Vengeance (22 page)

“Good, but psychotherapy is also important. I realize that you’ve had therapists in the past and that Dr. Lamb is still giving you prescriptions, even though she is based in New York. But we need to address the underlying issues.”

“That’s what the fuck we’ve been doing, Marcella. You think I’ve been coming up here because I don’t have anything else to do?”

“No, but I also don’t think that you’re being honest about why you came to Atlanta.”

I stood up and started pacing the floor. “What did Daddy tell you?”

She glanced over her shoulder at me. “What makes you think Mr. Sterling told me anything?”

“Marcella, honesty is always better than sugarcoated bullshit. What did Daddy tell you?”

Marcella sighed. “He’s worried that you came back here to get some kind of retaliation on people who went to Powers High School with you. And he’s also concerned that you may have a violent outburst, or several of them, in the process. He doesn’t want to see you get into any trouble.”

“I don’t plan on it! But they need to pay and . . .”

I didn’t mean to let that slip!

“Who needs to pay and what for?”

I walked back over to the sofa, but instead of sitting on it, I lay down on it and covered my eyes with my right arm.

“You can talk to me freely,” Marcella said.

Part of me wanted to rush out of there and tell Kagiso and Antonio I was ready to go. Diederik was off that day, dealing with some drama. Some crazy whore had shown up at the house, trying to get into the gate the night before, talking about how she was carrying his child. I knew all of their asses were fucking broads in Atlanta. It didn’t bother me, but they needed to keep their floozies out of my presence.

The other part of me said that it was time to be completely transparent. It was all for naught unless I told Marcella where my mind was really going. However, her comments about my disorder leading to violent behavior had upset me. Only because I knew it was the truth. When I was much younger, even prior to the rape, I used to self-mutilate. I would make tiny cuts on my thighs or burn my leg with a lighter or match. Sometimes, I would stick the tips of safety pins into my skin or bang my head against my bedroom wall. It was my way of expressing my emotional pain that I could not put into words. Not that I had anyone to talk to anyway. Grandma was sick and my friends already felt pity on me because of my facial scar.

“Caprice?”

When Marcella used my real
real
name, it was apparent that she was trying to get me to go back there.

“When I was in Germany a few years ago doing a concert, I saw this beautiful sign in a window. There was a photo of a sunset over the ocean. I asked the escort the label had assigned to me to translate it. It read: ‘Leave the bad memories behind and have faith in a greater tomorrow.’ It was in front of one of the few homeless shelters in Berlin. They do things totally different over there. Their education, health insurance, and all of that is paid for by the state.”

I paused and took a deep breath. “Their constitution, called the Grundgesetz, calls for all Germans to be able to ‘live in dignity,’ meaning that they are guaranteed to have access to all their basic needs. What I noticed about the homeless people that I did see—they only have about six hundred out of three-point-four million people—was that most of them had mental issues.”

I looked at Marcella. “The same goes for a lot of homeless here in the United States, except we tend to discard people who need our help. It’s a damn shame that men and women can go and serve in the military, protect us from terrorists—foreign or homegrown—and then end up eating out of trash cans or pushing all of their worldly belongings around in shopping carts.”

“You’re rambling because you’re trying to avoid the issue. Who needs to pay and for what?” She sat up further in her seat. “Caprice, you can avoid reality, but you can’t avoid the consequences of avoiding reality.”

“I’m just tired of my memories sneaking out of my eyes and rolling down my cheeks. I hate crying, Marcella, and if I go where you expect me to go, I’m going to definitely exhibit my weaknesses.”

“You inspire millions of women and young girls. That’s not a sign of weakness. That’s a sign of strength. My hope for you is to liberate yourself the exact same way you have liberated so many others.”

“I’m fucked-up in the head, so I say unto you: bye, Felicia.”

I got up from the sofa and headed toward the front door.

“Go ahead and leave if you so wish. But know this. You’re only leaving because it’s easier to walk out than fight for what you really want.”

