I'm Your Girl. J.J. Murray

me of mine anytime!

      But wait—how are Ty and Dan going to hook up when it’s starting to sound as if Ty doesn’t even like white people? There are far too many opposites in this book. Too much nonsense. This kind of thing would never happen, especially in Roanoke, Virginia.

      Mike signs the slip. “She doesn’t deserve a tip at all, but I’ll give her fifteen instead of my normal twenty percent. Everybody has off nights. Are you all ready to go?”

      When we get outside, the rain is coming down in heavy sheets. Mike and Pat share an umbrella to his Maxima, while I pop my umbrella and start for my baby, my brand-new BMW 525i, a car I may actually get to own outright in about ten years once the lease runs out. As I’m passing under the Hooters sign, I hear some thumping bass sounding like some old school rap from when I was little—and it’s coming from the old Subaru parked next to me? How dare that little car sit next to mine! I park my car in the boondocks to keep hoopdies like that away from my baby. There will be no scratches, dents, or scars on my baby!

      I look through the front windshield, you know, just to be nosy, and see…Dan? He hasn’t left yet? What’s up with him? Is he having car trouble? No, exhaust smoke fills the air just fine. Is he—I hope he isn’t waiting for me. Just because I nodded to him does not mean—

      He’s waving. Do I wave back at the man who was feeling up my legs with his eyes? You’re asking a lot, Mr. Dan. First nodding, and now waving. I know you’ve had a rough night, and though I don’t know exactly how you feel—no man ever dumped me for another man—I feel you, Mr. Dan. I squeeze out a wincing smile but don’t wave, get in my car, start it up, and pull out of the Hooters parking lot. I check the rearview mirror to see if he follows—you can never tell with white men these days—then head for home, humming along to that old school beat.

      I close Wishful Thinking. The concept is different, but it’s too far-fetched. Ty seems as if she has her life together—a strong sister with a job and a plan. Dan, though, has too much baggage and droolage. Is “droolage” a word? I know I’d probably trash this one, even though I usually give interracial romances the benefit of the doubt, since there are so few of them. I might pick this one up again one day when I’m bored out of my skull.

      Good thing I stocked up on C batteries. The checkout girl at Wal-Mart didn’t even blink as she scanned the Duracell megapack, the ones parents buy for all the electronic Christmas toys. Little did she know…

      Or, what if she did know?

      I’ve embarrassed myself again.

      Three times in one night, two from a book, and one from a memory.

      I must be crazy.

      10

      Jack

      There’s hardly anyone in the main downtown library today. No wonder I found a parking spot so close to the building.

      It’s the day after the day after Christmas. No one’s reading today. The batteries are still good.

      True.

      I stop at the circulation desk, where a tan woman—check that—a light-skinned black woman is reading a trade paperback. I slide the books onto the counter, and she looks up briefly before scanning the bar codes on the books and looking at a computer screen.

      “These books are very late, sir.”

      “I just found them today in my son’s room.” I look at her name tag: Diane. “He was, um, hiding them from me.”

      She squints at the screen. “The fine on these will be…sixteen-fifty.”

      “Ouch,” I say, and I dig into my wallet for a twenty.

      “For ten dollars more, you could buy all three,” she says, reaching over and taking the twenty.

      “I could? Here.”

      Diane finally looks at me, blinking her brown eyes once. “Oh, no. I meant you could buy these at a store for ten more than your fine.” She gives me my change, her fingers lightly brushing my palm.

      “Thank you,” I say, as my palm tingles. “Um, where is your, um, African American section?”

      She looks up, again briefly, before looking at the books on the counter. “The nonfiction section is—”

      “I need fiction.”

      She blinks once, and was that a sigh?

      It was a sigh.

      “In the fiction section, sir,” she says softly.

      Oh, yeah. How stupid of me.

      You said it.

      “Right.”

      I walk away toward the fiction section, feeling foolish. Where will my book be?

      In the fiction section.

      I messed up. I hope I didn’t hurt Diane’s feelings.

      I’m sure you did.

      I’ll bet she gets stupid questions like that a lot.

      And she’s just hung a “Stupid” sign on you.

      She has to have a lot of patience to deal with stupid people like me all day.

      I’m sure you made her day.

      I look back. Her eyes are buried in that trade paperback again. Here I am, a writer of African American fiction, and I ask a stupid question like that.

      Then I realize…that librarian…Diane…touched me. Her fingers grazed my palm, when she was giving back my change.

      Don’t read anything into it.

      She’s the first person to touch me since the funeral.

      But she thinks you’re stupid.

      And she thinks I’m stupid.