’t stop. Don’t stop.’” The girls laughed. Taz took off running. “I’ll get you something good. I promise.” “But you don’t know what I like!” Imani yelled after him. “Imani, don’t waste your time on that silly boy.” “I’m not. I don’t like Taz.” As soon as Imani said that, a familiar voice came riding the wind. It was her father calling her from across the street. Imani saw the outline of his stout body. The down-and-out musician had his horn in one hand and was waving her home with the other hand. “Aww shoot. I gotta go practice the piano.” “Skip it and come jump rope.” “Can’t. See ya, Shari. Hey, don’t forget we’re sneaking out Saturday. Don’t fake me out.” “I already told you, Imani, I’m in. But at home Imani wanted out. She tried to talk her father Maceo into letting her skip piano practice. “C’mon, Daddy, please? It’s nice outside.” Her
father Maceo was old school. He’d been born in the South and
left home when he was sixteen to play with a band. The group traveled
the single-lane highways of the delta, headlining joints in the
backwoods where the crickets played the bass line. Maceo learned
a lot about music and about life. Maceo knew he was slick. He knew that anytime he really wanted Imani to do something, all he had to do was say her mother did it or liked it. Imani never really knew her mother. A little girl like that would always want to latch on to something of her mom’s . . . her likes . . . dislikes . . . maybe even her dreams. Maceo missed his wife something fierce. She died when Imani was three from a sudden heart attack and lingering hard times. They’d met fifteen years before, on Easter. The band had broken up. Maceo decided to take a part-time job playing for a little church in town. He had no intentions of staying. But you know love and its crazy ways. Love will make intentions grow roots. The super soprano with the heavenly pipes was named Mae. Maceo just adored her gorgeous voice and her big pretty eyes. A shy but engaging personality sealed the deal. When Maceo looked at Imani now, he saw Mae’s eyes and that same undeveloped talent. “What did I say about music, Imani? It’s gotta be worked. So work.” Imani opened the songbook and her tiny shoulders slumped. “Put in one hour. I’ll be upstairs listening.” And drinking more than you’re listening, Imani thought. Imani began to play, hitting a foul note about every three or four keys. She’d much rather be listening to Salt ’n Pepa or Run DMC. “Hey, Imani!” Imani turned around and there was Taz at the window screen. He held up a lollipop. Imani slid off the piano bench, happy for a reason to get away. She wanted the lollipop bad too—it was one of those big, swirled, multiflavored kinds. But the junior diva decided to give Taz a little attitude first. “Is that all you gonna give me?” Taz heard Biggie say a true player always told a woman to take it or leave it and she never left it. “Take it or leave it.” Imani took it. “I don’t hear nothing!” Maceo called out from upstairs. “Don’t make me come down there.” Imani cocked her head to the side and twisted her lips. “See ya, Taz. I gotta go practice the stupid piano.” “I like piano.” “I don’t. It’s keeping me from playing.” “I could practice for you. Then we’d be cool about the pushing down thing.” Imani liked the idea. “For real?” “Yeah.” “Okay. All you gotta do is play the first three songs in the songbook over and over again.” “That’s it?” “Oh and mess up a lot. I’ll be back in an hour.” Imani lifted the screen and Taz crawled through the window. Taz
had taught himself to play by ear. It was a wonder, considering
the kid boomeranged from one foster home to another with very little
comfort or stability. He did live with a nice family once but unfortunately
wasn’t able to stay with them for very long. That family had
an old piano in the basement. Taz was able to learn notes and tunes
by listening to the radio. He took that knowledge and ran with it. Taz
played the piano now, messing up for the first thirty minutes just
like Imani said to do. Then he just forgot where he was and why.
Taz began to play a song he heard on the radio. A Michael Jackson
song. It had a booming beat he loved. Taz pounded the bass line
on the piano and twinkled the keys. Outside, Imani was having a good old time playing with Shari and the girls. She was jumping double dutch. Imani was in the middle of the rope, making up her own rhymes, jamming, her feet pounding the gravel pavement. Without warning, Imani’s playmates dropped their rope ends and ran. Imani tumbled to the ground. “Hey,” she said jumping up with her hands on her hips like the little Sally Walker she was. “I turned for y’all. Come back here!” Imani bent down to pick up the rope. She saw shoes. She’d know those shoes anywhere—a pair of dirty Nikes and a pair of black leather loafers with both heels on a flat. Her throat went dry, but her eyes had to look. Maceo had Taz by the back of the shirt so he couldn’t run. Quiet as it’s kept, she would’ve tried to run too if she had somewhere to go. Maceo fussed at Imani all the way home, shaking her arm and fussing. He dragged Taz along; letting him know he was about one inch off his ass too. Imani sat on the piano bench near tears “Don’t start that crying or I’ll give you something to cry about.” Imani sucked in air like she was drowning, her chest heaving, trying not to let a single tear fall. Maceo took a drink out of the flask he kept in his back pocket. He drank and sized Taz up. “You’re new around here. How old are you?” “Nine. Me and Imani in the same grade.” “And y’all in the same trouble.” Maceo took another long drink. “I didn’t do nothing.” “You ah story. It was all your idea, Taz.” “I didn’t do nothing.” “Both of y’all, shut up. There’s enough wrong to go around.” Taz’s stomach growled. “You hungry, son?” “No.” “Daddy, they don’t feed him half the time. He’s a foster kid.” Taz hated her for saying that. For giving voice to the thing that he despised being most—a child that the world didn’t value or love. Maceo thought before taking another swig. “Tell you what, son . . .” “Taz. My name is Taz.” “Okay, Taz. I’m gonna give you a job. I’ll trade you dinner