Playing Hard To Get

Every head in the room turned to Tamia.

?

After thanking Malik for inviting her to the workshop and watching Ayo steal every stare the man had in his soul, Tamia waited around to talk to Baba about what he’d whispered in her ear.

“The sister with the broken heart,” Baba said.

“That’s not funny, you know,” Tamia responded.

“I didn’t laugh.” Baba looked at Tamia. “You have come to talk to me for a reason?”

“Why did you say it? Why did you say I have a broken heart?”

“Do you?”

Tamia closed her eyes as she spoke this time and went along with the conversation on the faith of what she was feeling in her heart.

“I think you know,” she said.

“I do. And I can save you. From yourself. From your death. From what killed your mother.”

“You can’t say that,” Tamia said, her eyes filling with tears as she looked back at Baba. She paused, feeling a need to explain her emotion. “I was born with heart irregularities. The same thing that killed my mother. It almost killed me once.” She wiped her tears. “So you can’t just say that to me. You know? Not if you don’t really know.”

“What do you want me to know, child?” Baba asked, touching Tamia’s heart. “What do you want me to say? You’re a part of the universe. If you want to live, you have to accept that. And if you accept that, you will have to change everything about your life. That’s the only way you will get free. And that’s the only way your heart will continue to beat.” He pressed his hand against her heart one time and released. Tamia felt an energy go through her body. It was arresting and freeing, all at once.

“What if I’m afraid,” Tamia started, “afraid of freedom?”

“That’s not the question you should be asking. The question is if you’re more afraid of freedom than slavery,” Baba said. “If you want to find that out, then join me. Join me on your next step to freedom.”

“I believe in the power of God,” Tamia said, “not man.”

“I don’t have a problem with God. We all come from the Creator. We all return to the Creator. It’s what happens in the middle that matters.”

?

“Mrs. LaRoche, I am sorry, but I simply can’t make an exception for you. You’re going to need to have someone here to pick you up after the surgery.”

Tasha was glaring at the nurse at Dr. Miller’s midtown office. One of the top plastic surgeons in the country, Miller was every New York woman’s nip/tuck ninja. Three weeks earlier, when Tasha decided she was getting full-body liposuction after doing 250 crunches and nearly putting her back out, she felt she needed a little boost to her Queen Bee plan and called Dr. Miller’s masseuse (a contact she’d gotten from another Knicks wife) to set up an appointment. While Miller’s schedule was full for the next year, Tasha had her consultation the very next day and set up her surgery a week after that. There was no need to wait or contemplate. She knew exactly what she wanted—her old body back. And after meeting with Lynn, she felt even more sure of her decision. Lynn was right; if she was going to work with young people, she needed to understand them—to be one of them. Not this outdated and oversized bag she was becoming. Miller had the pictures and it was time for him to get to sucking and plucking until twenty-year-old Tasha emerged.

“This is New York City, for crying out loud. I don’t need anyone to pick me up. There are fifty cabs waiting outside to take me wherever I want after my surgery,” Tasha responded, looking at the nurse as if she was grasshopper on her arm.

“I’m fully aware of what goes on outside of the office,” the nurse said sternly. “I know what goes on inside it, as well. And one thing that is going to go on is that you are going to need someone here to take you home after your surgery or there will be no surgery.” While Nurse Hopkins had been a sweet, tight-mouthed Catholic girl from Connecticut when she’d started working at Dr. Miller’s office six years ago, she’d been dealing with demanding Gotham girls for too long now to take Tasha’s crap. This was nothing. Ivana Trump once demanded to have a Papillion in the room as she had her lip injections. That woman had a mouth on her—and she wasn’t even speaking English. “Did you read the presurgical guidelines you were provided?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah…and how many people does it take to screw in a lightbulb?” Tasha asked. “It’s a man with a freaking vacuum, sucking the fat out of my gut…and my butt…and my back and legs, and wherever else he finds it.” Tasha rolled her eyes and looked down at her purse, considering whom she could call with this. While her normal cellmate,22 Troy, wasn’t too far away in Harlem, she hadn’t told her about the surgery, for fear she’d try to talk her out of it. In fact, Tasha hadn’t told anyone about the surgery—Lionel included.

Tasha looked up and the nurse was looking back at her, clearly unamused with the exchange.

“Do we need to reschedule your surgery?” she asked with a voice so impersonal one would think she hadn’t handled a cup of Tasha’s urine just days before.

“No…I need this today,” Tasha said. “Damn…Look, now, what time do you get off? Maybe you could be my ride? Or you could take off and I could pay your salary for the day. I could pay you double.”

There was no crack of concern in the nurse’s face. Susan Lucci had tried that once.

“Do we need to reschedule your surgery, Mrs. Laroche?” the nurse repeated.

“No need to do that, Danielle,” someone said and Tasha watched as the nurse’s stern eyes went from her to someone behind Tasha and softened quickly. “I’ll handle it. I’ll have my driver come up and take her wherever she needs to go.”

Tasha turned and Charleston was standing there smiling.