I turned and gazed into her eyes. “And what is it that you
believe
I really want?”

“Ultimately, love, but right now, you need to prepare yourself emotionally to receive that love.”

I put my hands on my hips and smacked my lips. “I don’t want or need a man. Men want love. I’m incapable of loving anyone. Men want sex. I can’t give them that. Men want commitment. I can’t give them that, either. Men want kids. There’s no damn way I’m bringing any kids into this world.”

“Why can’t you give a man love, sex, or commitment?”

I shrugged. “Partly because I’m a coward and partly because I’m too damn selfish. At least I admit it.”

“Please, come sit back down.” Marcella motioned toward her sofa. “Your birthday’s in a few weeks, isn’t it?”

“The big four-O!”

“Good, then let’s work through this. Tell me who needs to pay and what they need to pay for.”

I stood there in silence for a moment and looked back and forth between the sofa and the door. One meant an escape and not having to deal with all my bitterness and baggage. The other meant taking a huge risk and taking myself into a deep, dark place that I’d never wanted to revisit. But Marcella was right; it was time.

I walked back over to the sofa and lay back down. I concentrated on one of the lightbulbs in her ceiling fan and then closed my eyes. Then I was suddenly fifteen-year-old Caprice Tatum way back in 1987. Not one but two, Ladonna
and
Wicket, lifetimes ago.

Saturday, October 24, 1987

9:43 p.m.

Atlanta, Georgia

S
pirit Week had gone well at Powers High School, leading up to the homecoming game. Our football team was ranked third in the state of Georgia and everyone was excited about winning the state championship in another month or so. It would mark the first time that Powers took the championship since 1968. Our starting lineup was over the top and it was predicted that all the seniors would end up getting full-ride scholarships to the colleges or universities of their choice.

We were all freshmen—Cherie, Bianca, Herman, Michael, Jonovan, and me—and high school had presented both new adventures and challenges. Well, in my case, making new friends was always a challenge. Outside of the ones I just mentioned, the other kids in middle school had either ignored me completely, made it their personal plight to bully me whenever a chance presented itself, or remained neutral and didn’t give a damn about me either way.

I often read background stories of other celebrities to see if they were popular in school. From what I’d gathered, most merely blended in, and some were bullied, but all of them ended up being at the top of their game when they became celebrities. The major difference between them and me is that they could go back to their high school and college reunions and show off the fact that they were the shit. I could never do that . . . not ever.

Every day of Spirit Week had been themed and a load of fun. Monday was Crazy Hair Day, Tuesday was Twinsie Tuesday, Wednesday was Pajama Day, Thursday was Beach Day, and Friday was School Colors Day, where everyone wore burgundy and gold. Now it was time for the big game. We were playing against Hiram Rhodes Revels, a school named after the first African-American to ever serve in the United States Congress. Their colors were navy and white.

The bleachers in the stadium were overflowing. It was the one game of the season where everyone showed up, including the parents, grandparents, and other various relatives of the players, the kids from the surrounding schools—including all the girls who were sharing players’ hearts and bodies—and even the school outcasts. It was the opportunity to see and be seen, the chance to make hookups with the cuties from other schools in Atlanta, and a way to ensure that you didn’t miss out on any drama that might have popped off when you were out doing something less important.

The game was tied 21–21 with less than a minute left in the fourth quarter. The cheerleaders from Powers were damn near going at it as hard with their cheers as the players were going at each other on the field. Bianca and Cherie were both cheerleaders and were prancing around the sidelines in their skorts and sweaters with PHS embroidered on them.

They were chanting:

You may be good at basketball

You may be good at track

But when it comes to football

You may as well step back.

You may be good at baseball

You may be good in school

But when it comes to football

We’re making you look like fools.

Powers has the knowledge

Powers rules the game

And once we wipe the grass with you

You’re headed home in shame.

Go Tigers! Go Tigers! Go Tigers, Go!