every night, starting tonight, if you come by here in the evening and give Imani piano lessons.” Taz acted like he was mulling the proposition over. He asked, “Can you cook?” “Boy, I cook the best red beans and rice on the Maryland side of N’Orleans.” Maceo scooped Taz up—he almost cringed when he felt the boy’s bony rib cage—and sat him down on the piano bench next to Imani. Taz put bass in his voice. “Okay, I’m the teacher. You play lousy, so from now on you need to practice two hours a day.” “Daddy!” “Let Taz show you.” And from those lessons, the children’s relationship would grow and grow, and so, too, would their dreams. Children are blessed because they can dream with their eyes wide open. That Saturday, Shari and Imani crept out of the house into the night just liked they’d planned. They rode their bikes to the secret spot far from home, their home where the streets are littered with garbage and the mailboxes are filled with government checks. Poor but proud, the neighborhood loved and cherished its children, children like Imani and Shari. The two downtown girls went uptown, stopping outside the fence, which bordered a historically black university. Imani and Shari sat on the fence near a window. Inside, the alumni charity ball was being held. The two little girls had ridden their bikes to see . . . to see the beautiful black women of various shades gowned in spectacular colors as they emerged from the limos and the Lincolns, latched on to the arms of tuxedoed black men. Elegant. Glamorous. Magical. To the girls it seemed as if the pages of Essence magazine had come alive. “Shari,” Imani said to her best friend, “it’s my turn to sit the closest.” They swapped places and Imani watched mesmerized, the moonlight dancing along the roots of her hair. Her heart leaped with excitement as she watched the women and men laugh and dance inside the ball. Imani gazed and whispered, “Someday . . . Someday . . .” Children are blessed because they can dream with their eyes wide open.
CHAPTER ONE
Imani grew into a young woman who desired to be a star in the world
and an endless torch in her lover’s heart. Those conjoined
dreams made up the center of her flower and its petals are all life’s
possibilities. She glanced at him now from the stage of the underground music club. One look and Imani swallowed her nervousness and began to dance on magic legs. Taz matched each of her fantasy moves step for step. Rugged hips rolled inside his baggy jeans. The hands that stroked her neck and back beneath the sheets now swung on beat at his sides. Taz’s dark and brooding eyes focused with a hint of light. Why? Because he was turned on by the sight of Imani performing his music. “If the world loved me, I’d bring it to its knees . . . Making it my niggah, doin’ as I pleased . . .” Imani rapped his songs because Taz found unspeakable joy in beats and rhymes. She gave them voice, a voice that called out to their world. Their world was right there, front and fabulous. Young men and women were jammed up against the stage. They let the grits meet the gravy, baby. They did their natural-born thing. Up against the wall. Up against other bodies. Up against the world hating on them with a passion. But it didn’t matter. Because no matter what, they were still glorious. It was a freeze-frame I don’t give a damn to the world. It meant, I’m getting my groove on whether you like it or not. Because at that very moment, a generation’s story was being sermonized onstage; the words were etched in culture, commandments of lifestyle documenting what it is to be inner-city hip and hopeless, fearless and fine. Imani was serious; blowtorching out her rap the way ministers preach fire and brimstone from the Bible. The hip-hop congregation was digging on her sermon. But in his head Taz heard the gospel according to his critics. They had surfaced to the big time while Taz struggled. Yo-yo-yo
Taz. Your girl got skills no doubt. Makes your rhymes sound better
than they are. But you gotta get harder, dog, if you wanna make
it out of here. Your sound is too wangsta—wanna-be gangsta. “Baby, we’re gonna make it. Stop worrying, hear? I don’t care what nobody else says, we’re gonna make it.” Taz smiled. Then he drew Imani to him. Taz pressed his tight muscular body up against hers. He kissed her passionately before stopping to whisper in her ear, “I wanna be with you. I wanna give you every inch of my talent; every inch of my body until you scream for more. I’m gonna show everybody I got juice by making you a star.” Imani was saved by Taz’s words and washed in his rugged aroma. He smelled like natural earth in bloom. The pressure of his thighs against hers, the wetness of his lips against her skin made Imani wish for endless love the way children wish on a falling star. Imani was a dreamer and she wore her hopes like speckled jewels. Anyone who met her was nearly blinded by the potential she showed and wound up hoping that the young diva conquered the world. Imani’s desire for success was engaging. Taz’s desire for success was different. He had been orphaned by parents who were old enough to feel love, but who were too young to be responsible. So Taz felt life owed him. It was in the world of rap that he wanted to thrive, to find intimacy. Beats and rhymes were his brothers and sisters. A song was the family he never had. He was determined to show that he belonged. His talent was awesome, the talk of the neighborhood and all the buzz in the underground music scene. But somehow Taz kept missing the big time. And that made his desire for success grow furiously. Almost as furiously as the mad craving he had for Imani’s body. She was a woman of stature; her breasts were mountains majesty and her hips curved from shore to shore. Her soft body was Taz’s cushion. Her gentle spirit was his comfort. He wanted to shape, mold, and make Imani his own. Taz peeled back the flimsy straps of Imani’s tank top. The loosened material slipped down the way clouds slip away from the setting sun. Taz kissed every place that beckoned to him and left no pleasure call unanswered. “Yo, Taz? Imani? That y’all?” They both turned towards