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Stranger than Strange Fruit

Craig Wells

    I strolled into our middle school’s theater. Jayla sat on the edge of the stage. She wore a blood red slinky dress with cracked porcelain buttons from her navel to her neck. She straddled a saxophone and rocked side to side. Her hands gripped the back of her head. I smiled. Sometimes smiles were forced like kissing an ugly cousin’s face whose breath stunk of garlic. I wondered whether my lips were too pinched. I had crooked teeth. Dad thought braces were for girls.
    Her hands grasped her knees. Light reflected off the brass distracted me from her very pretty face made exotic by freckles flecked around her nose and a slit of a dimple in her chin. Her long slender fingers at play like the flutter of butterfly wings added an air of intrigue as if they stirred up a mystical dust. I wished they touched me where no girl had gone before.
    “Well?” she asked.
    A drip of thick sweat slipped out from under her sleeve. I wanted to suggest a better deodorant. It slid to her wrist with the speed of my embarrassment to know better.
    “You’re beautiful. In that dress,” I said.
    She shrugged it off. Jayla was tough. She didn’t care what you said. She owned you. Her word mattered. What mattered to us was everything. In our drama class at Wingspread Charter School, everyone was special, could be; no, was as talented as Justin Timberlake or Beyoncé or Kristen Stewart. We must be admired and applauded and never scorned, and hell, could we put on a talent show or give a desperately sad musical like RENT a touch of glamor and glee. But no one ever pleased Jayla or dared to criticize her. Even if they believed she was not black enough like chewing tobacco or gluten free licorice. She could sing; coo God out of the most mundane lyric when she felt like it didn’t matter if anyone listened. She had not grown up in Elfwood, Oregon—home of the Shakespeare Festival and the best place in the world to grow up. But in Slidell, Louisiana. A town as small and quaint as Elfwood, she confessed begrudgingly. At twelve she had run away to New Orleans where a madam in a whorehouse rescued her. She dressed Jayla in fancy, flashy women’s gowns and made her smoke and drink whiskey and sing sexy songs to men who craved a touch of the untouchable. But one bastard wanted more. He grabbed Jayla, ripped at her, clawed. She stabbed his neck with a fork and killed him. He was a bad man. A drug dealer, Jayla explained. The FBI wanted him dead. The bastard’s cohorts wanted Jayla dead. The FBI begged her to escape New Orleans. They sent her to Elfwood as if she was in the witness protection program. I didn’t believe any of it. Where had Jayla been for the last five years? Why would they put her in a trailer in Pines Trailer Trash Park? I was not allowed there. Unless I hunted for an exotic pot brand like Dragon’s Breath for Dad’s Auntie Lu who had emphysema.
    Jayla spread her legs. The saxophone dropped out.
    Cell phone; shit. I answered.
    “The line on the peanut butter jar, Billy,” Mom said.
    “Mom, please, not now,” I replied.
    “You didn’t. I know you wouldn’t.”
    Jayla leaned over and scratched the inside of her thigh with her knee.
    “I did, dammit,” I snapped. “A big glob of Dad’s damn peanut butter.” You lied.
    “It was great.”
    I believed it would be wonderful for a kid in deepest, hottest, driest Africa, who cooked with turds and swallowed more flies than grain, to have his first lick of ice cream. I’d put peanut butter right up there. I didn’t have allergies. Mom had been convinced by a teacher I might.
    “How much?” Mom asked.
    “Does it matter?”
    “It doesn’t. I’m sorry.”
    I sighed. “Bye, mom.”
    Jayla bumped me as she passed.
    “It’s raining, Jayla, you want my jacket?”
    She stopped. Over the contour of her butt, her hand smoothed the rippled silk.
    “What about you?” she asked.
    “I’ll stay.”
    “You’ll come with me.”
    “Me?”
    I smiled like never before. “You’re saying yes?”
    “I’m saying you’re my only real friend.”
    She towed back the door. She dived into the downpour like an Olympic swimmer. Her black hair quickly slicked back. I followed, leaped out before the door closed on me. It grew gusty. I tugged up the hood to my jacket. Jayla shuffled across the empty parking lot. An empty metal trash can tumbled towards her. She stumbled back to let it pass. I was emboldened by her vulnerability. I headed after her.
    “Jayla!”
    She strode off.
    “Wait!”
    She glanced back. Wind cleared the rain from her face. She was gorgeous—gone were eyes, lips, the scar on her cheek—only love.
    “Come with me,” she said.
    I shivered. I wanted to cry with joy. She marched off into our community garden. I hustled after her. I leaped over the trash can. Between dead, stiff tall corn stalks, she swayed sideways. Shredded leaves ripped off buttons. She whipped around and walked away from me. I flung off my heavy North Face jacket—a hand me down from a dead lady at the elderly foster home my folks ran. I plowed in after her. Stalks battered my arms, scraped my face. Her laughter hit me with as much pleasure. Mud got thicker. Stalks drooped, fell over. I got closer. Jayla cleared the corn. She tripped over the handle of a submerged wheelbarrow. She fell flat. I stared at what was exposed. She lay like a musical pause when the next word she sang stopped your heart.
    “Jayla, you okay?”
    The rain settled into steady, scattered drops against puddles around her. They reminded me of a drum played slower and slower like heartbeats after an orgasm.
    “Get up,” I said.
    The fury of my words met her rise. She leisurely lifted herself and turned. The rain stopped. Sky pulled back the clouds. Sunshine could not cool my lust. Mud, off her chin, flooded her bra. She shivered. I charged. I kissed her. She kissed back. The mud I tasted electrified with skin. It clawed away the boy and let loose the man. I lunged. She shoved me. I stumbled back. I tripped over the handle and slammed onto my back into the mud I now loved.
    “Fuck you,” she said.
    “But Jayla.”
    She approached. She tugged up her dress and straddled me. Her knees tugged up my T-shirt. Her soft heat against my bare belly.
    “Whatever you want,” I said.
    Her hands gripped my neck.
    “You going to strangle me?” I joked.
    She squeezed.
    “Why Jayla?” I choked.
    Her eyes, her smile, shoulders—all or nothing, it made no difference.
    “Because I can,” she cooed.

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