said.
“You got to come check me out sometime.” Charlie leaned away from the table. “I’m playing against Stuyvesant next week, and they got this Vietnamese guy who’s supposed to be pretty good. You can come and see me wipe him out.”
“If he beats him, I’m going to write one of those ‘Rocky’-type numbers for him,” Donald said.
“Then every time he comes onto the court, the band can play it,” Crystal said.
“Only the band doesn’t go to games, so Donald’s going to hum it real loud from the bleachers.”
Crystal laughed with the others. She was surprised at how easily Pat made jokes.
The waiter delivered the food with a great flourish. There was rice and a bowl of black beans— frijoles negros , Donald called them—and the owner sent a plate of appetizers as well.
The band was made up of four players: a pianist, a guitarist, a drummer, and the leader, who sang and played flute. They introduced the numbers in Portuguese and played gentle sambas that caught Crystal in their easy rhythms.
After several couples had begun to dance, Donald asked Pat and they went out on the floor.
“You and Pat been friends a long time?” Charlie asked.
“Since the second grade,” Crystal said. “That’s when she started going to the same church I go to.”
“She told me you were going to be in a movie.” There was a flake of crust half the size of a dime on Charlie’s chin, which Crystal tried to ignore.
“It looks like I’ve got the part,” Crystal said.
“You like actor-type guys?” Charlie asked.
“As opposed to what other kinds of guys?” Crystal asked.
Charlie took a large mouthful of his shrimps and managed to get a drop of sauce precisely on the bread crumb on his chin.
“There are lots of different-type guys,” Charlie said. “Doctors, lawyers, athletes.”
“It depends on the guy, I guess,” Crystal said.
Charlie flicked at the crumb with his tongue and missed it.
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“What kind of guy are you?”
“I’m an athlete,” Charlie said. “My mom wants me to get into law, but I figure I got time for that.”
“Oh, I see.”
Crystal watched Charlie flick at the crumb with his tongue again. This time he dislodged it and it fell onto his collar. Crystal suppressed a laugh into a smile as Donald and Pat got back to the table.
“I see you people are having a good time,” Pat said.
“We’re doing okay,” Charlie said.
“Half the people in this place are Black, and they’re all speaking Spanish,” Donald said.
“They’re speaking Portuguese,” Crystal said. “It’s almost like Spanish.”
“You people going to dance?” Pat asked.
“No one’s asked me,” Crystal said, looking at her fingernails.
“Okay, you want to dance?” Donald asked.
“Not you, fool!” Pat gave Donald a shove with her elbow that sent the forkful of black beans in his hand into Charlie’s lap.
“Yo, man, what you doing?” Charlie moved his chair away quickly and picked the beans off his lap. “These pants cost five dollars to get out the cleaner’s!”
“It was Pat’s fault,” Donald said. “She bumped my arm!”
“Come on, you want to dance?” Crystal took the fork from Charlie’s hand and put it on the edge of his plate.
“No!”
“Oh, go on, Charlie,” Pat said. “Don’t be a grump.”
“I don’t want to dance!”
“Please.” Crystal put her hand on Charlie’s arm.
“Come on,” he said reluctantly.
Crystal knew something was wrong when Charlie put the wrong arm around her. She switched arms easily enough but when he started cranking her right hand up and down as if he were pumping water, and she felt his knees banging against her legs, she cracked up completely. Charlie Harris, athlete type, couldn’t dance a lick.
“So how was your big date?” Crystal’s father looked up from his racing form to the clock over the stove. It was eleven forty-five.
“The guy was a real…” Crystal searched for a word. “A
“You got to come check me out sometime.” Charlie leaned away from the table. “I’m playing against Stuyvesant next week, and they got this Vietnamese guy who’s supposed to be pretty good. You can come and see me wipe him out.”
“If he beats him, I’m going to write one of those ‘Rocky’-type numbers for him,” Donald said.
“Then every time he comes onto the court, the band can play it,” Crystal said.
“Only the band doesn’t go to games, so Donald’s going to hum it real loud from the bleachers.”
Crystal laughed with the others. She was surprised at how easily Pat made jokes.
The waiter delivered the food with a great flourish. There was rice and a bowl of black beans— frijoles negros , Donald called them—and the owner sent a plate of appetizers as well.
The band was made up of four players: a pianist, a guitarist, a drummer, and the leader, who sang and played flute. They introduced the numbers in Portuguese and played gentle sambas that caught Crystal in their easy rhythms.
After several couples had begun to dance, Donald asked Pat and they went out on the floor.
“You and Pat been friends a long time?” Charlie asked.
“Since the second grade,” Crystal said. “That’s when she started going to the same church I go to.”
“She told me you were going to be in a movie.” There was a flake of crust half the size of a dime on Charlie’s chin, which Crystal tried to ignore.
“It looks like I’ve got the part,” Crystal said.
“You like actor-type guys?” Charlie asked.
“As opposed to what other kinds of guys?” Crystal asked.
Charlie took a large mouthful of his shrimps and managed to get a drop of sauce precisely on the bread crumb on his chin.
“There are lots of different-type guys,” Charlie said. “Doctors, lawyers, athletes.”
“It depends on the guy, I guess,” Crystal said.
Charlie flicked at the crumb with his tongue and missed it.
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“What kind of guy are you?”
“I’m an athlete,” Charlie said. “My mom wants me to get into law, but I figure I got time for that.”
“Oh, I see.”
Crystal watched Charlie flick at the crumb with his tongue again. This time he dislodged it and it fell onto his collar. Crystal suppressed a laugh into a smile as Donald and Pat got back to the table.
“I see you people are having a good time,” Pat said.
“We’re doing okay,” Charlie said.
“Half the people in this place are Black, and they’re all speaking Spanish,” Donald said.
“They’re speaking Portuguese,” Crystal said. “It’s almost like Spanish.”
“You people going to dance?” Pat asked.
“No one’s asked me,” Crystal said, looking at her fingernails.
“Okay, you want to dance?” Donald asked.
“Not you, fool!” Pat gave Donald a shove with her elbow that sent the forkful of black beans in his hand into Charlie’s lap.
“Yo, man, what you doing?” Charlie moved his chair away quickly and picked the beans off his lap. “These pants cost five dollars to get out the cleaner’s!”
“It was Pat’s fault,” Donald said. “She bumped my arm!”
“Come on, you want to dance?” Crystal took the fork from Charlie’s hand and put it on the edge of his plate.
“No!”
“Oh, go on, Charlie,” Pat said. “Don’t be a grump.”
“I don’t want to dance!”
“Please.” Crystal put her hand on Charlie’s arm.
“Come on,” he said reluctantly.
Crystal knew something was wrong when Charlie put the wrong arm around her. She switched arms easily enough but when he started cranking her right hand up and down as if he were pumping water, and she felt his knees banging against her legs, she cracked up completely. Charlie Harris, athlete type, couldn’t dance a lick.
“So how was your big date?” Crystal’s father looked up from his racing form to the clock over the stove. It was eleven forty-five.
“The guy was a real…” Crystal searched for a word. “A
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