the voice that had come from the driver’s side. “It’s me.” “Go away!” Taz yelled. He knew damn well who “me” was. The car door was yanked open. The man with all the nerve had a booming body that was big—like powdah. But all of his facial features were Gerber Baby. This was Taz’s best friend, Biggie. “Whatch’all doing?” Imani quickly pulled up her top. Taz answered sarcastically. “Whatdaya think we’re doing? She lost something and I’m helping her find it.” “Need a hand looking, brah?” Biggie teased. “All I find all I keep?” Taz jumped up and smacked his head on top of the car door. “Ouch!” Biggie roared with laughter. He sang teasingly, “Hey, E-mon-ie.” “Hey, Biggie,” she growled. Imani slammed the door shut after Taz fumbled his way out of the car. “Aww, come on, baby, don’t be like that!” Taz groaned at her. He turned around and threw an elbow at Biggie’s chest. “Niggah what!” Biggie laughed, falling on the car trunk. “What’s up, player?” “Nothing now. Get your fat butt off my ride.” “I ain’t thinking about this wreckmobile. I’m about business tonight. Here’s the dealio. You’ve gotta do something about Maceo and the money he owes.” Taz grabbed Biggie’s arm and pulled him away from the car. “C’mon, man, be cool. Imani doesn’t know her father borrowed that money or that he messed it up gambling either.” “That’s a problem, dog. Maceo has gotta come up with some cash or Mister Watson is gonna start tripping.” “Talk to him, Biggie.” “Like I haven’t. That’s all I’ve been doing is running my mouth on Maceo’s behalf. That’s the only reason he’s been able to get by this long.” “You’ve been holding it down for him?” “Oh yeah, without a doubt. But time is ticking, Taz. The loan sharking business ain’t no church charity. That Jeep I’m driving didn’t come from the Goodwill. Mr. Watson wants to see some of his money or no telling what he’ll make me do.” “You? But you’re my best friend, Biggie. You wouldn’t hurt Maceo; he’s been like a father to me.” “Hurting Maceo ain’t in my heart, but be real. You vouched for him and I vouched for you. Mr. Watson likes Maceo from way back, says he showed him how to hold a hand of cards and his liquor too. But a man’s pity for another man don’t roll down like water. It falls in drops.” “Like tears.” “Right. And I don’t want us to be the ones crying for Maceo’s ass.” “I feel you, Biggie.” “C’mon, Taz. Talk to him. You practically run the place for him. You make him pay the rent, bribe the liquor license man, pay all the insurance. He must have some money somewhere, don’t he?” “None.” “What about your girlie?” “No! I just told you, Biggie; Imani ain’t hip to none of this. And don’t tell your big-mouth sister either. They’re best friends and Shari can’t hold water.” “Okay, relax. Let’s split up. You go talk to Maceo. I’ll go talk to Mr. Watson and stall for some more time. It’s worth a shot.” Taz scratched his head then waved Biggie towards his Jeep. “Go ahead. I’ll ride with you. You can drop me off first. I’ll have Imani drive my car over to Shari’s house and wait for me there.” “I know what you mean, Taz. A female can mess up a man’s business in a heartbeat.” “Right. I don’t want Imani nowhere around. You can drop me back over there later. I’ll take her home then.” “I don’t know, Taz. There’s liable to be a whole lot of yacking behind this. What’s Imani gonna say?”
CHAPTER TWO “Shari, I am sick of Taz and his shit.” Shari had on a nylon nightgown and was sitting at the dining room table painting her toenails with glitter polish. Her four-year-old daughter, nicknamed Baby, sat in a nearby booster chair. She liked to parrot people but never ever correctly repeated what they said. “What’s the matter now, Imani?" “If Biggie says jump, Taz says into what Great Lake.” Shari stopped polishing and said in a sexy purr, “So, Biggie was a virus.” Then she stood up and gyrated her hips. “And he wiped out Taz’s hard drive.” “Forget you, Shari. And stop showing off. Everybody knows you’re studying computers in night school.” “And foreign languages too.” “How do you say you’re pissed off in a foreign language?” “Oy vay!” Baby sang out, “Oil of Olay!” The two women laughed. “Imani,
you might as well stop buggin’ about it. You know Taz. He’s
been running behind my brother for the longest. Biggie was always
protecting him from the bad boys on the block when we were kids.” “The same way I protected you from those face-scratching bathroom girls in high school.” “You were one of those face-scratching girls in the bathroom.” Shari faked surprise in her very best inner-city French accent. “Sacre bleu!” Baby sang, “Socks blue!” Shari leaned over, kissed her little girl, and nodded towards Imani. “Look at Auntie Imani. Ain’t she tripping? I was a bathroom girl back then—but this is now.” “What’s the difference?” “Today, I’m a lady.” Shari made a demonstrative turn while throwing a Halle Berry glance over her shoulder. She begged pardon, “Oops-ie-’scuse!” Shari had stuck cotton between her toes to let the polish dry. She popped up on the back of her heels and waddled towards the kitchen like a duck with a stick up its butt. “That’s how a lady walks?” “If she has polish on her toes and says Oops-ie-’scuse, yes.” Baby sang, “Whoochie coo!” Shari grabbed beers for herself and Imani. “I’m telling you, Shari, it ain’t right. Taz and Biggie are up to something in that studio at night. Taz says those are Biggie’s hos running in and out of there.” “Knowing my brother? Probably.” “Birds of a feather hunt pussy together. What am I gonna do about Taz?” “Imani, girl, you’ve got to put it on him.” “What?” “It!” Then Shari got up, dropped one hand on her hip like a handle, and swiveled and dipped around 180 degrees to a stop. “It! C’mon, girl.” Imani got up and began the swivel hip rock, “Put it on him . . .” “And . . . ,” Shari interjected with a wink, “afterwards say . . .” “Oops-ie-’scuse!” they sang out together, and fell back down into their chairs. And it was in that same chair that Imani dozed off to sleep while watching a movie. When she awoke, it was almost one o’clock in the morning. Shari and Baby both had gone to bed. Where is Taz? Imani wondered. She