I pretend to wash my hands by runnin’ water for a few seconds. Selfishly, I think about that cold stare Clay’s dad just gave him and hope that Clay didn’t get himself into some kinda trouble that’ll make it hard for me to see him.
When I come out, a girl about eleven or twelve pushes her way in, suckin’ her teeth. Maybe I took too long pretendin’ to go.
Back in the sea of people, I notice that my seat of choice is now filled by a heavyset light-skinned man. I start to look for a new spot when Clay takes my hand and pulls me to a corner.
“It’s too many damn people in here,” Clay complains. He glances around, holds up his index finger to me, somehow squeezes around a couple guests, and comes back with a little collapsible chair for me.
“Oh, I don’t need to sit. You sit,” I tell him, even though I do feel like sitting.
“Okay then.” Clay sits down. I did not expect him to do that. He looks up at me and bats his eyelashes, all coy. I give him a little shove, and he pulls me down so I’m sittin’ in his lap! Feels weird bein’ this close to him with hundreds of his relatives in the same room.
Then all at once the party breaks into “Happy Birthday to You.” Mrs. Alexander and one of Clay’s aunts bring the huge, glowing cake over to a small table now set up in front of Miss Corinthia. I join in the singing and watch Miss Corinthia’s face to see what she thinks of all this. Her lips are tight, and her cheek spasms. Is she tryna smile? To cry?
When we finish singing, everyone applauds, and then it gets quiet as the flames continue to melt wax all over the cake. After a few more seconds, it becomes clear that Miss Corinthia ain’t even gonna try to blow that mess out, so Mrs. Alexander, her sister, and Miss Corinthia’s granddaughter bend down and blow them out for her. Some claps follow this. To keep the moment from becoming awkward, Clay’s mother immediately begins to cut the cake.
“Aunt Corinthia,” Clay’s father bellows from the other side of the room.
Making his way over to her he says, “Is there anything you’d like to say? Any wisdom or advice for all us infants?”
This gets a giant laugh. Miss Corinthia’s facial expression hasn’t changed since the song. I wonder if she heard him. I wonder how aware she is of anything right now.
With great effort, she raises her right hand as though she’s wavin’ a fly out of her face, and everyone waits patiently.
“Nephew,” she begins. Her voice sounds scratchy and tired. And old. Old like somethin’ dug up from miles beneath the earth.
“I thank you. For this party. It is mighty. Kind. Of you. And. And Beatrice. To host.” She pauses constantly, so just sayin’ them two sentences took her about a month. That’s okay. You can take a month to say your sentences when you a hundred.
When she hesitates long enough for everyone to think she’s finished, there is light applause. Until she puts up one crooked, shaky finger to quiet the room again.
“However. You should not. Remind. Old. People. Of. How. Old. They are,” she finally says, and everyone laughs and claps. For some reason, everybody enjoys a crotchety old person.
“You want some cake?” Clay speaks into my back. Chills. The good kind.
“Yes. Yes I do.” It’s funny that I say that, because I was totally plannin’ on politely refusin’ cake. Some ladylike nonsense.
We get in the long cake line.
The lady I briefly spoke to earlier passes us with a slice. She taps me on the shoulder.
“They got this from Stewart’s! Delicious! You be sure to take a piece home to Li’l Dottie.”
“I will, ma’am,” I say.
She beams and keeps movin’.
“What was that?” Clay asks.
“Don’t worry about it. She’s just my new best friend.”
Clay nods. “Yeah. I can see the two a you stayin’ up late, paintin’ each other’s toenails.”
I raise both eyebrows at him. “Is that really what you think girls do when no guys are around?”
“Psh! No,” he scoffs, sounding completely unsure of himself.
“Well, hello there,” someone says from behind me. “We haven’t met yet. You havin’ a nice time?”
I turn to see a smiling man. He’s maybe about twenty. He has a nice haircut, but his unfortunate choice to use cologne on top of aftershave is makin’ my eyes water.
“Oh, yes,” I politely reply, blinking my eyes. “It’s a lovely party.” Back in good-girl mode.
“Jerome? This is Evalene. My girlfriend,” Clay says. “Evalene, this is my cousin Jerome.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” I say, all peaches and cream.
“Yeah. Pleasure,” he grumbles. Funny how fast he lost interest in meeting me as soon as Clay said the word “girlfriend.”
“Let me get a cut,” he mutters.
“No.”
“Come on man, gimme a cut.”
“No! Nigga, you want cake? Stand in line like the rest of us,” Clay snaps.
Jerome walks away mumbling expletives. Clay rolls his eyes. I bite the insides of my cheeks to keep from laughin’.
We get to the table, and Clay hands me a slice of cake before taking one for himself, gentleman that he is.
And just like that.
Something’s not right.
My breath starts comin’ too quick for me, my heart pounds faster, and my hands start to shake. I don’t understand what’s happenin’ right now. I put my other hand out to reach for Clay, but he’s already moved a few steps away from me to talk to some people.
“Excuse me? Evvie? Dear? You holdin’ up the line,” Mrs. Alexander says to
