Shorty Gotta Be Grown

by T. C. Littles

  Shorty Gotta Be Grown

  T.C. Littles

  www.urbanbooks.net

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  CHAPTER 1 - PORSHA

  CHAPTER 2 - PORSHA

  CHAPTER 3 - TRINITY

  CHAPTER 4 - CALVIN

  CHAPTER 5 - PORSHA

  CHAPTER 6 - CALVIN

  CHAPTER 7 - TRINITY

  CHAPTER 8 - PORSHA

  CHAPTER 9 - TRINITY

  CHAPTER 10 - PORSHA

  CHAPTER 11 - PORSHA

  CHAPTER 12 - TRINITY

  CHAPTER 13 - PORSHA

  CHAPTER 14 - ELVIN “STREET” THOMAS

  CHAPTER 15 - CALVIN

  CHAPTER 16 - STREET

  CHAPTER 17 - TRINITY

  CHAPTER 18 - PORSHA

  CHAPTER 19 - PORSHA

  CHAPTER 20 - CALVIN

  CHAPTER 21 - CALVIN

  CHAPTER 22 - DAYS LATER

  CHAPTER 23 - PORSHA

  CHAPTER 24 - ELIZABETH

  CHAPTER 25 - TRINITY

  CHAPTER 26 - PORSHA

  CHAPTER 27 - CALVIN

  CHAPTER 28 - FAME

  CHAPTER 29 - PORSHA

  CHAPTER 30 - TRINITY

  Urban Books, LLC

  300 Farmingdale Road, NY-Route 109

  Farmingdale, NY 11735

  Shorty Gotta Be Grown

  Copyright © 2020 T.C. Littles

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without prior consent of the Publisher, except brief quotes used in reviews.

  ISBN: 978-1-6455-6061-6

  eISBN 13: 978-1-64556-062-3

  eISBN 10: 1-64556-062-7

  This is a work of fiction. Any references or similarities to actual events, real people, living or dead, or to real locales are intended to give the novel a sense of reality. Any similarity in other names, characters, places, and incidents is entirely coincidental.

  Distributed by Kensington Publishing Corp.

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  By the end of this story, you’re all going to have much respect and much love for Calvin Jackson, the same way I have much love, respect, and admiration for Rodney Jones—the man behind the character. Yendor, this one is for you!

  CHAPTER 1

  PORSHA

  Eating a bowl of Frosted Flakes, which was my favorite cereal, I sat Indian-style in front of the television watching the Ricki Lake talk show. The episode was about couples who assumed their spouses were cheating and wanted them to take lie-detector tests. One dude admitted he was cheating and had a baby on the way with his girlfriend’s best friend. Another one of the guests caught her boyfriend cheating with a decoy the producers had baited him with at the hotel all the cast was staying at. And one of the husbands on the show found out the set of twin girls he had been raising for three years were not even his. The petty drama had me all in.

  “Ma! Hurry up and get in here. Ol’ boy just found out he’s not the father of those twins and tried to flip the wife’s chair over with her in it,” I yelled for my mother. She had gone to the kitchen to refresh her drink, which was Tito’s and cranberry juice. We both loved talk shows and had been watching them back-to-back all morning.

  “Oh, hell naw. I knew it, though. Ain’t neither one of them li’l bastards have his nose, eyes, or complexion like she stood up on stage trying to point out. I swear to God, I will never understand why females go on national talk shows and put their business out to the world. That heifer knew good and damn well that man was not the father, so she should have kept that shit swept under the rug.” Trinity would have made a great correspondent for the show.

  “I wonder if they get paid to go on there.”

  “I am sure they get a few dollars, but you could not pay me enough money to fuck up my life for somebody else’s ratings. Here, roll me up a few wraps while we are sitting here.” She pulled a sandwich bag of marijuana from her bra and handed it to me.

  I was so used to seeing drugs that I could eye the weight of the baggie and tell it was an eighth of buds. I came from parents who were in the streets heavy, broke a lot of laws, and pushed a lot of dope into the city of Detroit. My father, Calvin Jackson, was one of the biggest drug dealers on the west side of the city and even maintained control over a zone in Highland Park. And Trinity was the queen, partner in crime, and mastermind behind a lot of my father’s hustle and grind in the game. Calvin was the head of our family, but my mom was the neck. She was also the eyes and ears around the house, which was why I could not wait until I was 18 and could move out.

  My nose started tingling as soon as I broke the sandwich bag open. Each time I dropped a bud in the cigarillo wrap, I was itching to drop a bud off to the side to eventually gather up enough for me to roll up a joint. Me and my homegirl Imani had been sneaking and smoking for the last few weeks, but our other friend Nikola could not partake because she was in a certified nursing assistant program that made her take a drug test every month to maintain enrollment and the scholarship.