decided then and there to drive herself home. Taz would just have to get his car later. Imani was shocked as she drove up to her building. It wasn’t the shattered glass on the street or the stained paper bags in the gutter. Imani was used to that. And it wasn’t the hustlers standing on the corner when she got out of the car or the sounds of domestic violence pumping out of the pores of the apartment bricks. It was the growing flames that were beginning to paint hot orange streaks across the sky. Club Maceo was on fire. What fate brings humanity has to accept. But when the human heart fights back with courage, sometimes fate’s misfortune flames out. And so Imani glared defiantly at the blaze that had begun to engulf Club Maceo and willed herself not to panic. The glaring orange-tongued fire licked the rear of the building hoping to taunt Imani into a spiraling frenzy of fear. Instead of fear, poignant questions began to throb inside her brain. Where’s Daddy? she thought. He’s always smoking and drinking in bed. “Is
somebody in there?” a bystander asked. “I think somebody’s
in there, y’all!” The possibility wavered in Imani’s mind like the flames that looped along the prism edges of the shattered windows. She uttered the word “Daddy!” before running towards the burning building. Imani ran with a purpose as pure as the crescent moon above and as steady as a heroic heartbeat. Imani only stopped short when she saw Biggie come running out of the alley nervously checking behind him all the while. He tossed away a rag he had in his hand. “Biggie!” Startled, the big man froze in his tracks. “Imani!” “Where’s my daddy?” “I don’t know.” “Oh God, he’s inside!” Imani jerked around and made a dash for the door, a door with smoke billowing out of it. Biggie tried to stop her but she slipped through his grasp. Fate’s black magic pulled the curtain and Imani disappeared through the smoky doorway. Everyone who saw gasped in fear—everyone. Inside, the life-snatching flames of the fire swirled all around Imani. She tried to look through the pumping smoke that was clouding the room. Visibility was still possible and her heart pounded as she called out her father’s name. Suddenly Imani was turned around. Where was the door? To the right? To the left? She didn’t know where to move and began to feel lightheaded. Imani began to slowly fall to the floor. Falling . . . falling. Her head felt lighter and lighter; none of her thoughts had weight . . . none of her limbs had strength. Falling . . . falling. As Imani sank the last few inches onto the field of black smoke beneath her, two hands reached down and caught her like a ballplayer making a shoestring catch. Imani watched the room wobble up and down as she was rushed to safety in the arms of a fireman. Once outside, she gobbled at the fresh air, and it felt like cream rolling down her throat. The fireman eased Imani to a sitting position inside the open door of the ambulance. “You okay?” he asked. “Yeah. Gotta catch my wind.” The fireman grunted and rushed off. The next face she saw belonged to Taz. He looked into her frightened eyes and read her thoughts like they were printed on a page. “Maceo’s across the street at the pool hall. He’s fine.” “Good thing too.” Biggie coughed. “This fire ain’t no joke.” Imani lifted her head the way a bird lifts its beak towards an approaching storm. “Taz. My notebook. It’s still in there.” “Relax, baby. Forget about it for now.” “But it’s got all my rhymes!” “Hold on.” Taz held Imani. “It’ll be okay. Just wait and see.” And the waiting of time often drips traumatic and caustic to the soul. There are so many fears because of what is being lost. The items of our lives that would bring a laugh from a worldly appraiser actually bring tears to our own eyes; that’s because, to us, they are priceless. So Imani openly shed tears for her mother’s treasure chest that was lost. The chest was filled with her baby keepsakes; filled with the only remaining copies of a seldom-sold album her mother recorded back in the late seventies, and with church programs from her grandmother’s Sunday concerts when she sang for the collection plate and not the pocketbook; filled with publicity photos of her father’s failed solo career. Imani held one of those photos now, in the wake of the fire, as she stood on the singed floor of the back room of Club Maceo. Firefighters were rummaging around looking for spots that could flare up. Imani clutched the frame, in it a photo she imagined her mother in heaven must have taken off the wall and held, keeping it safe from the fire just for her. It was Imani’s favorite photo of her dad. He was about thirty years old, in a tux, holding his horn, his hair bootblack, and his teeth pearly and square. The early morning sun cast a beam directly on the photo; the glass frame sparkled. Imani could see her reflection and just over her shoulder now, her father’s image today. What a contrast. Age had heavily seasoned his hair with salt. He was missing three front teeth, and smelled of rum with a failure chaser. “Honey,” Maceo said, “you’re all cried out. And trembling.” “Mama’s albums are gone . . .” “I know.” He hugged Imani. “But we’ll always hear her in our hearts.” “And the club. How you gonna make a living, Daddy?” “The whole building didn’t go. Most of it’s still good.” Taz was milling around the rubble too. “Good thing I made you pay the insurance, Maceo.” “I appreciate that now. That insurance money is gonna save the day sho’ as I’m standing here.” A firefighter offered his two cents. “You might be slow getting it, mister.” “Why?” “Never mind.” “This is my place, burned up as it is, but it’s mine. I’ve a right to know. Speak your mind, son.” “Well, fact is . . . This fire looks suspicious. We got the call early enough. But somehow the fire spread quickly anyway. The back half of the building took a hit. And you know what? We found some rags out back. They were soaked with alcohol.” An image flashed in Imani’s head. She saw Biggie running towards her before tossing away a rag. “This is a bar,” Taz reasoned to the firefighter. “There’s supposed to be liquor in here. Those rags were