Thirty - Three - Serena

“I’m not sorry.”

 

 

 

The rap of knuckles against wood jolts me awake. As awareness settles, I find I’m on my back in Kholton’s bed, his phone on my chest. I must have dozed off while talking with my father. Darn somniferous Chinese food.

The knocking comes again.

Crap. I locked him out of his room.

Scrambling off the bed, I skip to answer the door.

Kholton looks at me with a raised brow from the other side. “You were sleeping?”

Sheepish, I shrug. “Overeating and Chinese food, a deadly combination.”

He laughs. “It’s cool. You can go back to sleep. I just need to get dressed.”

I back up and he enters, heading straight for the closet. “Dressed for what?”

“It’s almost five o’ clock, Serena,” he informs me. “I’ve an after-school class.”

Sheesh, I’ve been out that long? “Oh, you mean those free classes you give for finals?”

He’s donning his customary teacher attire again—khaki slacks and a muscle-clinging button-down. “Yeah.”

A yawn pries my mouth wide as I ask, “Can I tag along?”

He glances over his shoulder and scans me, as if contemplating. “Sure. But you’ll need to hurry.”

His answer doesn’t even register because I’m not expecting him to agree. It’s when he snaps, “Serena. Move faster,” as I’m dragging my feet back to the bed that I realize he’s agreed. 

Eek!

With quick movements, I grab jeans and a Coca Cola tee and steal one of his baseball caps since there’s not enough time to sort out my hair.

I rush out the front door behind him with one shoe on while tugging on the other as I hop down the steps, because he’s dead set on leaving whether I’m ready or not.

In the back of the cab, he tells my chest, “You really need to invest in some bras. Those pasties don’t do shit.”

“I don’t like bras,” I whine. “They’re cagey and uncomfortable.”

“You do realize we’re headed to a high school, right?” he asks with raised eyebrows. “You know, pimply, horny teenagers? They won’t learn shit with your nipples distracting them.”

“I’ll sit at the back of the class,” I suggest.

“Damn right you will.”

I bust out laughing.

At the school, he clasps my hand and pulls me along behind him, glancing from side to side as if searching for something.

“Hey, Mr. Sharpe!” a boy calls as he shots past us.

“Omari, hold up,” Kholton calls back.

The boy stops and groan as he turns. He’s African American,  with shorn hair, light eyes and a sly smile. “Before you lay into me about being late again, Mr. Sharpe, let me explain. Okay, so there was this blind woman with three spray-tanned chickens on the subway—”

“I’m not interested in another one of your fables, Omari, so save it.”

“Aight. But you aren’t in class yet,” he argues, making his case. “So, if I get there before you, that doesn’t count as late.”

Kholton rolls his eyes. “That’s not why I stopped you, Mr. I Can Talk My Way Out Of Anything.” There’s amusement in his voice. “Your football jacket.”

“My jacket?”

“Yes. Let me rent it for a Benjamin. You’ll get it back next class.” 

“A Benjamin and a Grant,” the kid barters. “Next class is in three days, so that means I’m gonna be cold for three days.”

Kholton sighs and takes out his wallet. “Yeah, whatever.”

Money is exchanged for the blue and white football jacket and the kid takes off with, “I’m not late if I’m there before you, Mr. Sharpe!”

With a shake of his head, Kholton turns to me and holds up the jacket for me to stuff my arms in.

“I’m pissed at you, you know,” I tell him as I let him dress me in the kid’s jacket.

“He’s a good kid from a good, clean home, Serena. You won’t get Ebola from wearing his jacket for a few hours.”

“Who’s talking about the jacket?” I say. “I’m mad you didn’t let me hear the story about the blind woman and the three spray-tanned chickens.”

Kholton bursts out laughing. “I swear, that kid’s got the craziest stories.”

It’s almost six in the evening, so I’m not expecting the class to be so full when we get there. In fact, the sliding partition wall that is pulled to the side tells me it’s not one classroom of kids, but two. Space had to be made to fit everyone.

When he said “after-school lessons”, I pictured a handful of kids who stayed behind for the free lessons he offered in preparation for exams. But this is an overwhelming amount of students.

The room falls to a hush when we enter, all eyeballs trained forward.

“Good evening, everyone.”

“Good evening, Mr. Sharpe!” the class sings in unison.

“This is Serena, and she will be sitting in with us today,” he tells the class. “Say hi.”

“Hiiiii, Serena!”

I give a small wave.

“Is Serena your bae, Mr. Sharpe?” one guy asks.

“Nope,” Kholton replies, eying me. “Unfortunately, Serena doesn’t want a bae.”

Way to throw me under the bus.

“Aren’t you Serena Bentley?” another person asks.

“Yep. That’s me.”

Another girl, “So that means you’re, like, super rich, right?”

Before I can answer, Kholton interjects, “Enough with the questions. Would one of you be a gentleman and get the lovely woman a seat?”

A few mutters…. “There aren’t any left.”  It’s true, too. Some kids are sharing seats.

“I’ll give her mine for a Benjamin!”

