“But marrying is a different story.”
“Who said anything about marrying? And it’s a little late in the century to still be hating white people.”
“Tell them that,” she replies with fire. “And I don’t hate all white people. Just like I don’t like all Black people. All God’s children, red and yellow, black and white get on your mama’s nerves. Not hating them does not mean marrying them.”
“Nobody’s talking about marrying anyone,” I reiterate. “She won’t even date me, much less marry me. You have nothing to worry about.”
If anyone should worry, it’s me. Because after two days in New York in Qwest’s bed, my feelings for Bristol are just as strong. My anger and my frustration lie on top of them in a thick pile, but I’ve come nowhere near snuffing them out.
Not for the first time I wonder if anything ever will.
Chapter 14
BRISTOL
I’M NOT SURE how much more my ovaries can endure today.
As if Grip looking the way he does isn’t enough, seeing him inspire these kids from his old high school is like a stick of C4 planted in my ovaries.
Boom.
It seems I’m not the only one. Meryl “the huge fan” reporter hasn’t taken her eyes off him since we got here. So much for professional objectivity. She practically threw her panties at him.
Okay. I’m being ridiculous. I know it. I’m taking my frustration out on poor Meryl because the person who really deserves it can’t take it. Not Grip for going to New York and sleeping with Qwest. Not Qwest for inviting him and being exactly the kind of girl he should be with. No, the person who deserves my scorn is me, but I think watching Grip fall for Qwest on every social media platform is punishment enough. So, Meryl it is.
“I know it feels like there’s no way out sometimes,” Grip tells the assembled students from his spot on the gymnasium floor. “I grew up just a few streets over, so I know what happens in Bompton.”
Grip told me once that here when a word starts with the letter “C”, you often substitute a “B” because this is Bloods, not Crips, territory. The possibility that wearing blue or saying “couch” instead of “bouch” could get you killed? I can’t imagine human life being treated so cavalierly.
“Half the boys I knew when I was your age didn’t make it past twenty.” Grip drops his eyes to the wax-shiny basketball court before looking back to the students. “And too many others are locked up. I’m not gonna sugar coat it. The odds are stacked against us.”
He steps closer, and the passion in his eyes and in his voice reverberates, reaching as high as the rafters. Reaching each student listening intently. Reaching me.
“You have to make your own way out. You’re responsible for your future.” He runs his eyes methodically up and down the rows of students. “You can’t wait for somebody else to give you anything. My mom taught me that.”
The warm smile Grip and his mother share telegraphs a closeness I envy. She’s exactly as I’d imagined she’d be. Proud. Confident. Fiercely protective.
“She was the one who encouraged me to apply for a scholarship at the School of the Arts,” Grip says. “Even though it meant leaving this school where all my friends were and taking a bus across town everyday alone. Even though it meant going to a new school that felt like a foreign country, where I felt like an alien. If I hadn’t done that, you might not be hearing my music now. You probably wouldn’t even know my name.”
“He’s amazing,” Meryl whispers, her eyes fixed on Grip’s expressive face. “I can’t wait to write this story.”
“Good,” I whisper back with a forced smile.
My phone buzzes in my lap, and I look down at the screen. Parker.
I would ignore this call, but I’ve been leaving him messages for the last three days. He has to know I suspect he leaked that information to the media. I need to set him straight, and there’s no telling when he’ll stop avoiding me and call again.
“I need to take this,” I tell Meryl quietly. “Be right back.”
I bend at the waist and tiptoe, hoping I haven’t drawn much attention to myself, though Grip couldn’t miss me stepping out.
“Parker,” I say as soon as I’m in the hall. “Why did it take you so long to return my calls?”
“Bristol, I miss you, too.” His deep voice is part humor, part caution.
“Your people confirmed to the media that we’re dating.” I lean against the brick wall and plow my fingers through my hair. “They wou
ldn’t have done that without your express permission.”