Naughty or Nice by Eric Jerome Dickey Page A

lights are off and his blinds are open, I can lounge on my beanbag and watch him and his daughter playing and walking around their place. I can see when his baby momma comes over. I can see them arguing. I can see when she leaves. I can see him pacing, see how upset he is whenever she comes to see her daughter.
    Purse and notebook in hand, I’m getting out of my Jeep when bright headlights come down Fairfax, then the vehicle slows down. My hand tightens, fingers adjust to the button on the Mace on my key ring, only to relax when I see it’s my next-door neighbors, Womack and Rosa Lee. A Charlie Brown Christmas tree is on the roof of their SUV.
    Womack speaks and starts small talking, eventually asks, “How is Livvy?”
    I say, “She’s doing okay.”
    Rosa chews her bottom lip. “We called her a few times—she never called back.”
    They were at the dinner party when all of her drama started.
    I tell them, “She’s been . . . She’s not really talking to many people, you know?”
    Rosa Lee says, “Tell her not to be a stranger. The boys miss shooting hoop with her.”
    Their three boys and their daughter are all in the backseat, everybody sleeping. We say our good nights and they ease down their narrow driveway. I wait until they are out of sight before I jog across Fairfax. When I get to the bottom of the stairs, I take light and easy steps. I’m halfway up when the porch light turns off and Blue opens his front door. He’s barefoot. I can’t stop my smile. His creamy vanilla complexion lights up. He runs his fingers through his nappy hair and yawns. Common with an LL body. In Levi’s and a tank top. He’s always casual.
    I whisper, “Hey.”
    â€œDon’t you look good.”
    Blue gives me a one-armed hug, something that disappoints me because it feels too brotherly. He kisses me on my cheek, right on the history that marks my skin, and my jazzy heart beats like hardcore hip-hop. My lips ache for the same as I hug him with two arms.
    He’s my friend and I love him.
    We stand close enough to tell that he’s just rushed and brushed his teeth. His eyes continue to compliment me on my look. My jeans, my midriff top, the jean shirt I’m wearing wide open, my silver navel ring, my silver jewelry, the whole nine.
    I whisper, “Looks like a tornado came through here.”
    â€œShe’s sleeping. You don’t have to whisper.”
    â€œDon’t want to wake her.”
    I walk in and sit on the edge of the futon. He does the same.
    I say, “Looks like you’ve had a kiddie party in here.”
    â€œYou don’t usually dress up like this.”
    â€œYou like?”
    â€œLike the way those jeans are fitting you.”
    I blush a little. “Thanks.”
    â€œYou must’ve been on a mission tonight.”
    â€œWell, I was looking for somebody at ’Bucks.”
    â€œYou’re a wonderful woman. Hope he appreciated it.”
    I pull my lips in, hold in a sigh.
    He says, “Sorry I missed it.”
    â€œIt’s cool. What happened?”
    He gives me a simple shrug. “Shit happens.”
    â€œYeah, shit happens.”
    What floats in my mind is simple, I wanted you to see me tonight, to witness my passion, to get to know me better through the words from my soul. I wanted to perform for you at ’Bucks. I wanted to say things in a crowd that I can’t tell you when we’re one on one.
    And now I want to touch you, Blue. I want you to touch me.
    The teapot sings, interrupts that moment. I follow him toward the kitchen. CDs are scattered on the carpet: Bobby Bland, VeggieTales, Darius Rucker, Learning to Read, Blue’s Clues. There are too many dolls, kiddie books, and toys to count. I maneuver through the hodgepodge of clutter like I’m walking a minefield in the desert. I stumble on a Scooby-Doo doll. Scooby’s voice is activated and he yells for