“Hurry up, young man,” growls Miss Emory. You’d think a woman in a flowered shirt and a cardigan couldn’t sound this threatening, but Miss Emory makes it an art.
“Yes ma'am,” I answer. I'm terrified, but I force myself not to show it—gotta keep a strong front. I quicken my pace a bit. Darryl in the second row sticks out his foot, trying to trip me but I kick him instead, earning myself another demerit. Christ, two more, and I get detention for a week. Which means another beating from “Dad”.
She hands me the chalk. “Now do you want to show us how to do this problem?” Endless numbers and symbols cover the green board. I'm not at all sure which one she means. I rub the back of my neck with my hand. “Yes ma'am,” I answer again in hopes that the answer will become clear if I stare at it long enough.
But instead of becoming clearer, the numbers start to blur due to the tears that are welling in my eyes. The tapping of her foot punctuates my thoughts.
“Well, Gryphon?” Her ‘teacher voice’ is in full effect, with all its nuances of disapproval. “You don't know how to do it, do you?” I hide a sniffle under a cough. “Perhaps you shouldn't be such a good for nothing, always sleeping in class!” Her voice is strangely triumphant and whiny.
I take aim at her. “Perhaps if you were a better teacher, I wouldn't,” I shoot back, and drop the chalk in front of her. Shit. I've done it now. I'm going to get whooped again tonight. After a moment of stunned silence, the class erupts in jeers and laughter as I strut back to my desk. Darryl's foot stays where it is under his chair, though he makes sure to give me a grim look.
I do an exaggerated bow at my desk, putting my hands in front of my stomach.
Miss Emory is none too happy with me. She scribbles furiously at her desk before holding a piece of paper out to me.
“Take this to the principal's office,” she spits. “Gryphon James, if you don’t remember any other single thing from my class, just remember this: you'll never amount to anything.”
“Why don't you tell me something I don't know,” I ask her, as I rip the paper from her hand. The kids hoot and holler.
As I leave the room, she says to the other children, “Now let this be a lesson to you kids. Do not think you should be like Gryphon James. You may think he's cool, but no matter what he does, he's always going to be a low-class good-for-nothing.”
Alone in the hall, I fight back the tears and then I punch the next locker I see, leaving a small fist-sized dent in it. I don't know how to win in this world.
And win is exactly what I have to do with this Sabrina situation. That bitch is trying to steal everything I’ve worked for, everything I've managed to achieve through all the years of working my ass off on the field. Years of perfecting my craft, practicing any and every chance I could, mainly so I didn’t have to go home and face my foster family. I'd rather drop and give my coach a million “twenties” rather than see my drunken foster dad's angry eyes grow an even paler red before he'd start to hit me.
My agent told me I had to get the best lawyer I could. He said I needed to get in front of this thing and make sure the world knew I wasn't guilty. Problem is, I feel guilty even though I didn't do any of the shit she says I did. Even though she's trying to take all my money, and my hard-won reputation as the best ballplayer around, I still feel like trash. First round draft pick and all that goes with it will go to shit if I get charged with domestic violence. Her word against mine. She probably has pictures, who knows, but I am not the one at fault. So why do I feel that way?
She almost makes me want to hit her, accusing me of that kind of thing, though I never would in a million years. That's the problem with these goddamn gold-digging bitches. They get their claws into you and then try to rip everything you worked for away.
That girl from last night wouldn't do something like that, but then again you can never know. She’s too classy, and she’s right. It’s best to keep things anonymous—that way nobody gets hurt. One and done, everybody gets what they want. Besides, it doesn’t seem she is hurting for money. She had some pretty bomb-ass accessories.
I spit out my toothpaste, wipe my face, and go to put on my best suit: a custom-made Italian suit that makes me look killer, along with a Brooks Brothers shirt and tie to slip over my tatted torso and biceps. I’ve always loved Brooks Brothers because it reminds me of my alma mater, Brooks U. Though I would never have been able to afford even one of their shirts back in the day. Nah, I barely had anything back then. Just true friends. I miss them.
