Tutored by Allison Whittenberg Page B

and a ski cap. Another was a Hispanic girl who looked young enough to be in high school. The final person was a white girl with a dyed-orange ponytail. She looked to be in her twenties.
    Besides that trio, there wasn’t a gesture of “sign me up” out of anyone else. The majority of people were as lost in the sauce as he was.
    Hakiam felt comforted by this.

24
    T heir meetings at Wendy’s house were clandestine, perfectly synchronized to last until the time that her father came home.
    On his first visit, Hakiam gave her house a good once-over. He examined the front porch with its ornamental fretwork. He peered at the three-car garage, which housed only two cars.
    Inside, Wendy watched his eyes dart around.
    “What, are you casing the joint?” she asked.
    He didn’t answer at all; he just continued to survey.
    “Would you like iced tea, hot tea, soda, juice, water?” Wendy asked him, then smiled slyly. “Or coffee?”
    He twisted around to her. “I don’t want nothing,” he said.
    “You must be a camel. They go for days and days without anything to drink.”
    She led him upstairs to her room, and he ambledinto the walk-in closet to examine himself in the mirror.
    “You sure do got everything,” he said.
    She sat on her bed.
    He stretched out beside her.
    “The springs on your bed squeak,” he announced, as if he were happy to find a flaw.
    “I better change the oil,” she quipped.
    His eyes went back to combing the room.
    “This is a real nice setup,” he said.
    “Thanks,” she said, a little embarrassed by the girliness of it, all the stuffed animals and posters that she should have been over already.
    He pointed to the cosmetics caddy on her vanity.
    “You wear makeup?” he asked.
    She nodded.
    “It don’t look like you do.”
    “Thank you,” she said. “I think.”
    He brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. “Your skin is real smooth.”
    She caught his hand with hers and held it to her face. She looked into his large, sensuous eyes surrounded by dark, thick eyelashes—he was one to talk about putting on paint. She’d kill to have her eyes pop like his did.
    They kissed for a while.
    “So I’m your girlfriend?” she asked.
    He was laconic as usual, offering her only a half smile.
    “I’m your main squeeze,” she proclaimed, pressingher fingers to her chest, using her stock “soul sister” accent. Then she did a triple snap in the air. It felt freeing to pull it out every now and then. She liked the reaction it got from people. They always looked at her as if to say,
You can do that?
    Hakiam was no exception.
    She knew good and well that her usual persona was an uptight priss who always knew the right answers.
    “You could be the next Biggie Smalls,” he told her.
    She knew he was being sarcastic, but still, she decided to up the ante. “Wrong, Hakiam. I could be the next Tupac Shakur.”
    That made him reel back.
    “Hear me out,” she told him. “Biggie had the flow but Tupac had the meaning.”
    He tilted his head to the side as he considered her reasoning.
    “Pac it is,” he conceded.
    She laughed.
    “You seem like one of those Tupac fans. They always want to start something,” Hakiam said.
    “Hey, hey. I thought no one knew what went on that night, either night,” Wendy said, feigning innocence. “What did they die, a few months apart? It’s a real shame that they escaped the poverty of the streets but not the violence. That’s a horrible way to lose someone.”
    “Yeah.” Hakiam gave her a sad look, then brightened into a laugh.
    “What’s funny?”
    “You know, if Tupac had looked like Biggie, he wouldn’t have had half his following.”
    “I don’t know. Even without the washboard abs that Tupac had or you have, Biggie did all right with the ladies.”
    “Yeah, you got that right. I didn’t know you knew so much about hip-hop. Who’s your favorite rapper that’s around now?”
    Wendy thought for a while and said, “Britney Spears.”
    Soon