You Don't Even Know Me by Sharon Flake Page A

do
    Who
    Makes up these rules anyhow
    Cows?
    Chickens?
    People afraid of the dark?
    Old farts?
    Maybe one day they will say it’s okay
    That love doesn’t always have to dress up in gray
    That you and I can say what they always say
    I love you
    Today
    And always.

IT WAS PASSED DOWN TO ME. Just like my uncles’ blue eyes, my grandfather’s flat feet, and my dad’s big nose. All the men in our family have it. And it didn’t skip one generation, either. The men call it the cheating gene. They say it’s built into our DNA. The women in our family say we’re just nasty, sniffing after every skirt in town. But we were born this way. I swear. Even my three-year-old cousin Richie has it. A woman walks into the room and he goes after her. The next thing we know he’s sitting on her lap, rubbing the side of her face, getting all the kisses he wants. Sometimes he even goes for her thighs. “He just likes how stockings feel,” his mom will say. We guys tell her that he’s gonna be a leg man—just like the rest of us.
    I started off like Richie; that’s what Mom says. Only I was younger—two years old and cute enough to model. Now I’m seventeen. In the eleventh grade. And getting all the girls—even the ones that belong to my boys.
    â€œHey, Tyler. I texted you last night. Why didn’t you text me back?”
    It takes me a minute to think up an answer. “Aw, man . . . I meant to. Sorry.” If you tell a girl the truth, she says it’s a lie anyhow. So I tell them what they want to hear. It just makes life easier. “I’ll hit you up later.”
    Monique’s arms go around my waist, and her belly pushes into me. My phone vibrates, over and over again. It’s in my front pocket. She feels it. And just gets closer. “You know too many girls,” she says, digging in my pants, grabbing at my phone.
    Girls play around too much. Especially ones like Monique. “Hey. Don’t do that.” I push her hands away. But she has nails, long ones with diamonds on the tips. “Don’t scratch me, girl.”
    â€œJust let me see it.”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œCome on.” She’s on me again. I don’t like her, but I like how it feels with her so close that if she sweats I’ll feel it. “Monique . . .”
    â€œIt’s just a phone, right?” Her fingers dig around in my pocket. “Everyone’s got one.” Her other hand goes around my back. “So what do you care if I see who’s on the other end? I know everybody at this school anyhow.”
    I’m taller than she is, six-one to be exact. She’s like five-five, and pretty, I guess you could say. But anybody can have pretty, you know what I mean? There’s tons of those here. I walk by ’em every day. They give me their numbers and I pass them on to my boys. Beautiful, that’s what I’m after. The top of the line—Bentleys, Range Rovers, that’s my type. “Hey, Monique, quit that,” I say, shoving her.
    Attitude. I knew it was coming. It’s not just a black-girl thing, either. White girls have it now, too. That’s why sometimes I just go for the foreigners. You know, the girls that snuck across the border a few years back. Or the ones whose parents wait on you at the hospital, but you need the nurse to tell you what they’re saying.
    â€œYou’re not all that cute.” Monique looks me up and down and gives me the finger. “And you probably have some disease anyhow.” She stares at my phone, then lowers her eyes. “You know what they call girls that do what you do?”
    I’m waiting for her to say it. She doesn’t, because if she does, we’re done.
    â€œJust text me sometimes, okay?”
    â€œI will. Seriously.”
    She takes a pen out of her backpack, lifts my hand, and writes her number on my palm in red ink. “Just in case you forgot,” she