probably tossed by the cleanup guy. Too lazy to slam dunk ’em in the garbage can. Ain’t nobody set no fire in here. You straight tripping, man.” “Okay, okay. Don’t shoot the messenger. But I’m telling you, they’re still gonna want to take a good long look at this one.” Imani grabbed Taz and pulled him aside. “I saw Biggie running out of the alley. From the back where the fire started.” “So what? He was looking for me. To take me over to Shari’s to get you.” “But Taz, when Biggie saw me, he got this funny look on his face.” “Because you were supposed to be at Shari’s. That’s all. He was surprised to see you.” “Naw, Taz, I saw him with a rag in his hand. He threw it away—” “Hold up. What you tryin’ to say, Imani?” “I think Biggie set the fire.” “What? Why would he?” For the life of her Imani couldn’t think of a single reason why. “You’re stressed out, Imani. Biggie is my boy. He’s your best friend’s brother. Stop tripping.” “I guess you’re right, Taz.” Imani walked back over to her father. “Daddy, we’ll just have to do what we can to make ends meet until the insurance money comes in. All of us. I’m gonna do everything I can . . . street rapping plus work some more hours at Shari’s salon. I’m up for the challenge.” It
was clear to Imani that she faced a challenge. But how could she
know that in a couple of weeks she would be in a battle that, if
won, would change her life forever?
CHAPTER THREE Imani’s battle would be fought on a field of promise, just like the one fought on decades before when a mecca of higher education was being born. Less than five miles away from Imani’s ’hood was a tree-lined campus built with the cracked palms and whip-scarred backs of emancipated slaves. The dream for it all came from colored activists like Fredrick Douglass. The money came from white abolitionists. They called the university Arlington. Now, more than 125 years later, the historically black college’s enrollment was down. The endowment was shriveling. The music department and its stellar reputation was the heartbeat that kept the university alive. And within that department was a rising academic star, Orenthal Ellis Hopson. He looked more like a young movie star than a scholar. Hopson had cream-in-the-coffee eyes with long lashes and a disarming gaze. His smile was like a cluster of stars. He had skin that made ladies on the street want to stroke his face to prove that it was as smooth as it looked. By the grace of heredity, Hopson had been blessed with strong locks of hair that gallantly formed a perfect warrior Afro. To be blunt, Mother Nature had just been darn right good to the brother. Better than he could ever be to himself. Hopson wanted to appear stately, more mature than he was because he was a prodigy and had achieved academic stardom far earlier than most. So the young brother played his true spirit and constructed a knockoff image for himself. He hid his dazzling eyes behind plain glasses, wore loose old-man suits on his buff body, and kept a bubbly personality in check. Hopson let his gaze fall and land now on each of the students in the advanced jazz band. They played for him, these sons and daughters of a stolen people. For their ancestors, a sameness of skin bound them, and a difference in tribal tongues separated them. But in the sailing belly of slavery’s whale, and on the shores of bondage, drums and song became their universal language. The centuries since had changed the rhythms and rhymes. What once had been the lifeline of an entire race, for the most part, had now become money melodies for mainstream America. So these talented sons and daughters played Arlington’s school song from a foreign, emotionless place. They just didn’t care, so their notes lacked passion. This combination of dissin’ and disdain caused Professor Hopson to explode. “Stop! Wait! Everybody’s off but Dee.” Dee played in the horn section, a plain black girl from the Midwest. She had a soft voice and had grown up in a sheltered environment. Her clothes were not hip and she was painfully shy. Her struggle was to fit in. Professor Hopson loved to praise Dee. And getting a lot of praise wasn’t helping her cause with the band’s cool crew. “What about some spirit? Where’s the heart of this song, people?” “In the med lab,” a handsome young man in the horn section joked. “Still in the frog!” The class roared with laughter. “Very funny, Ahmad. Where is the love, people? The men and women who built this university sang this song when the doors opened. There were no cell phones to tell anybody about it. No e-mails. Just exuberant voices rising up with joy because they had accomplished something no other generation had.” “Professor Hopson,” Ahmad defended himself, “we know the song is part of the school’s history. But why does history have to be so dry?” “Yeah,” Dee managed to say. She had a mad crush on Ahmad and would say anything to please him. “The song is dry, Professor.” “It’s not dry. It’s a classic. Ahmad, you’re band president. You need to set a better example.” “I am, Professor. I’m being real. Hip-hop is what’s happening.” Hopson placed his wooden director’s wand on the podium in front of him. “I can’t believe you’re disrespecting the school like this, Ahmad.” “But all we want to do is rock the pep rally showcase next week. We can do a real hip version of the school song.” “No way.” “Why, Professor?” “Because there’s tradition to uphold. Leave the head bobbing and booty shaking to the drum line. We’re the jazz band.” “Meaning?” “Meaning we’re better than that. We’re more talented. More—” “Boring.” “Drop it, Ahmad.” “But I’m being real, Professor; everybody’s gonna be hating on us! The students are tired of the school song.” “Not if it’s done right. Let me show you.” Hopson swung his suit jacket away from his shoulders the way Superman flips back his cape. He grabbed his horn the way the Count of Monte Cristo grabs a sword. He grinned like Louie Armstrong, then played like Miles Davis. And what came from that horn was a spirit that sprinkled a lyrical blessing all around the room. Hopson had begun playing the piano at age three. He brought tears to the eyes of the women at Bible