THIS EXCERPT IS STRICTLY FOR THE SEASONED, MATURE, ADULT READER NOT FOR UNDERAGE READERS*
Angie Situation (NAIVETE') SNEAK PEEK of the PREQUEL TO <--THIS SEQUEL "Angie Situation" (INNOCENCE)
“He started working a lil’ mall job, and when he would get paid, he would give me half of his check to buy food and for other stuff around the house. He was so happy around this time-with his fine ass and that million-dollar smile of his. We would end up out and about spending his little check at the movies, out to dinner and any where we could find for fun and conversation. He was so excited that we were closer than we had ever been. I guess he needed his renege-free assurance as well, so, he wanted me to come to his mother’s and stepfather’s house for dinner for meeting, wine and spirits. I really didn’t think it was necessary at that point but I knew that Mitch had always been about going out of his way to make whatever we had-something more, and for that reason, I could not turn his offer down, but boy I regretted it.
Mitch’s cousin and his girlfriend were there already, along with his two younger brothers.
I had already been out with Mitch and the cousin few times, so he knew me already. Both he and Mitch introduced me to the cousin’s girlfriend, the two brothers and then Mitch’s stepfather. His mother hadn’t made her way downstairs during the meeting and spirits but when she did, she made her presence known in the worse way.
When she walked her ass down those steps, she hadn’t even reached the bottom before turning her head to the right and down at me. She locked eyes on me and squinted with a look of familiarity-almost like she was expecting me. I could tell she was expecting me-all the way down to the pace that she treaded that damned staircase; giving off a vibe-that of out of everyone in the house, she already knew something that was about to go down that we knew nothing about.
When she reached the bottom to face me, she looked at me as if I was some woman that once boiled a rabbit in her kitchen; standing there with a knife in my hand-cutting into my thigh and shaking like I had Tourettes Syndrome-merely over for a visit tonight to have a pow wow with her about her husband and I having had some torrid affair. She pierced into me so strong that she forgot to speak. She lost all her manners and formalities. Everyone in the room could feel the tension. Even Mitch looked stunned and clueless.
All of that was confusing as hell to me-compounded with the fact that she had the nerve to be pretty-exceptionally pretty at that.
I had to break Cruella Deville’s evasive stare and the tension in the room:
“Hi, I’m Angie,” I riffed, with almost embarrassed giggle and smile.
The tension was ripped-muscle tight. Mitch was standing there not knowing what to do or say.
I reached my hand out to shake hers and although it felt like she would rather bite it, she obliged:
“Hello to you, Angie,” she said-softly but gripped and bounced my hand mid-waist-south as if in her mind, she said (like the big Russian in the “Rocky” movie): “Iiiii mussstt bwwwake you…”
She continued to stare with that same look of familiarity, happy to have finally gotten to meet me face to face but for reasons other than wine and spirits.
“Do I know you? Have we met somewhere before?”…was at the tip of my mind and tongue.
There I stood, feeling ten ways to awkward as if I was in the middle of a movie scene where Mitch and his two young brothers, the cousin and girlfriend, and the stepfather gave audience as if they were eating popcorn and waiting to see what was about to happen next.
She then looked over at her husband, back over at Mitch then said to him calm but firmly: “Mitch…I am going to take Miss Angie…home.”
She said it like that was the final answer so Mitch dared not ask, in this particular moment-any questions. In this movie, she was “Mister,” he was “Harpo” and I was “Sophia.” Mister looked at Harpo and said: “Harpo, you’d better not take one…step.”
In this real-life moment, she turned to look at Mitch as if to say the same thing.
The imaginary popcorn was being chewed on.
Eyes were bucking from left to right.
All those happy smiles and pleasure-to-meets from the audience turned to looks of empathy from everyone in the room except her Cruella Deville-ass.
Speaking of which, “Miss Angie?” What the hell?
I hadn’t being referred to as “Miss Angie” since I was a little girl way back my innocent years. “Miss Angie” was a title I earned being called amongst my peers’ parents-simply because I was the favorite of all my peer’s friends. In their parent’s eyes, I was the animated, talented, bright one; light-years ahead of my time-the one to be around. I was a total Queen Bee.
In my mother’s friend’s eyes, I earned being called “Miss Angie” because I got my period at age ten, and from that point on and into my early teen years; my body took on a life all its own. It would fascinate my mother’s male and female friends alike, to the point where the constant subject was the fact that I still had a baby face and the babbling about voice of a child, but my body spoke an altogether different language. My face, age and voice had a ways to go to catch up to my body and my conversation. My peers were little girls. I was a little lady-like a man could be a man-child. And because of that, they all called me: “Miss Angie.”
A total Queen Bee.
So, standing there in the middle of this slow-motion locomotive commotion; I knew that when Mitch’s mom referred to me as such, especially without having knowing me as a child; in her eyes and in her mind, it must have been a problem.
She was the one who drew first blood and stung, first:
“Mitch. You are going to stay here, while I am going to ride with Joseph to take Miss Angie home,” she buzzed.
Mitch stuck his chest out:
“Why? Why? Why does she have to go home?” yelled Mitch.
You could hear a pin drop.
The stepfather prepared himself to be the designated driver while Cruella prepared herself to ride shotgun-probably with one-too.
Never in my life had I experienced such an oxymoron: a polite kind of rudeness. Whatever emotion Cruella was feeling, regardless with dinner already cooked and ready to serve, she could not fake the formality for even an hour. She refused to.
I was almost insulted and felt disrespected just as much as I was hurt and embarrassed.