“Gryphon James, you'll never amount to anything,” I say to myself, mimicking Miss Emory’s attitude. “Just the starting QB on the winningest football team in the league.” But it all feels hollow.
Why? Sabrina.
4
Odell
“So what happened with Loverboy?” I hear as I put the phone to my ear. Of course, it's Sandra. She wants to get the gossip on last night's conquest, and she wants it now.
“Wouldn't you like to know,” I demur, smiling despite myself. She usually gets the full scoop, but I’m not sure how much I want to tell her about this one. The sex was fantastic, but in some ways strangely sweeter and sexier than I would have imagined coming from a man like him. Makes me feel a little—private about it.
“Yes, I would like to know,” she says. “Of course! Every little detail. And every not-so-little detail too, I hope! But start at the beginning. What's his name, anyway? I don't want to keep calling him Loverboy.”
“Well,” I stall, “That's something I'd like to know,” I laugh. “Yeah, I can’t really answer that.”
“You went home with him and you don't even know his name?” I can practically hear her jaw hitting the floor through the phone.
“Yup,” I smile. “You were the first person to tell me that it didn't mean anything, so why does knowing his name matter anyhow? Keep it meaningless, keep it anonymous, you know?”
“Wow girl, you were doing it up right!” She sounds sincerely impressed.
“Yeah, well you know I wanted someone to celebrate with. Something just for me for once.” I play with that one strand of hair that never stays in place, and it pops back as soon as I let it go.
“You deserve it—that's for sure. As long as he treated you right,” she cautions. Her voice has lost the laugh now, and I do appreciate it. But nothing to worry about really.
“Actually, yeah, pretty well! He was respectful, you know, didn’t do anything I didn’t want him to, and did a hell of a lot of things I did.”
She snorts in my ear. “How did you leave things?” she asks when she’s finished.
“If you must know,” I giggle, “I snuck out while he was still sleeping!”
“That is cold!” She's laughing out loud now too. “Well, you know you gotta hold out for a lawyer anyhow. They're the only ones that can understand us.”
“That's your thing,” I tell her. “I'm happy as long as he has a decent job. But this is not like that. This is my little treat just for me before I start my new high-pressure job at the firm.”
“You'll figure it out in time,” she admonishes me. “Mark my words, a good lawyer boyfriend, then husband, is what you need.”
“Ugh, I am around lawyers all day, I don't need one in my bed too!” It’s true. Who needs to take all that work home with you?
“Neither do you need one of those drifters like you had last night.”
“Well that may be true, but I should mention he is the absolute furthest thing from a drifter. His place was the nicest apartment I've ever been in.” I want to go into detail, but she interrupts me.
“No way! That tattooed dude is rich?” Sandra's voice goes up a full octave. “He’s got money?”
“Super rich,” I answer. “Tons, I’d say.”
“Well, maybe I spoke too soon,” she says thoughtfully. “Maybe you need him as your sugar daddy. Maybe you should have exchanged names and numbers so that you could fuck him on a regular basis! Maybe you missed out, girl! He might be just what you're missing in your life!” Then she changes the subject. “What do you have on today? It's your first day, right?”
“Yep, my first day. Nothing too demanding, just meeting the new client. He's some football jock apparently. His girlfriend is claiming domestic abuse,” I say. “Should be pretty cut and dried. He's probably guilty though. I guess we’ll see.”
“Hey, now, aren't you supposed to be impartial?”
“I guess not, as we're representing him,” I say. “I’m supposed to be on his side, I suppose. Get the guy off, charges dropped, plea bargain, or the shortest sentence we can, guilty or no. Still, I doubt that a football jock wasn’t kicking around his chick on the side. But yeah, don't worry, I won't let my personal biases get in the way. Nor my hangover.”
“You're so pro,” she teases me. “Odell Williams. Partner!”
“Yeah right.” I smile again. “But hey! How was your night, did you leave with the guy you were talking to? Did anything happen?”
“Nah, he gave me his number but I don't think I'll follow up—I'm—”