study. By age twelve he was playing symphonies. The next year he discovered the horn and immediately fell in love with the sleek, pewter steel that returned his passionate kisses with the sound of sensual melodies. Hopson finished playing. Dee moaned, “That was beautiful.” And because of the way she said it, and her expression afterwards, so mousy and so geeky . . . everyone laughed. Ahmad laughed the loudest before agreeing with Dee. “Professor, she’s right. You’ve got skills. Mad skills. But let me stand up at the pep rally and play that and see if I don’t get booed and laughed at all over the yard.” A drummer hit the cymbals. Then gave Ahmad a fist-tapping five.Hopson fought the mutiny. “Well Ahmad, I’m sure your enormous ego can take it.” The class started to hiss and tease, “Faced by the professor! Ooooohhh!” “Come on. Settle down. Let’s try it again, from the top. Some emotion this time, please.” Professor Hopson began to direct. Then from the doorway came the sound of a horn playing a swinging version of the Arlington song. The notes were the same but the feeling was not. It was a bit reckless, windless, fly, current but not substantive, yet somehow, extremely engaging. The students began to piggyback off this hip version. Professor Hopson snapped his wooden director’s wand against the side of the desk. The students dropped their tempo and resumed the tradition. The competitive horn blared louder, hipper. The students picked up that tempo again. Professor Hopson glared at the doorway. Another professor was now walking into view. He leaned on the doorway, playing his horn, knowing he was stealing the show. This was Professor Rick Sherman—Hopson’s colleague and fierce rival. It would be a lowdown showdown. Because whenever the two men were in the same room together, there was always some one-upmanship going on. Professor Sherman had been a bit envious of Professor Hopson long before he ever got to Arlington. That’s because Chairman Perkins gave the prodigy professor the very best music majors to mentor. He also got other campus perks right off the bat without paying his dues. Plus Sherman learned that Hopson’s people had money and plenty of it. Spoiled, Sherman thought. But once they met, he realized that there was something about Professor Hopson that he liked. Each man respected the other’s skills in music, but each thought himself just a little bit better. So it was always a competition between the two whenever the chance arose. Hopson stalked over to the doorway and yanked Professor Sherman’s horn down. Sherman, around thirty-five, a plain yet expressive face, hip in dress, confident in attitude, bucked his eyes and let a sly grin spread across his face. The students stopped playing. “Problem, Hopson?” “Yes. What are you doing in my classroom?” Sherman sucked his teeth. Then he looked around at the students and winked. “I thought I heard a funeral march, so I came to pay my last respects.” The students began to jeer. “Oooooooh!” Hopson pushed Sherman out of the classroom. Sherman allowed it, smiling a goofy grin, while backpedaling like a drunk out into the hallway. “Ooooooh!” Hopson slammed the door behind them. “What’s wrong with you? You’re worse than a kid, always playing around.” “C’mon, Hopson. You never let the students have any fun. And it wouldn’t hurt you to have some fun too. You’re all uptight because you’re the Ellington Fellow.” “That’s not true.” “Oh no?” Sherman stepped back and gave Hopson the once-over. “You’re the youngest person to get the fellowship. You’re barely twenty-five. And you walk around here in those old-man suits, trying to act like old Chairman Perkins.” “That’s a lie.” “Oh yeah? I’m thirty-five and I know more about the current music trends than you do.” “All right. I’ll give you that.” “And who had more students on the dean’s list? And more music majors to graduate on time?” “You did, Sherman. But who had more articles published last year?” Professor Sherman had to concede that point. Professor Hopson grinned. “Don’t gloat so much, man. That’s only because I didn’t have the time. I extended my office hours last year. I had to make sure all the seniors were able to get out of here.” “You should have been more worried about getting published. Sometimes, Sherman, it seems like you don’t want to get tenure.” “I’ve had to work like a dog to come up through the ranks here at Arlington. I’m top dog in the music department. Don’t worry about me. You’re an up-and-comer, true. But I’m not about to let you show me up.” “You’re not?” Professor Hopson said with a cocky smile. “No, I’m not,” Professor Sherman sassed. “I didn’t grow up with a silver spoon in my mouth like you. I’m from the streets and I play to win.” Professor Sherman tipped his horn. “But I like your grit.” Hopson nodded appreciatively, then headed back into the classroom. The students ran back to their seats after they had eavesdropped through the door. Professor Hopson raised his director’s wand again. “From the top.” Professor Sherman was standing in the doorway, horn down, playing possum. The students cut sly glances at one another. Then they began playing Professor Sherman’s version of the Arlington song. “Stop it. Stop—it!” Professor Hopson yelled. “Listen, you will play the song the way I say or you’ll fail my class. Is that clear?” The students suddenly became wide-eyed and silent. “Now what? Are you deaf?” Chairman Perkins answered for the students. “Certainly not.” Hopson could only manage a blank stare as he turned around to look at the department chairman now standing behind him. Chairman Perkins had a white soul patch, white temples, and a perfectly round Afro. His weathered face held piercing eyes. A pronged cane aided his walk. His vested suit, although well kept, was tweed and strictly fifties-style. He had the stance and the class of a Sidney Poitier.“Professor Hopson, we need to talk.” “But what about my class?” “Professor Sherman will take over. In fact, it seems like he already has.” Hopson followed Chairman Perkins out. He stopped for a second, just long enough to whisper to Sherman, “Next time.” Sherman whispered back, “Bring it.”
