AUTHOR’S NOTE: I am feverishly working on my new novel “Junior Achiever”, but as I write, I, at times, like sharing a little something-something with my fans. What follows is nothing but a taste. Just know, I’m endeavoring to allow Junior Blevins, my main character, to share the steps he took to build his own platform for success.
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Silence as Roma took a few more bites from her sandwich. As she chewed, I almost felt compelled to say something about the fact that she did not offer to fix me one. In that moment, my heart was just too heavy.
I peered over at Roma as she continued to consume her sandwich. I noted her dress – black, loose-fitting shorts and a matching sports bra. She had just gotten home from swim practice at the high school. I found it difficult averting my gaze, as my eyes lingered over her moderately pimpled face and toned body. Her head rose and she stared back at me, her toothy smile a clear indication that she knew I had been sneaking glances at her.
“Your little brother gonna be mad at you,” she exclaimed with a chuckle. “He done claimed me as his girl, you know?”
“Are you?”
“Should I be?” she quipped back.
Her quick comeback caused me to rock back and forth in the recliner with laughter.
“Answer the question, negro,” Roma said. “Should I be your brother’s girl, or should I be… yours?”
I got up and joined her in the kitchen, standing at the head of the island directly across from her. My hands were inserted into my sweatpants pockets. I desperately wanted to give her a straight answer, but in that moment, I was at a loss for words. I wondered how a relationship with her would work with Damian and I being taken into her parents’ home for respite, all to prevent us from coming into foster care.
“What would your parents say?” I asked. “Seeing us holding hands, kissing even?”
“They wouldn’t know,” she replied, walking along the left side of the island to draw near to me. “It would be our little secret.”
She now stood in front of me, her interlocked hands resting on the island countertop. I peered longingly into her brown eyes, getting lost in them as she stared back at me.
I took a momentary glimpse at her pouty lips as my right hand reached over to cover her interlocked ones. I then leaned in and pecked her on those same pouty lips. When I drew back slightly, the expression on her caramel-colored face told me that she wanted a little more than what I was giving.
That’s when she took matters into her own hands. She grabbed the back of my neck with her right hand and pulled my mouth to hers. When her tongue parted my lips and started swirling around in my mouth, I didn’t know what to do at first. But then I followed her lead. The swirling motion of my tongue started to match the swirling motion of hers. But right as our French kissing intensified, the door leading to the garage swung open.
I turned to my right, Roma to her left.
There stood Damian in the open doorway – with Charley looming large behind him, his mouth agape – with an angry scowl on his dark face.
###
“My parents would have a fit if they had seen you locking lips with Roma,” Charley exclaimed moment later as we stood on the back patio. “And you saw your brother’s reaction. He up in his room, probably ballin’ his eyes out. This ain’t gonna age well, dude.”
I couldn’t shake the truthfulness of Charley’s words, but I also couldn’t shake my attraction to Roma, especially after discovering that these feelings were mutual. But my heart ached for Damian. While Roma considered his attraction to her as puppy love, 11-year-old Damian had real emotions for her. Hell, Roma represented everything that was going well in his little world, his head really.
“So, you’re saying I should back off, just ignore how I feel about her, how she feels about me. Is that it?”
“Yeah, man. At least until Mr. Malcolm finds a new placement for your brother, you. My parents find out, they gonna be sleeping with one eye open, the other eye closed. Shit, now that I know, I’m gonna be doing that my own damn self.”
“Why? This has nothing to do with you.”
Charley squared his shoulders with mine and proceeded to emphasize his statements with finger jabs at my face. “Look, little nigga’, this has everything to do with me. That’s why it has to stop now, ‘cause if I find out you knocking boots with my sister, I’m gonna break you in half.”
Charley glared at me under a furrowed brow. That’s how I knew he was serious. I met his glare, then sheepishly looked away.
He was right. Our placement in his parents’ loving home was more important than my personal desires, which is another way of specifically saying my raging hormones. But I also knew Charley didn’t want me being the reason Roma did not fulfill her fullest potential. Like I said before, Roma was an over-achiever. Even as a high schooler, she knew where she was going and what she wanted to do. I didn’t have a clue.
With that, Charley left me standing alone with my arms crossed on the back patio. I sank into the corner of the back patio railing, the wooden plank pressing into my lower back and buttocks. I faced the house, so when I looked up at Roma’s third floor bedroom window, I immediately spotted her looking down at me. She pursed her lips to blow me a kiss. I dared not blow one back, out of fear Charley would see me doing it. Therefore, I shook my head somewhat vigorously and turned my back to her. This girl, two grade levels ahead of me, was in hot pursuit of love, and I was that day’s designated prey.
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Copyright 2024 Jeffery A. Faulkerson. All rights reserved.
er of 2001, my family and I moved into the Prospect-Lefferts Garden neighborhood in Brooklyn, New York. I was 25. My partner was 24. Our son was 11 months. Prospect-Lefferts Garden is a lovely neighborhood marked by quiet streets and some of the most beautiful architecture in the city. There are several blocks lined with perfectly preserved limestones and brownstones. There is a strong sense of community. Block parties are a tradition. And for those of us who fear the suburbs, Flatbush Avenue hums at the neighborhood’s border. When we moved into the neighborhood, it was predominantly black. A haircut was a two-minute walk away. Great jerk chicken was everywhere. My best friend from college lived on the same block. On Friday evenings you could find us out on his stoop with Jack and Coke in hand (which we drank that back then), watching the world go by.
Selling books at the Harlem Book Fair was a transformative experience for my son and me. As people stepped to our table to inquire about our titles, we had to dig deep to give them good reasons to purchase them. I told them that the first book in the Adinkrahene series is all about introducing readers to a new reality, one in which a select group of Black men and women (100 total) are lower-case gods, and they mainly use their supernatural abilities to establish peace and prosperity for all, not exact vengeance upon their enemies, the Anglo-controlled (but Satarian-possessed) Corporate Cabal.
