Samson and Delilah

Chapter Two--Samson

People think it’s easy being me. But they don’t understand the stress of having to be like everybody else. Of having to do everything else. I don’t want to take over Dad’s business of cutting trees down to build things. I prefer going green. I prefer playing football my whole life. Becoming a wide receiver. Not own a stupid business that cuts down trees. What has wood ever done to anyone?

   I trudge upstairs to my room, nodding my head towards or maid, Ms. Carolina, who’s been our maid since I was six. She disappeared for a while when I was ten, death in her family, her husband I think, but now she’s back, and everything is clean again. Thank God, I think. Mom sure wasn’t cleaning. Dad was stuck in some world of his, ignoring anything and everything that came his way. It was like he had murdered someone or something like that.

  I sling my backpack over my shoulder, pushing my door open.

  It runs into something.

   “What the hell..?” I ask, sliding into the small crack of space. I see a girl whirling around to face me. She’s just like I like my women—short and thick. Not fat necessarily, but thick in the right places. But she has an expression like she’s about to murder me. “Hey,” I say, putting my hands up, “you were standin’ in front of my door.”

   She says something in Spanish, that sounds like a couple of curse words. I frown. “I’m sorry,” I tell her, backing up. Something about her expression is so despising. And her words sound funny coming from her. Obviously she’s black. But she sounds so… Mexican. “What are you doin’ in here? Aren’t you supposed to be cleaning?”

   She takes a step towards me, fist clenched. For a second, I’m worried she’s going to deck me. It wouldn’t hurt, but I don’t like to be hit. Then again, she’s so angry looking, she might have the power to hit me and have it not hurt. “Oooo, chico,” she growls, narrowing her eyes. “Tienes suerte.” She rolls her eyes, then moves out of my way, letting me pass.

   I recognize the words, but then I don’t. I have something, I know that much. I’ve taken Spanish for three years, but the girls did my homework for me and I cheated off the tests, so I don’t really know anything of Spanish. I get by like I do in all my classes—the ugly girls. Because there’s a system there. Ugly girls like attention. They’ll do anything for it—include risk their grade. And they’re smart, too. Because they don’t have anything to do at night besides read, no dates to go on, no people to talk to. So they do my homework and I smile and flirt with them in public until they’re not needed any more—or my friend needs her. And then everybody’s happy.

   “Jesus. I said I was sorry,” I tell her, throwing my football stuff on my bed—which isn’t made up. Actually, for someone that’s supposed to be cleaning my room, it looks exactly like it did when I left this morning. “You know, you should really start cleaning.” I say it nicely, in jest, but she doesn’t take it that way. Her eyes narrow, and she places her hands on her hips, glaring at me.

   More Spanish comes flying out of that mouth of hers, making me wonder what the hell she’s saying. I open my book sack, looking for something to eat. No books, just food. A lot of pencils, completely unused.

   A Spanish paper comes flying out of my backpack, along with my workbook. Shit. I forgot to give that to Theresa. I hand the paper and workbook to the girl, trying to get on her good side. “If you do this for me, I’ll give you some candy.” I show her the bag of candy I have: soft Now and Laters, peppermints, Starbursts, Hershey Kisses, mini chocolate bars, stuff like that.

   She grabs it, then, with her eyes narrowed into slits so tiny I’m wondering how she can see, she throws the book at me.

   It bounces off my head, landing on the floor with a soft thud. “Well okay,” I say, annoyed. What did I do her for her to be so angry with me? It’s not like I intentionally hit her with the door. But, I realize as I glance at her face, it’s not me she’s angry with. It’s everybody in general. I’m just closer to take her anger out on. It’s all in her eyes that she holds people in an unforgiving favor. Her eyes hold so much anger in them—and they’re so deep. Dark, almond-shaped. Deep.

    “Can you get that for me?” I ask, too lazy to reach down and get it. Plus, my shoulder hurts from the huge pattern of bruises from football practice. “Or maybe not,” I say, looking at her face. Her arms cross over her chest, which I can see has an ample amount of breasts.

   “What school do you go to?” I ask, already knowing the answer. She goes to Magnolia Alternative like all the other black kids. It’s their school. And only white trash attends that school.

   “St. Juan’s,” she answers, surprising me. She goes to school with the Hispanics and Asians. Which would explain why she’s speaking Spanish and not English. Or maybe she is Hispanic and is just one of those dark ones.

   “Are you black?”

    She nods once, eyes opening slightly from their death glare. She arches her back slightly, stretching. I follow her every move, then bring my eyes back to hers. Somewhere deep inside, an amused gaze flickers through. Well, she is human. That’s good to know.

   “So why do you speak Spanish? Explanation in English, por favor.”

    A look of pure hatred and horror crosses her face, but she masks it away with a nonchalant look, not explaining anything to me.

   “Alright then. Don’t tell me. I don’t care.” Maybe some reverse psychology will work. She has to have a breaking point deep inside. Everybody does. Hers seems to be deeper than most, though.

   She doesn’t speak, just looks down at the ground, something spreading across her cheeks…is that a blush?

   Maybe I have some kind of effect on her like I do with most women. Maybe she might think I’m cute. I use that to my advantage. “What’s your name?” I ask gently, my voice seductive.

  Her head snaps up. Those eyes flash. She caught the change in tone. She knows where I’m going with this. She might harden her features, but her cheeks still flash red, giving her away. “Delilah,” she answers. When she says her name, she has a southern accent I know well.

   “Well, Delilah, I’m Samson,” I say, sticking my hand out for her to shake. She gives it a disgusted glance, then stays in her position—somewhere between defensive and wanting to sit down next to me. “I’m fine, thank you for askin’.” I hand her some candy. “Here. Take it.”

   She shakes her head.

   “You know you want to,” I sing, getting up and coming right up to her. She tilts her head up, glancing at me almost like she’s scared. Which is stupid. I can’t hurt her. I wouldn’t hurt her. I’m not my dad. I don’t despise black people. They should be equal with us. “Seriously. Take the candy. It’s not good for me.”

   I wait for a moment. She removes her hand slowly, sticking it out. Surprised, I give her about eight pieces of candy. She pockets seven pieces, unwrapping a chocolate bar. Before it gets to her lips, she says, “Gracias.”

   “De nada,” I tell her, knowing those words from that kid show my little sister, Sarah, watches. Something about some little Hispanic girl named Nora that goes on adventures all over the place. “Was it so hard to be nice  to me for a minute?”

   Her eyes are conflicted when she looks at me.

   “Delilah,” her mother says, sticking her head through the door. Ms. Carolina makes a face, then sighs. “Well, I guess we’ll be back tomorrow to finish cleaning.” She shakes her head. “Let’s go, Delilah.” Ms. Carolina smiles at me before disappearing through my door.

   I smile at Delilah. “You gonna talk to me tomorrow?”

   She doesn’t smile back, just tilts her head to the side, giving me a puzzling look. “Manana sera otra dia,” she responds, which is something I know because it’s my favorite Spanish saying. As she leaves, I’m wondering what exactly she means by, “tomorrow is another day.”