Cheaters Read Free Page A

and Samantha by three points. The last game the dolls beat us by four.
    We had thirty minutes left on the court, but we were all beat because each game had lasted almost twenty-five minutes.
    Silliness took over and I staggered, overacted, like I was trying to catch a second wind. I sat and tried to stretch my already worn-out muscles. The sounds of rubber balls bounced off the walls; the screech of tennis shoes echoed around us.
    My T-shirt was soaked from chin to waist because I had kept wiping my face on it. We crashed on the hardwood floor, Dawn next to Darnell, Samantha and me across the court, sharing a bottle of Sparkletts water. My back was on the floor, feet up against the wall. Samantha sat with her legs spread apart, and she stretched side to side, then face to the floor.
    Dawn said, “Shit, Samantha. If I was that flexible, I’d have a baby by now.”
    We laughed.
    Darnell said, “If you’d stay in bed on a Saturday morning instead of dragging everybody down here, you’d have a baby.”
    Dawn countered, “If you’d come to bed instead of typing on that damn computer all night, you’d be a father by now.”
    Samantha said, “I’m all against the wall and worn out. I used to be able to play hours on end. I must be getting old.”
    Dawn smiled. “We used to close out every party we went to.”
    I said, “I know that’s right. Party all night, hit Fatburgers, then make it home just in time to go to church.”
    Samantha laughed. “Is this what being thirty does to you?”
    Dawn asked, “You have any kids, Samantha?”
    “Thirty with no babies.”
    “Just like me and Darnell. I’m damn near thirty-two and no heirs. If I have to wait until I’m thirty-five, I’ll be in that high-risk category, and that won’t be cool. Not at all.”
    Darnell sighed. “Don’t depress Samantha, sweetheart.”
    I was picking up bits of chastisement from my friends, but Samantha didn’t know them well enough to know that Dawn was dead serious.
    Samantha laughed. “I’m cool. That’s why I stopped my biological clock at twenty-five. I’m in no hurry to give up my freedom.”
    As she was talking, Dawn went after her husband. Darnell scooted away from her. She slid after him and started tickling him. Darnell’s damn ticklish. She climbed on top of him and kissed his face. Even though they fought, they had years of something that I envied.
    Samantha was watching them, smiling, then looking at me.
    Her eyes were gleaming for affection.
    Six months ago I met her on Pico at Roscoe’s Chicken ‘n Waffles. The place was crowded; both of us were alone; our eyes had mutual interest, some curiosity, so I asked her if she wanted to share a table. She smiled, said sure, we did, and we talked nonstop. That communication drew me to her. Very articulate, well read, up on all the political activities in the neighborhood. Neither of us wanted to end the conversation. More like she didn’t want to stop talking. Women always make it easy for a brotha. All that crap about running your mouth and macking harder than Max Julien ain’t the move. The secret of conversation is to get a woman to talk, then listen and absorb. They’ll tell you who did ‘em wrong, what they want, raise their eyes to yours in a soft and tender way that asks if you can meet those demands. All a brotha has to do is pay attention, nod his head a time or two and, when she’s through, let her know that whatever the last man did, he’d never do that.
    Minutes later me and Darnell were in the locker room, butt naked on opposite sides of the communal shower. A couple of other guys, one white and the other Asian, were in there too, but they weren’t talking much. I rinsed the liquid soap off my body and stood underneath the waterfall of cool and cleansing water.
    I asked, “When you gonna have some more of that story for me to read?”
    “The next day or so. I’m only getting to write a paragraph here and there because work has had me tied down. And the