The school band was playing the instrumental version of “Victory” by Kool and the Gang as Jonovan, who was actually the school mascot, danced in front of them. It was hilarious, and I wondered if he was hot under that costume. He had actually asked my advice when they first asked him to be the mascot. He was on the fence about it but didn’t want to play in the school band during high school. He had played the trumpet in middle school and was tired of all the practice time involved. But he still enjoyed participating. I told him that it seemed like being the mascot would be the best of both worlds. He didn’t have to practice with the band—or practice the trumpet at home—and all he had to do was dance and still be able to hang around everyone and get caught up in the excitement at the games. He decided to agree to be the mascot for the football season and then revisit it for basketball in the spring. The good part was that since he was wearing a costume, someone else could take over without missing a beat.

The band kicked into “Lean on Me” by Club Nouveau as the Tigers got ready to try to pull a Hail Mary, a term coined by Roger Staubach but arguably dates back to 1922, when Notre Dame played Georgia Tech and prayed a Hail Mary before each of two fourth-down plays that resulted in touchdowns. Jonovan jokingly snatched the baton from the drum major, whose elaborate uniform was doing the most, and the two of them started doing the cabbage patch. That ignited everyone in the stands on the home team side to start doing the same. Next thing you knew people were moving from side to side and snapping their fingers . . . until the ball was snapped and then the music, the dancing, the talking all stopped.

Malcolm Briggs, better known as “Golden Arm,” grabbed the ball in the snap, took four quick steps back, and threw a thirty-nine-yard pass into the end zone that was caught by Cedric Parrish, better known as “the Steel Curtain,” due to his size and agility. It took about two seconds for everyone to realize that they had won the game before complete pandemonium started.

Even I was excited and I really didn’t have shit to do with the accomplishment. That is what’s so amazing about school spirit. Winning takes a lot of work and effort on the parts of various people, but everyone gets to celebrate the triumph. I was on the third row of the bleachers and rushed down to the field, almost getting trampled by the others who didn’t have shit to do with winning, either. The key players were being lifted up and tossed around like rag dolls instead of the two-hundred-plus pounds they were actually carrying. Some players had three to four girls—their own rosters—trying to fling their arms around their necks and shower them with kisses. I was trying to find Bianca and Cherie, since we were planning to attend a party together. I didn’t want to get lost in the madness, so it was better to hook up with them then.

Jonovan walked past me in his costume and roared at me. I gave him a high five with my hand against his paw but didn’t engage in conversation. The idea was for him to really pretend to be a tiger, and tigers don’t speak. He had to act out all of his emotions and speak through his movements.

I did ask, “Did you get where the cheerleaders went?”

He pointed his right paw toward the other side of the mass of people.

“Thanks.” I walked off and started pushing my way through the crowd again.

I eventually found them and, looking back on it, searching for them was the worst mistake of my entire life. If I had gone back home that night instead of trying to hang out with them, my life would have taken a much different turn.

I stared at Marcella and decided that I couldn’t go any further.

“What happened next?” she asked. “Take your time, Caprice.”

“I can’t do this.”

“Then maybe that’s enough for today.”

“Or maybe it’s enough forever. I’m sure you get the gist of what happened. My best friends set me up to be raped that night by the boys I had always trusted, and others. It was humiliating, painful, and I thought that they were going to literally fuck me to death.”

Marcella stood up and came over to sit beside me where I lay on her sofa. She took my hand. “I’m so sorry, but please understand that you’re not alone. A rape occurs every—”

“Why do people always go there? How does knowing that tons of other women, and men, have endured the same thing help matters?” I sat up, angry. “So that means that I shouldn’t be so upset because Peggy Sue was raped back in 1952 in Peoria, Illinois, walking home from third grade and Tiffany will be raped tonight leaving work at a diner in Milwaukee, Wisconsin?”

“No, I’m not implying that,” Marcella said, taken aback by my statement.