How Stella Got Her Groove Back by Terry McMillan Read Free Book Online Page A

one woman in a hat asked.
    “I don’t have a husband.”
    “You mean you’re here all by your lonesome?”
    “Yep,” I said. And I wanted to say, Got a problem with that?
    “Aren’t you brave,” this skinny Barbie-looking woman said. “I’d never dream of traveling anywhere like this alone.”
    “Why not?” I asked.
    “Well, it’s so foreign, ” she said.
    “And?”
    “I’d be afraid.”
    “Afraid of what?”
    “I don’t know. Everything.”
    “Well, watch and see how scared I am when I’m on the beach or at dinner or on the dance floor, okay?”
    “And who will you dance with?”
    “Whoever asks me or whoever I ask. Maybe him,” I said, pointing at her husband.
    “He doesn’t dance.”
    “I’m going to try while we’re here, honey. I’ll dance with you as long as you don’t laugh at this stiff Virginian.”
    I laugh. He laughs. We all laugh and then stare back out into the darkness, each of us wondering how much longer how much further and where oh where the hell is our hotel, because we can’t see the twinkle of anything that looks like a resort for miles ahead.
    Luckily the driver has on some kind of fabulous reggae music. I can’t believe that even though it’s only eight o’clock and it’s pitch black outside and there are no streetlights, children are playing outside. There are also clusters of old men sitting around makeshift tables made of old boards and doors, playing cards and dominoes. We go around a bend and out of nowhere the van’s headlights shine on a group of teenagers just standing around like they’re getting ready to do something. Some of them are kissing under heavy trees or sitting on big rocks—there’s a head in a lap, a head on a shoulder, and when I see this I remember when and I hurry and turn that little air-conditioner vent so it hits me directly in the face.
    The one thing I can’t help but notice is that everybody here is black.
    Finally, after we’ve all passed out, the driver honks his horn and yells, “Welcome to the Castle Beach Negril!” I open my eyes and see that the hotel is even prettier than the photo in the brochure.
    The white people get out of the van without tipping the driver because of course the ride is supposed to be part of our package but even so I think this is so tacky and downright inconsiderate and when I hand Donovan the driver a brand-new twenty-dollar American bill he nods over and over and says thank you and he gives me a look as if to thank me for showing him some respect. This is like a black thang: You take care of me, I’ll take care of you.
    Our bags are whisked off and as we all walk toward the lobby I hear loud music coming from outside which is down a long marble ramp that leads somewhere I want to see, and am about to, when we are greeted by two young Jamaican women who offer us a cold wet cloth for our forehead and whatever tropical or regular drink we would like until they get us checked in. I order a virgin piña colada because I don’t like the taste of alcohol even when it’s camouflaged. Two drinks and I’m drunk anyway, so I stopped trying to get a liquid buzz years ago.
    It’s now about nine-thirty and when I sit down in my chair I realize I’m beat. But after the young woman who is assigned to me whose name is Abby brings me my frothy white drink with a giant piece of pineapple on it and asks if I’d like to see the rest of the hotel I instantly get a new burst of energy. I follow her down that ramp and can’t really believe my eyes. It is like a modern tropical version of Casablanca : people are swarming around the dance floor while up on a stage a band is playing something with a funky get-up-and-dance beat and everybody is laughing and clapping and totally oblivious to anything except the music.
    Hundreds of white tables with white chairs are mostly filled with suntanned white people dressed colorfully. And then there is the food. A buffet about a mile long is filled with every kind of seafood