Playing Hard To Get

“Hand me that phone.”

Tasha handed the phone back over to Tasha and she looked at the picture of Malik again.

“Somebody swallowed an Afro-disiac,” Tasha said, shaking her head.

“A what?” asked Troy.

“An Afro-disiac—the jones you get for those dudes with dreads, reading poetry and whatnot,” Tasha repeated. “They were all over undergrad. Looking all fine. Big, brown muscles. Knapsacks and bad attitudes. I saw many a bougie sister end up broke, bald, and selling Muslim oil and Farrakhan tapes down on Georgia Avenue behind the Afro-disiac. Look what happened to Erykah Badu! Now it’s happening to our Tamia. He put his mojo on her.” She pointed to Tamia, looking out of the window. “Look at her. She’s hot for him. We might as well get our Farrakhan CDs now. What’s your new name? Akilah Muslimah?”

“He’s just my client.” Tamia wondered if Malik was back at the Freedom Project by now. Maybe he was in his office. What book was he reading? He was probably playing with one of his locks. Did he wear reading glasses?

Tasha looked at the picture again and handed the phone back to Troy.

“Look how they’re looking at each other,” she told Troy.

“I know. I saw it up close. That’s why I took the picture.”

Tamia glared at Troy.

“What?” Troy said. “You two were looking like a fake Nia Long and Larenz Tate in Love Jones.”

“Just tell the truth, Mia,” Tasha said. “We’re all family here. You want him, don’t you?”

“I—”

“You want to ride that red, black, and green flag until it bursts into the stars and stripes!”

“Why are you so vulgar?” Tamia asked.

“I’m high on Percocet!”

“Don’t blame the drugs.”

“I won’t blame the drugs if you admit the truth. You want this man. You want to get with Kunta Kinte and have a little Kizzie. Tell the truth and shame the devil! Tell her, Troy!”

“I don’t think that applies right now,” Troy said.

“Fine, I like him,” Tamia said, admitting this to herself for the first time. “I mean, you saw him.”

“Yes, I did.” Troy fanned herself.

“So?” Tasha pushed.

“So? So, he’s fine,” Tamia said.

Tasha sucked her teeth.

“Dang, I knew something would ruin my winter wedding,” she said.

“Ruin?” Troy’s eyes were wide. “She can’t marry Charleston?”

“Who said anything about anyone getting married?” Tamia shouted.

“You did,” Tasha and Troy said together.

“Now, you can still pull it off,” Tasha added. “But first you have to shake it off. You have to get with Malik—well, first because I want to know if he’s good in bed—and second because the only way you can marry Charleston with no regrets is if you taste the rainbow.”

“Again, who said I was marrying Charleston?”