Part 10 (2/2)

I know what he's going to say, and he does.

You really should date black girls. Are you ashamed of your race?

He goes on to talk about artificial beauty standards, European versus African, etc. All stuff I've heard before. And more than once. But... ”Look, Dad. It's not like there are a whole lot of African Americans in Reno, anyway. Running into the exact right black girl won't happen that easily. And this is just a date. Okay?”

He Says Okay And we leave it there, though I could have said a whole lot more. Like how his own wife (my toffee-skinned mom) skews way toward the Anglo ideal. Like how she has made a fair amount of money altering the features of her African American sisters, all to make them more ”beautiful.”

Like, right, wrong, or who f.u.c.king cares, I happen to think Jenna is pretty and enjoy spending time with her. Like maybe tonight I might even kiss her, just to try it on for size. And if that works out, well, who knows how much further we might go? If she feels the same way about me, of course.

On My Way To Jenna's The conversation with Dad replays.

If I were to be honest with myself, the truth is I have always been more attracted to girls who reflect the European standard.

Not that there aren't gorgeous black women.

But the ones who I'd label beautiful are models-Tyra Banks, Naomi Campbell. Selita Ebanks. Tall.

Thin. Long, straight hair. Fairer skinned.

Am I wrong to feel this way? Does it make me a stereotype?

Or does it in some weird way make me racist? If it does, would I be less racist if I were only attracted to black women? It's hard enough to find someone you want to be with. Why worry about color at all?

It's A Little Before Five When we reach Red Lobster. Already the place is busy.

There's a twenty-minute wait. We sit in the lobby, people-watching. And I'm pretty sure we're being people-watched too. Funny, two hours ago, I wouldn't have felt nearly as self-conscious as I do right now. Jenna intuits it.

Are you okay? You're awfully quiet.

Doesn't she notice the way people are staring? Then again, considering how luscious she looks, perfect little legs peeking out from under a way-short skirt, and dream girl b.r.e.a.s.t.s gloved sweetly by a quite tight sweater, they are probably not seeing me at all.

Jenna reaches for my hand, reminding me that she asked a question. Her fingers thread mine, a checkered weave. ”Sorry. Just thinking about some stuff my dad said earlier. It's not important.” Not nearly as important as how her skin feels, sea gla.s.s smooth in the palm of my hand. Or the way her gardenia-scented hair reminds me of California summer.

Nothing my dad ever says is important.

Not that he bothers to say much to me anymore. She goes on about her parents' divorce, beauty pageants, orthodontia-oh, and did I know her stepdad and my parents went to college together? News to me. Weird connection.

Maybe Fate Does Exist I've never much believed in it before.

But now I wonder if some things are just meant to be.

If so, I should probably quit over- thinking everything.

Jenna orders lobster raviolis, Caesar salad, dares to ask the waiter for cabernet.

His dubious expression makes her say, Doesn't hurt to ask, does it?

G.o.d, she is b.a.l.l.sy. ”Do you drink much cabernet at home?”

I expect her to answer in the negative, or maybe with a joke. But, no. Probably more than I ought to.

Mom always has an open bottle around.

She and Patrick are connoisseurs. The last two syllables are hissed.

And now I know a lot more about Jenna.

After Dinner Walking to my car beneath a sift of new snow, I slide my arm around her shoulder, and she tucks herself into the warmth of my jacket, one slender arm snaking my waist. Very good.

This feels the way it should. The Quattro is parked out behind the building. We stop beneath a muted streetlight, and I turn her so she faces me, her sweater soft and warm against my thin cotton s.h.i.+rt.

I look down into eager eyes.

”Have you ever kissed a black guy before?”

Who, you? You're black? I never noticed.

And are you saying you want to kiss me? She doesn't wait, but tilts her chin and parts her lips, a quick flick of her tongue inviting me in. Our first kiss isn't uncertain. It's smoking.

Cara

Not Uncertain About the fabric of me.

My skin is unblemished, kept that way by some amazing dermatologist who discovered the secret of ”zit-free” somewhere deep in the Amazon jungle.

I'm sure that my hair is enviable-a burnished bronze waterfall. What I'm more than a little vague about is the stranger who keeps insisting she is the real me- and that if I would allow her to take up residence inside this flawless sh.e.l.l, I will finally come to terms with who I was born to be.

I'm Not Sure Who I Am Not sure who I want to be, or if I have any choice at all.

Maybe I'm two people.

G.o.d, maybe I'm many.

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