CHAPTER 4 After Sherman told Hopson to bring it, Chairman Perkins told him to get with it. Everyone on Arlington’s campus recognized the stately department chairman as he walked across the yard with his hopeful protégé. Or at least the man Chairman Perkins had hoped would be his successor when he picked Orenthal Hopson for the prestigious Ellington Teaching Fellowship last year. “You’re the youngest person we’ve ever chosen. I’m beginning to think I pushed the committee into making a mistake.” Professor Hopson cut his eyes at the old guy. Always demanding, he thought. And always riding me. “Chairman, I know you don’t believe in my research.” “How can I? Your theory is outrageous, Hopson! What is it again? Wait a second, I know: Music can alter an individual’s personality, their entire behavior despite at what point they’re introduced to it.” “Right. What’s so crazy about that?” “A baby introduced to music will have a better-developed brain. Makes sense to me. A child who masters an instrument will have a stronger sense of confidence. I buy that too.” Hopson picked up the argument. “But someone who has already fully developed as an individual . . .” “. . . past puberty cannot be profoundly changed by music. Period.” “But they can, Chairman Perkins! Think: Haven’t you ever been moved to tears by a song?” “Yes.” “Haven’t you ever been depressed and music has lifted you up?” “Sure.” “Then if music can alter that state on a temporary basis, if duly applied why couldn’t it work on a grander scale, and change someone’s personality—their outlook on life completely?” “It’s too easy, Hopson. Can’t you see that? If it were that easy, then all we’d have to do is pipe music into the prisons. Then all the criminals would be reformed.” “That’s silly.” Chairman Perkins stopped and glared at Professor Hopson. “Sorry, Chairman.” “Not as sorry as I am, Professor.” They began to walk again. “I was hoping that you could come up with something more solid for the grant competition. You do realize—” “I know, Chairman. I know. The Federal Music Grant is the most prestigious in the country.” “Not to mention worth two hundred thousand dollars to the university that wins it. Arlington needs that money. So it’ll be either your paper we submit or Professor Sherman’s.” The words erupted inside Hopson’s brain. He did not want that. That would be the biggest topper of them all. And Sherman would never let him forget it—no matter what. “Are you deaf?” Chairman Perkins asked, mimicking the professor’s earlier taunt to his students. “No, I’m not. And you’re not being fair. My theory is right.” “I’m not convinced. Can we take a chance on it? We’ve got to do our best to win. The school needs the money, Professor.” “It’ll win. I just know it.” But Chairman Perkins was no longer listening. He was drawn into a growing battle. And soon Hopson was too; drawn into a battle of wills, a battle that would dramatically change his life. Chairman Perkins and Professor Hopson would witness that battle, watching now as it boiled over right in front of them. Next to the student dorm, a security guard was blocking the path of a young woman. Neither man had ever seen her before. She was dressed ultrahip. She had on a Chicago White Sox game jersey with a white T-shirt underneath. Her baggy, boy jeans were tie-dyed black and white, and she wore some spike-heeled boots. Her thick hair was braided simply from the front of the scalp all the way to the back. A black bandana circled her forehead. Two golden hoop bangles circled from her earlobes to the top of her shoulders. It was Imani, and the school’s black Barney Fife was berating her. “Listen, you townies don’t belong on campus. You roam around here, trying to steal stuff . . .” “Steal!” Imani threw her head back and the word snapped out of her mouth like spit. “Ain’t nothing around here I want.” “Then get off the property.” “Like you’re a student. What do they pay you, huh? Minimum wage? You’re a townie just like me. What’s up with that?” The security guard grabbed Imani’s arm and jerked her around. “Hey,” Chairman Perkins shouted, “stop that!” His pronged cane kicked up dust as he walked as briskly as he could towards the brawl. Professor Hopson hung his head on the spot and thought, Now what? He dallied before inching over to where the trouble was. “Let that young woman go!” “But Chairman Perkins, you don’t understand . . .” Imani jerked away and ran around the corner. “See? Now she’s gone. I’m supposed to keep them from cutting across campus and stuff. I’ve got orders.” “But you don’t have manners. Here at Arlington, every man is a gentleman. So whether you are a student or a professor or a security guard like yourself, we treat all women like ladies. Is that understood?” “Yes, sir.” Professor Hopson was eager to get back to his theory. “Chairman, can we go somewhere and talk? Over coffee maybe?” “What’s that noise?” Now a growing sound caught Chairman Perkins’s attention. In the distance, a herd of students had gathered in a brick enclave behind the dining hall. It was the sound of unchained rhythm—beats tapped out on the underside of thighs like the old hambone days of the South, sticks against empty plastic buckets, the new drums of ghetto playlots, and exuberant cries of “un-huh, un-huh yeah. Un-huh, un-huh yeah.” “What’s going on over there, Professor?” “Nothing. Just a student thing. Now as I was saying . . .” “What kind of a student thing?” Hopson’s shoulders slumped. He answered exasperated, “They collect money and whoever raps the best wins the pot.” “Interesting.” “Not really.” Chairman Perkins walked over anyway. Professor Hopson followed reluctantly. They found a spot in the rear of the crowd to stand and observe. Imani stepped up on the wooden picnic bench. She worked her arms to loosen up a bit and the game jersey floated defiantly on her shoulders. She dug in with her spike-heeled boots like a batter in the World Series. As