  She used to be my skipping buddy before her mother pulled her out of school and made her start learning a trade that she could get a job with. Ms. Mack might’ve had a bunch of babies, but she promised Nikola she would kick a baby out of her stomach if she got pregnant before she had her life all the way together. I was glad I was too close to 18 for Trinity to shove that trade shit down my throat, although I had been thinking about going to cosmetology school once I snagged my high school diploma in a couple of months. Nikola’s program came with too many rules, and I already had a warden on my back within Trinity. I had been promising myself I was going to look into some beauty schools since I knew college was out of the question, but I had been too busy putting all my spare time into checking up on my secret bae, Street.

  “Porsha.” I heard my mother dramatically snapping her fingers. “I do not know what you are daydreaming about. But hurry up and finish rolling that weed so you can bust down your chore list before your father calls up here needing your help. I did not let you stay home so you could lounge around and watch TV, running up my electricity bill and getting fat because your ass wanna eat everything in the damn refrigerator.” And just like that, she had killed the good vibe with her alter-ego personality. Trinity did not have a diagnosis, but you could not tell me she was not bipolar.

  My clothes would actually fit you if I gained a few pounds. I looked her up and down on the sly in my baby T-shirt and leggings, damn near biting my tongue off so I did not let my thoughts slip from my mouth. I hated that Trinity was always in my drawers and clothes but had a problem if I wanted to borrow one of her outfits or a pair of gym shoes. My mother was not old-fashioned about her style or her behavior. Of all my friends, I had the cool mom, but that did not always work in my favor. I sometimes wished I had an airhead for a mom, for no other reason than I could get away with a lot more. Trinity Jackson could be a muthafucka to handle, and that was putting it respectfully.

  “Okay, Ma, what’s on my slave itinerary for the day?” I turned the TV off before the preview for tomorrow’s episode could finish playing.

  “Slave itinerary? Oh, you wanna be cute? I can have your smart-mouth ass on the roof sweeping off the shingles if you want to do some real work. You think the light labor you do around here is equivalent to a slave’s? Child, please.”

  I giggled. “Yeah, whatever, Ma. I am good on that. Just tell me what I gotta do.” I got up to take my bowl to the kitche
n but was shoved back down to the floor within a split second.

  “I do not know what young nigga’s dick you done sat on that got you feeling yourself, Porsha, but you are going to end up getting a helluva reputation through the hood for giving some gummy head. You have got one more time to say something slick to me, and I am sending you to the dentist with your teeth in a Crown Royal bag.” She stood over me, braced to blow my mouth out if I tested her promise.

  Scared to say the wrong thing, I nodded and dared to catch eye contact with her. I knew all too well how wild Trinity could go off on me.

  “Ma, ma, ma, ma, ma.” My little brother’s voice broke through the awkward silence and took Trinity’s attention off me.

  “Here I come, Benzie,” she responded to my little brother in a much calmer voice. Then she looked back at me and addressed me with a growl. “You, Porsha, clean up that milk before it sets in and starts smelling spoiled in here. Then get in there and see after your brother. You done pissed me the fuck off with your smart mouth, and I do not want to take it out on him.” She scooped up the joints I rolled, then stepped over me on her way out of the room. “And by the way, I was trying to chill and be nice to you. I do not always like having to grow you up by beating your ass, despite what you think.”

  I made sure I did not mutter a word until I heard her bedroom door slam. Then I said, “Whatever. I sure as hell cannot tell.” Episodes like that were why I could not wait to get out of her house.

  By the time I finished cleaning up the milk and the broken bowl and getting Benzie some oatmeal and juice in a sippy cup, he was restless and whining. I tried hurrying up so he did not start having a full-blown tantrum and agitate Trinity even more. I loved my brother, although it was kinda hard to sneak around with my homegirls with him on my hip, but I started rebelling when I found out Trinity was pregnant. She taught me how to warm up ravioli in the microwave when I was in kindergarten so she did not have to feed me after school on demand. So I knew a younger sibling was going to be more of my baby than hers. Older kids always have to be overly responsible for their younger sibs. I had seen it happen with my best friend, Nikola. Her mother had been a vessel for life and a passageway for all babies waiting to be born until she had her tubes tied. Nikola had six younger siblings, and she’d raised the three who were ages right underneath her. Noel, Nyla, and Nicholas were no more than two years apart. I stopped complaining whenever I thought about how much shit she had to do for all three of them.

