The Night I Fell in Love
When Lydia met the young man who would become her husband, he made the mistake of commenting on her looks. He’d almost lost his chance with those three words she’d heard too many times.
“Hey, pretty girl.”
“Don’t call me that.” She’d turned her back on the young man, flipping her hair over her shoulder. Most Black folks didn’t like that gesture, and she didn’t use it often. Only when she wanted to be rude on purpose. To make a point that she knew what people thought of her. High-yellow girl. Siddity heifer. She felt her anger rise, like a bear moving in a cave, ready to come out. Ready to attack.
It was Lydia’s sophomore year of Routledge College, and she’d ridden in a car packed with her sorority sisters to Atlanta for the Morehouse basketball game, but none of them wanted to see who won. They’d crossed over for Beta the week before and were anxious to show off in their orange-and-white jackets with their line names printed on the back. To make their Beta call to their sisters from the Spelman chapter and maybe score some numbers from cute Morehouse dudes.
Lydia was excited. It was her first trip to Atlanta without her family. She was feeling grown, until she walked into the humid brew of the gym. A November night but hotter than July in that gym. She made a move to pull off her jacket, and her line sister put a hand on her arm.
“Leave it on,” Niecy said.
“But I’m hot, girl,” Lydia said.
“Soror, everybody else kept theirs on. You want to look ashamed of Beta?”
Niecy was her roommate, too. When they’d pledged for Beta, they’d had a hard time avoiding their big sisters, because she’d opened the door every time a Beta member knocked, even when Lydia told her, stay quiet. Don’t move. Since they’d crossed “the burning sands,” Niecy used every excuse to mention their new status in conversation. It was “soror this” and “soror that,” and it was getting on Lydia’s nerves, because her roommate barely had squeaked into the sorority. Her grades had been high, but Niecy was short and chubby, and the Betas were notorious about uniformity on their lines.
Lydia sat on the bleacher, sweating. The air was so thick, it felt like a hand on her throat, and her curls were falling, too. She’d done a wet set with gel, but the steam was attacking her look. She tapped Niecy’s knee. She was going to get a hot dog. Did Niecy want one? As soon as Lydia left the gym, she took off her jacket.
At the concession stand, there was a guy trying to flirt. Saying the wrong things, though he was good-looking. Tall, very slender, a chocolate brother with real smooth skin. Too handsome and well groomed for Lydia’s taste, like he spent a lot of time in front of the mirror. He wore a blue velvet tracksuit with the jacket unzipped to reveal his white T-shirt. A white Kangol cap like he thought he was LL Cool J. Those gold chains around his neck: ’Bama with a capital B.
When Lydia flipped her hair, the guy told her, be careful. She didn’t want that wig to fall off.
She turned back, outraged. “This is my own hair!”
“Yeah, it’s yours, if you bought it.” He looked so serious, she didn’t know he was teasing, until he asked her, could he have one of her hot dogs? She let him move closer. She guessed he was all right.
“You got a dollar?”
“Aw, that’s cold, woman! They don’t cost but seventy-five cents apiece.”
“I’m trying to make a profit. Times are tough these days.”
“You kinda skinny to be eating four hot dogs.” He lifted her wrist, but she didn’t pull away. His touch was warm.
“I’m a little piece of leather, but well put together.”
He threw back his head, laughing. He told her his name—Dante Anderson—and wanted to know, where was she from? She sounded proper, but didn’t nobody say stuff like that, unless they were from the country. Lydia told him, she was from up north, from the City, but her mother’s people lived in Chicasetta. She gave him her name but wouldn’t give him her phone number.
“Chicasetta? So your people from the country, then. I bet you can burn. You know how to fry pork chops . . . Lydia?”
“Damn, brother, you must be hungry! First you want my hot hogs. Now you looking for a home-cooked meal.”
He laughed again, and moved forward in the line with her, though his friend was motioning, it was time to leave. That was his partner over there, Tim. His ace boon coon—but let him get back to her. Dante liked her style, the way she carried herself. Tough but sweet. Couldn’t nobody put nothing over on her, and Lydia smiled, finally. They kept talking, even after her order came, and he asked for her phone number again. He wanted to talk to her some more, and so she gave him the number to her dormitory, plus her last name. By that time, the hot dogs she’d ordered were cold, so she went to the back of the line, and he walked with her. They talked some more.