I search the crowd and find Omari, the owner of the jacket I’m wearing, grinning from ear-to-ear with his hand up.

“Come up here, big head,” Kholton says with another roll of his eyes. “You’ll be my assistant today.”

As I’m making my way to take Omari’s seat, I hear whispers of, “Oh my gosh, he’s so hot!” and “She’s got to be an idiot to not make Mr. Sharpe her bae” and “God, I wish I was older. He’s so absolutely freakin’ bae goals.”

O-kay then.

Sliding into the seat, I slouch down and tug the baseball cap lower over my eyes, because, whoa.

Kholton takes a stack of papers from his messenger bag and hands them to Omari, who immediately begins placing small stacks on each front desk. The kids at the front take one off the top before passing the stack to the person behind them and so on and so on.

“What you’re holding is the exact exam sheet from last year’s finals,” Kholton says. “Today, we will be going through these equations together. I will teach you a few tips and tricks and alternative routes to getting it right each and every time. Remember, it doesn’t matter what route you take to get there. As long as the final number is correct, you’re golden. This is about finding a strategy that works for you.”

He picks up a marker and scribbles a date on the board. “Next Wednesday, I will be testing you based on the questions on this sheet.”

The class is silent, with just the sound of papers flipping.

“Are you alright, Dave?” Kholton asks someone.

I follow his gaze to a pimply boy who looks seriously stressed out and on the verge of tearing out his stringy blond hair.

“I—I just—” the kid stutters. “Is this what a finals exam looks like for real?”

Kholton chuckles. “I’ve got you, Dave. Just stick to what I show you, steal a few of my tricks, practice every chance you get, and I promise you will pass with flying colors.”

And trust me, he has a lot of tricks. The man is a freaking genius. Numbers used to bore the heck out of me, but he made it mad fun and easy. So I believe in my heart that these kids, if they take his lessons in, will indeed pass with flying colors.

“Let’s begin.” 

 

 

An hour and a half of fun, laughter, and Kardashian jokes later, the class is dismissed.

Kholton, however, keeps Omari and a girl with rainbow-colored hair and gage earrings behind, informing them that they would be doing the test before everyone else. As in, right now.

Neither seem surprised, as if they know to expect it.

After setting the timer to one hour, Kholton strides down to where I’m still slouched behind a desk and slides into one of the empty seats beside me.

“You good?” he asks.

“You’re an amazing teacher,” I tell him. “I wish mine were as fun as you in high school.”

He smiles. “Mine weren’t either. Private school. They were such prissy ass kissers.”

“Those were a lot of kids,” I say. “Is it because the class is free?”

“Partly.” He reaches across to play with my fingers on the desk. “But I have this thing I do every year. Quietly. I observe the students, have frequent one-on-one conversations with a few of the less fortunate, see where their heads are at. And after the finals, I choose the two with the most potential, drive and ambition, and sponsor them through college.”

“Wow. That’s…wow.”

“I’m discreet with it and I never admit to doing any such thing, but I think word gets out and my class just keeps getting bigger.” He shrugs. “Those are kids from various different schools. Not just here.”

“So these two students right now,” I say, “They are your picks?”

“Hopefully,” he answers. “They’re both from poor, single-parent homes. Sally has the potential to be a whizz kid, but her mother is verbally abusive, constantly telling her she isn’t worth shit and she believes it. Omari, he’s a dreamer. A family man. A determined provider. He wants to win and he’s willing and eager to put in the work to get there. Never backs down from a challenge. His mother, unlike Sally’s, does her best to provide a clean, safe home for him and his siblings.” 

I watch him as he tugs at my fingers and play with my nails. He seems abashed, eyes downcast, as if regretting divulging that to me.

What a man. Next to my father, he’s one of the best men I’ve ever known.

I think, it was in this moment, that I started to fall in love with Kholton Sharpe.

 

 

“You hungry?” Kholton asks as we’re leaving the school grounds.

“A little peckish, yes.”

“Good. Because it’s Aunty Reba’s birthday,” he says. “The family’s throwing a small surprise party at her Roti House and the oldest son just texted me in all-caps, reminding me that I’m late.”

I’m laughing. “She has a roti house?”

“Yep.” 

“Is it far from here?” I flex my fingers entwined with his. “Will we make it in time?”

“Nah, it’s close.” He holds out his free hand for a cab, but it doesn’t stop. “But we’re too late to go by foot.”

I step out waving my free hand and a cab stops. With a winning smirk, I gloat, “Looks like I’m the lucky charm today, playboy.”

He opens the cab door and waves me in. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

I stick my tongue out at him and climb in.

 

 

“SURPISE!!!”

Eyes wide, heart palpitating, I jump out of my skin from the chorused shout that’s aimed at us when we walk through the door and into complete darkness.

“False alarm,” Kholton half-shouts over the noise. “False alarm.”

Someone switches on the light and swears. “Goddammit, Khol! Misses. Get your asses over here.”

Laughing, Kholton tugs me into the small crowd. People punch his arm and jokingly curse him for being late.

“Turn the lights off,” someone orders.

