Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 124320 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124320 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
I’ve never regretted it. It solidified so many things about who I am. All the parts of who I am. My senior year, I did my student teaching in some of D.C.’s toughest schools and saw how the system had failed a lot of those kids. Saw how hamstrung many educators were by the very system that charged them to teach. That was when the vision for YLA first took root.
The kids at YLA love to dance, most of them executing the latest moves with an ease my body has never managed. Noah’s still too young for YLA, but he’s around a lot, and as soon as they turn on the music and start dancing spontaneously in the gym, the cafeteria, the courtyard, he’s up and moving.
Like now. I’m sitting on this stacked stone wall encircling Mona’s backyard, still the “potted plant” wallflower, while my son is dabbing, sliding and Fortnite flossing, his face lit up as he stands in one of the lines awaiting his turn in the spotlight. Mona powers down the open lane between the two lines, moonwalking, pop locking and freestyling with Marvin Gaye crooning encouragingly.
And then it’s Kimba’s turn.
That damn little dress she’s wearing has tortured me ever since it walked through the door, swishing around her toned legs, hinting at an ass which, I remember from the times I’ve seen her in form-fitting clothes, is spectacular. The spaghetti straps slip off smooth brown shoulders as she shuffles down the open lane. She lifts her hands in the air, arms extended, worshiping the beat, twirling carelessly as the hem of her dress flies up, flashing the tops of her thighs.
I haven’t been this hard in weeks. Months. Years.
Ever?
I don’t remember having an erection around Kimba when we were growing up. We were kids. We were young. Even when we shared our first kiss, I wasn’t afraid my body might betray me, confess to her the urges we weren’t ready to act on. But now, watching her, wanting her as a man, not an untried kid, there’s no hiding the effect she has on me. I’m sitting on the sidelines, not just because I’m apparently the only dude at the cookout who can’t dance, but because if I stand, everyone will know my situation. Immediately.
There’s no hiding this fully erect dick in my pants.
I’ve tried not to watch her, but I’m obsessed with the curve of her waist, the shadowy dip between her breasts, the elegant line of her neck, the way her hands dance in the air when she’s animated. The intricate whorl of her ear when she pushes the curls away from her face. The regal profile and perennially-kissed pout of her lips. Hers is a boudoir body out in the open, a bold sketch of elongation and exaggerated curves.
I have to stop.
But I can’t.
It’s a compulsion. It’s a high. After all these years, she’s here. And I can’t get my fill. All these people—I wish they’d disappear and I could have her to myself. I could excavate her mind and dig around in her soul and get close enough to hear her heartbeat. Beyond the desire to lay her down in the grass and plunge between those long legs, there’s something I want even more. To know her the way I did before. No, deeper than I did before because now we’re adults, re-formed by time and experiences.
I want to learn the new shape of her.
Unlike me, Noah is not an introvert. He inherited his openness, his “never meets a stranger-ness” from Aiko. He’s only known Kimba for a short time, but he has no problem grabbing her hand and laughing, dancing with her. They look free and unfettered. Kimba kicks off her shoes, and her bare, pretty feet shuffle through the grass as easily as I’ve seen her walk red carpets on television. I didn’t know what to call what I used to feel for Kimba—the desire to have her with me all the time; to know her better than everyone else did. It was an innocent possessiveness that she reflected back to me even then. She wanted that from me. It was earnest and pure. But the first time I saw her on CNN, talking easily, debating someone from the other side of the aisle, systematically picking apart his argument with surgical, intelligent precision, no sign of the stutter that plagued her before, I felt immeasurably proud.
But also jealous. Possessive. I’d discovered this beautiful butterfly when she was a caterpillar and she had been completely mine. Now the whole world marveled at the spread of her wings, basked in her vibrant color. Now everyone knew how fantastic she was and she’d never be just mine again.
“Dad!” Noah shouts over the music. “Get up!”
Still on beat, he dances over, dragging Kimba by the hand.