Free Boaz Brown by Michelle Stimpson Page A

white-girl fashion as she spoke. “My name is Shannon Potter, and this is my daughter, Emily. We’re members at First Methodist of Dallas. I have really enjoyed myself today. My daughter and I are guests of Paul Pruitt.” She smiled up at Paul.
    “Old Pruitt,” Pastor teased. “You finally brought you a woman to church!” Brother Paul gave a sheepish grin, consistent with his low-key manner.
    People laughed, but I knew there had to be a good majority of us who felt exactly the way I did:   I know he didn’t!   If   ever   there was anything that could get my blood to boiling, it was to see a black man with a white woman. Well, let me qualify that. When I saw what appeared to be a kind, decent-looking, gainfully employed brother hooked up with a bologna-fryin’, no-shoes-in-the-grocery-storewearin’,   wanna-be-black-actin’, Ebonics-fakin’, nose-upturnin’ white girl,   that burned me up.
    Now, if he was broke and busted, I didn’t mind him being all hugged up with a white girl. Nine times out of ten, a broke brother had tried to get with a sister but got kicked to the curb. And if she was a really pretty white girl, I could almost see it—but only on the grounds that the brother was disillusioned by the media, white-actin’ himself, and/or carrying out some secret taboo passed down to him through slavery. In either case, a sister really wouldn’t want a brother like that. The white girls could have him.
    True, I didn’t want Paul for myself, but there had to be a sister out there somewhere who would jump at the chance to be Mrs. Pruitt. This Shannon, with the hair flips and high-squeaking voice, seemed like the kind of white woman who just wanted to get with a brother and find out if all the rumors she’d heard from her girlfriends about black men were true. She was one of those kinds of white girls that spelled nothing but trouble for a black man. Any brother with half a brain should have been able to check that from the beginning.  
    Why, Brother Pruitt?  
    He seemed like a   real   brother; mentoring the young men of our church and playing on the church’s basketball team when he got the chance. He didn’t fit the bill for the white-girl type of brother. You   know,   the brothers that jog outside in the heat of the day. No, Paul was solid. What kind of message was he sending to   our   boys now that he’d trampled up in the church with this white woman?
    It was well past time to dismiss church, as far as I was concerned. My spirit was messed up after seeing that junk. Yes, Lord, the button had been pushed.
    After church, I went back to my classroom to make sure I hadn’t left anything; Emily caught up with me and gave me a big hug.
    “Are you Sister Smith?” Shannon asked me, walking up behind Emily.
    I put on my best white folks smile and said, “Yes. You must be Emily’s mother.”
    She nodded, and we shook hands.   Blue eyes.   Pale skin— no tan to speak   of .   Dark brown roots peeking out from under her limp, bleached-blond hair. “Yes, I’m Shannon Potter. Emily really enjoyed your class today. I don’t know what it is about you, but she just loves you to death.”
    I accepted the compliment, since it had come from an innocent child. I relaxed the corners of my mouth a bit and settled into an authentic grin. Emily hugged me tighter and looked up, flashing a big   snaggle-toothed smile. “I had fun!”
    “Well, I’m glad to hear that you had such a great time.” I returned her hug.
    “Emily accepted Christ today,” I told Shannon. “Did she tell you?”
    “Oh, girl, I think Emily accepts Christ every day.” Shannon laughed. “She’s a Christian at heart.”
    Did she just call me   girl?  
    “Oh, just call me Sister Smith. And I agree,   Emily’s got a heart of gold.”
    I turned from Shannon because I didn’t know exactly what my face was saying. “Emily, I hope to see you again   soon.’,
    “Oh, I’m sure we’ll be here again. Paul and I are