The lights go out and a hush falls over the room. Somehow, Kholton manages to grab my ass in the dark. I know it’s him because his body is shaking with suppressed laughter behind me. Asshole.

“This is her, this is her!” someone whispers after a while.

A complete moment of silence. A whoosh of the door opening, the city noise stealing in. And then, “SURPRISE!!”

Even as I shout this, Kholton grabs both my asscheeks and squeezes and I can’t help giggling.

The lights come on again and I can see Reba, her hand pressed to her chest, shock on her face. “You lil’ rassholes tryna give me a heart attack, or what, eh?”

Everyone laughs, and one by one they go in to hug her, wishing her a happy birthday.

“White boy, Khol, that you?” she calls she when spots him.

Kholton shrugs as he goes to her. “I’m just here for the cake.” He pulls her in for a hug and plants a kiss on her forehead. “Happy birthday, Aunty Reba.”

“I see you holding on to this one,” she says, pointing to me with her chin. “That mean I can expect a wedding invitation soon, eh?”

Kholton shoots me a glance and something fleeting crosses his face, too quick to tell what it is. “I’m gonna need one of your strong prayers for that, Aunty. Will you say one for me?”

Reba’s shrewd eyes shift to me, to Kholton, to me again, and then back to Kholton. “I got you, boy.” She pats his arm. “I got you.”

Someone else comes up and steals her attention.

Kholton returns to me and tugs on my cap. “Let’s get you something to drink. You won’t find any of that bourgeois aloe vera water here, though. Strictly Caribbean cuisine at Aunty Reba’s Roti House. If you look around, you’ll notice we’re the only white fuckers here.” He takes my hand again and leads me over to the food bar.

Glancing around, I realize we really are the only two white people here, but everyone is so high-spirited, welcoming, and loud that I didn’t even realize it. By now, I’m familiar with the Trinidadian accent, but I hear others, too. How is Kholton even part of this group?

Aunty Reba’s Roti House is a ground level food bar, painted red, white, and black. The interior is pretty basic, with various flags of different islands jutting from the back wall. But it’s not the place that makes the place, it’s the people, boisterous and full of laughter.

Kholton slaps his palm on top of the bar. “John-John. I need something refreshing for my friend here.”

John-John, an older man who looks almost Indian, nods and smiles wickedly at me. “Hi, Friend.”

“Serena. Her name is Serena,” Kholton corrects. “Nosy bastard.”

John-John winks at me as he goes to get our drinks.

Kholton faces me. “I’m getting roti—God bless my abs. Sure you’re not hungry?”

I shake my head. “Just peckish.”

John-John returns with two bottles of red drinks and shoves them at us. I pick up the ice-cold bottle and scan the label. Jamaican Sorrel.

Kholton orders, “A Curry Goat Roti for me and some pickled mangoes for Serena, John-John.”

I open my Sorrel and take a sip. It really is refreshing. I drink half in one go. “So,” I begin, licking my lips. “How did you become part of this tribe?”

He takes a sip of his own drink. “Reba’s daughter. Met her when I first moved here. Loud, vivacious, rebellious, crazy. We grew close fast.” His lips twist to the side. “We made out a time or two, but she didn’t want to ruin our friendship so we left it at that. I know now that it’s because she knew she was gonna die.”

Huh? “What do you mean?”

“She was sick and didn’t tell me. They all knew and didn’t tell me. It was only after she died that Reba told me the truth. That Vashti was in love with me and cried all the time because she knew she’d never get to be with me. Before she died, she begged them to do whatever they could to make sure I stuck around or she would haunt them.”  He laughs at the latter. “By that point, I was already loved by the family so I wouldn’t have gone anywhere anyway.” 

Jeez. This is so sad I can’t even be jealous of this girl. “Vashti? That was her name?”

“Yeah.” He smiles fondly. “I called her V.”

I place a hand on his thigh. “I’m sorry you lost her.”

That’s only half true. If he hadn’t lost her, they probably would have fallen in love and he wouldn’t have gone on a blind date and we wouldn’t have met.

Lord, please forgive me for thinking this, but, thank you for dying, Vashti.

John-John returns with my pickled mangoes and Kholton’s roti.

Ignoring the food, Kholton looks at me for a long, long moment—so long that John-John grunts and walks away. Then, he leans over, brush his lips against mine, and whispers, “I’m not sorry.”

I smile big. Because this is, without a doubt, the Lord’s confirmation of forgiveness.

The pickled mangoes are hot. Hot. And Kholton laughs at me the whole time because I can’t help making an ugly face each time I eat a slice. Also, I end up eating almost half of his curry goat roti because it’s so damn good!

We drink Pina Colada next.

When tipsiness hits, we hit the dance floor together and gyrate to Caribbean beats.

We laugh, we tease, we gaze only at each other like nothing or no one else exists.

At the end of the night, as we’re headed home in the back of a cab, his arm around me, my head on his shoulder, a loopy smile on my face, I tell him, “I have the best days with you.”

Though, what I truly want to say is, I want to spend all my days with you.

Because I do.

I really do.