Imani stood up on the table some of the excitement escaped out of
the crowd. A group of coed divas sat on the front table in their
very best hanging jury form. They were a costly crew. They had Coach
bags and Gucci loafers. One of the pretty on the outside but evil
on the inside girls yelled, “Townie!” Their disdain only fueled the urban diva. She looked at each and every one of them, her gaze like a scepter knighting their shoulders. Her confidence burst through her person—through her dazzling smile, her eyes, through her defiant stance. The adversarial silence of the students, in an instant, was transformed into an edgy murmur anticipating the performance to come. Imani began to rock back and forth to a rhythm in her head. Directed by her eyes, the students began to move with Imani, becoming her choir. Next they began to clap. “Yes-yes-y’all,” she thanked them. “Yes-yes.” Imani began to rap, in a throaty voice, two octaves below her normal register. The words burned with honesty, talked about the poverty her eyes had seen, the sorrow her lips had cried, and the courage her heart had felt. In the middle she crooned two notes, going up then down the scale. Next, mixed in with more rap, were the rough vowels of the street, profanity here and there as punctuation, but still, all in all, riveting. Imani was so good that everyone who performed before her appeared to be ill, and the one person who performed after her seemed to be ailing. At the end of it all, the crowd cheered and wolfed for Imani, electing her the champion and filling her jean pockets with greenbacks. Imani glowed, “Right, right y’all.” Chairman Perkins turned to Professor Hopson. “Do you really stand by your theory?” “Yes.” “You want me to enter it in the grant contest instead of Professor Sherman’s?” “Yes.” “You’re sure it’ll win?” “Without a doubt.” “Then prove it, Professor.” “How?” “With her.” Chairman Perkins pointed at Imani. “That rapper. Introduce her to the classics. Train her with the music of Basie and Ellington, then turn her into an elegant jazz singer. Do that, and it’ll prove your theory is correct. Then I’ll enter your paper.” “But Chairman, I can’t.” “Why not?” Suddenly the image of Professor Sherman flashed through Hopson’s head. His gut churned. He refocused on Chairman Perkins. “It’s a deal.” “Good.” “But on two conditions, Chairman. One: She can’t know about the bet. And two: You can’t be the sole judge of whether or not she’s changed.” “Are you trying to say I’d cheat?” “I’m trying to say that one man’s princess is another man’s frog.” Chairman Perkins laughed hardily. “Okay. Then we’ll have her perform at the President’s Charity Ball—that’s three months away.” “Three months!” “What’s the matter, Hopson? Like the students say, can’t you back your stuff up?” Hopson glared at the chairman before squaring his shoulders. “I’ll back it up. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s losing.” Then the two men shook hands and turned towards Imani, whose beauty rose like a light above the throng of students surrounding her. “A penny for your thoughts, Professor.” “I know I can change her life if I get the chance. But the question is, how can I reach her?”
CHAPTER FIVE The reach of our hands is limited like the heavy-laden branches of summer trees. But the reach of our minds is limitless, with no true beginning or end like the galaxy that stretches far above our heads. The stars there burn with promise and, despite distance, give us a nightly glimpse of what miracles are. This is a gift from God, allowing us to regularly visualize what is possible. “You have star quality,” Professor Hopson said to Imani as the students made their way to class and she got her money together. She hardly heard him, not looking up but counting, “Ten, fifteen, twenty . . . Huh, better than passing the hat outside the bus station all day.” “Miss,” Professor Hopson said, touching her arm. “Back up off me! I’m tired of you campus security guards. Why y’all always gotta be bothering us?” “Whoa, whoa.” Hopson turned her towards him and their eyes met. “Do I look like security to you?” “No, you ain’t security.” She examined his soft eyes and his creamy skin. Imani checked his shoulders out as they managed to show a fine line underneath that old played-out suit jacket. The man had some height to him. Imani liked that. But he looked way too corny—just like TV’s Negro nerd, Erkel. But even Erkel’s alter ego was fine once he got out of those punk-ass clothes and welfare eyeglasses. Although Imani acknowledged Professor Hopson’s good looks, she knew he was uptown and she was downtown. He was university and she was townie. To Imani, that meant be on guard. “So you’re not trying to run me off?” “No,
I’m actually trying to get you to stay so we can talk. I’m
Professor Orenthal Hopson.” “What’s so funny?” “That name. You must have gotten your ass kicked in school.” Hopson kept his anger in check. “What’s your name?” “Imani.” Hopson started to laugh. “What’s so funny?” “That name. Sounds like an extra in an Indiana Jones movie.” Imani rolled her eyes, grabbed her bag, and started walking. Hopson quickstepped behind her. “Wait, Imani—we got off to a bad start.” “You ain’t lying.” “I’m a music professor here. Have you ever heard of Count Basie?” Imani played him off. “Hello?” “Yeah, I heard of him. My old man listens to him all the time.” “Well your boyfriend has taste.” “My old man is my father, Maceo.” “Sorry.” “Have you heard of Wynton Marsalis?” |