At that moment, I could only imagine what it must be like for the mother of some tall athletic muscled-bound boy being man-handled by the police, only to find out after the beating-that he was merely some thirteen year-old that was going on about his little, big day.
She didn’t care about my imagination, my thoughts, my conversation, my table manners, my spirit, my stomach-nothing. She just wanted my coat on, my purse on shoulder and me-out of her fucking house.
While putting on her gloves and coat, she turned to me and said:
“Okay, Miss Angie, are you ready sweetie?” looking at my baby face as if she was addressing the child in me.
I looked over at her husband and he quickly looked down to the floor.
I looked over at Mitch’s two younger brothers, the cousin, and the girlfriend-they turned away and looked at the floor, too.
Everybody was really embarrassed for me.
I looked over at Mitch and he was frowned up, swollen and angry like some thirteen year-old boy, yet, he knew that his grown ass was about to retire right upstairs to his bedroom of his mommie’s house-right after dinner.
“Nice meeting everyone,” I said over at my audience-still looking at the front floor.
In unison, everyone said one word that I couldn’t quite make out-something that sounded like: “bye” and “nice meeting you,” at the same time.
The entire ride home, Cruella did not say anything to me.
She only asked and wanted to know two things-that pretty much sounded rhetorical (as far as I was concerned):
a) “How long have you and Mitch been seeing each other?” and
b) “When are you available so that I can talk to you and him together?”
I politely ignored this polite-rude bitch while sitting in the back of her mobile establishment. The adult Queen Bee had spread her wings-ready to sting.
I was done with her at this point already, and had been shown that she already did not even care about my imagination, thoughts, table manners, spirit, stomach or conversation. “So bitch don’t ask me any questions-don’t run your mouth-just run me home,” said my body-language, with my coat on, purse on shoulder, legs crossed-sitting in that backseat.
I just wanted out of that car.
I didn’t give a damn that she could tell that I was purposely ignoring her-either.
I was so hurt and feeling countless ways to stupid and child-like all again-with my grown ass. Here I was, good-and-plenty into my twenties-Mitch kicking the door down behind me, yet, I was feeling like some hurt and chastised teenager sitting in the back of my boyfriend’s parent’s car after having being caught making out. To add insult to injury, I was more that “grown,” I was real grown-with my own responsibilities and apartment-yet, sitting in the backseat wondering where the hell Cruella was having her husband drop me off at-not having gathered that bit of information about me (seeing as though we did not get that chance to sit down and talk it over at dinner).
Without saying one word and as if she and her eyes had already been there before; Cruella had the stepfather pull on the street of my mother’s house that sat across the street from the church where they all attended. I figured that for many months and Sundays after church, her eyes must have followed Mitch many afternoons running across the street to my mom’s house, ringing the doorbell for me to come downstairs to talk to him on the porch. She would probably blow her hanky if she knew that by this time, I had my own apartment that Mitch also contributed to.
Riding shotgun and as if she held a loaded and smoking one, she instructed by pointing her husband to pull directly into my mother’s driveway-with a vengeance-as if had pointed over in that direction already many-a-Sunday.
When the car stopped, she turned on the inside light and prepared to turn her body around to me to say something again, but by the time she could say more, more had ejected the door and my right foot was out and on the ground about as quickly as I stood looking at her front door.
“Thank you much-thank you both” I said-crisply-as I fully exited.
When I stuck the key into my mother’s door, it seemed like the push, pushed tears to my eyes. I was too mad and dared them to fall fast-trying to catch up with my beating heart. My feelings were so hurt. When I got safely into the house and closed the door, I placed my foot on the first step to head upstairs-my tears were fighting to be free.
All had nothing to do with Mitch-or any feeling about where he and I would stand, because not even his mother could peel him off of me-I was confident in that fact. But my mind couldn’t help but for a second, replace Mitch with Rem…or some man that I really loved and wanted to be with. I couldn’t imagine being treated that way by the mother of the man that I loved. Mitch was not that man in my heart, eyes and mind, yet, my feelings about it could not be immediately dismissed.
Before I could get into my mother’s house good, Mitch was ringing the telephone.
“Hello?” I said.
“Angie, I’m-I’m so-so sorry. I don’t have any words to say but that Iiii..” he said.
“Don’t worry Mitch. It’s okay. I’ll be okay.”
“How are you feeling?” he asked, concerned.
“I’m feeling kind of bad, actually-that really hurt me. I’ve never been treated that way in my lifetime and I didn’t appreciate it-at all,” I replied, with the tears still in my eyes.
I just sat on the phone, quiet because there was nothing else much I could say.
Mitch began to cry and that made my tears fall down. He kept apologizing and replaying New Edition “Can You Stand the Rain” -trying to sing it to me-hoping that at some point in these rewinds, I would eventually let out the laughter that was under my breath and behind my tears the whole time.
“BWHAAHAAAAA! Bless your heart Mitch!” I laughed out-I couldn’t help it.
“Oh shut up! You love it!” he replied.
“You like it!” he corrected himself.
I continued to giggle.
It got quiet for a few seconds.
“Angie, may I ask you a question?” whispered Mitch.
“Sure, what’s up?” I probed, whispering back.
“Do you love me?” he asked-curiously-innocently-hopefully.
“Well, I could love you. I’ve grown past liking you. I have a fondness for you,” I replied.
“Oh, because I’ve always loved you-I thought you would just say ‘yes,’ ” he laughed.
I laughed with him-it was cute.
“Since the word ‘love’ is the key word right now, I could tell you that I love you more than anyone I know or have in my life right now. No one could like…come before you right now,” I offered.
“Even Remedy?” he asked-knowing that answer already, but was still hopeful.
I got quiet for a second:”
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