  As soon as I opened the door and Benzie saw my face, he stopped crying and started jumping up and down in his crib with his arms spread wide. He was always happy to see me.

  “Up, up, up.” He reached for me. Benzie was smart as hell for a 1-year-old.

  “How was your nap, li’l man?” I picked him up and kissed his forehead.

  First, he fell against my cheek with a mouthful of drool and gave me his version of a kiss. Then he caught me off guard and headbutted me.

  “Ouch, Benzie.” I rubbed my head and exaggerated the pain so he would have some sympathy for me and regret for his actions, but that only made him laugh more. My daddy had been calling himself toughening Benzie up lately, and it was obvious it was working.

  “I am going to give you a whoop-whoop if you headbutt me again.” I knew good and well I was not going to hit him or let harm come his way. I was my brother’s keeper.

  After showering Benzie with kisses, I sat him down on his play mat with his favorite toys and got him a fresh diaper and laid out clean pajamas. He had been fighting a cold for the last few days, so he had not been leaving the house. That was part of the reason I got to stay home from school. Trinity did not feel like getting up this morning when he was fussy and coming down from a fever.

  My mother’s patience was burned out when she gave birth to me, so I did not know why her tubes weren’t tied to prevent her from having another child she did not feel like strolling to the park or playing with. I spent a lot of my time as a kid watching soap operas over her shoulder and looking outside at the other kids playing because she did not feel like sitting outside with me. She did, however, buy me every toy in Toys “R” Us so I could entertain myself properly. It was hard to complain or say I had a bad childhood when I was in fresh clothes and gym shoes every time I went to school or left the house. I was the only kid in the neighborhood with a Sega Genesis, a Nintendo, a Game Boy, and video games galore. Benzie was going to be spoiled out of his mind the same way. He already was.

  “Hey, baby girl, are you ready to come downstairs and work?” My father came into Benzie’s room, kissed me on the forehead, then scooped Benzie up and tossed him in the air.

  Benzie was laughing harder and smiling harder than he was when I walked in the room, but I was not surprised, because he loved being under our father. Calvin was a savage in the streets, but he was the best dad in the world. And although not all of his time was devoted to us, he made sure he was present and kept me schooled on street politics. Family was important to him. He felt, preached, and taught me that we were supposed to hold each other down no matter what.

  “We’re all we’ve got in this cold and cruel world, Porsha. You better ride just as hard for Benzie, your mom, and me as I ride for you. No one in this family should fail if we keep each other’s backs covered. Do you understand?” My dad’s words played over in my head as I watched him play with Benzie. The one thing I did not have in common with my homegirls was that I had my dad living in the same house, and a great one at that. I would not trade Calvin Jackson for anything.

  “I am ready to help you, Daddy. I’ve just gotta grab my phone and headphones.”

  “Okay. I’ll be downstairs. Hurry up, and make sure you do not get into no more shit with your momma.” He shook his head and leaned back in the rocking chair with Benzie pulling on his beard. “Y’all two are worse than the knuckleheaded niggas I deal with in the streets.”

  * * *

  Benzie was lost in his favorite cartoon when I walked past his door, headed to the basement, which was Calvin’s man cave and where he and his crew met to hook up product. He had an eighty-six-inch television mounted on the wall, a fully functional bar, and ten reclining theater seats. Half of the room was laid out as a movie theater and the other as a living space that included a kitchen and bathroom.

  Our house was big as hell because it was not built to be a single-family home. It was originally a four-family flat, but my father purchased it from a cokehead who was in debt to him for a few sacks he had been fronted. The guy signed over the deed to spare his life, and then my father renovated the entire house and customized it to fit his trapping lifestyle. We had eight bedrooms, four bathrooms, and two kitchens that I had to keep clean.

  “Hey, niece. I’m glad to see you are alive,” my godfather, Fame, joked when I walked into my dad’s man cave to find him, my dad, and one of my dad’s workers.

  “I keep telling her to stop playing with her crazy-ass momma,” my father jumped in, agreeing with his best friend. “Fuck catching some heat from one of these young niggas trying to come up through the hood. My own wife and daughter are going to be responsible for dropping me to the grave.” My father always tried to get Trinity to chill on me, but it only worked when he was around.

  “Y’all won’t be joking in a few months when I’m grown and on my own.” I sat down at the table across from Fame and one of my dad’s veteran workers.

  “Girl, you ain’t never going to be too grown to catch a foot up your ass from Trinity.”

  “Naw, not at all. But enough about that, let’s get to grinding and get this weight packaged up and on the streets. The drought is officially over.” My dad took his seat beside me.

  Sliding my mask over my nose and lips, my gloves on, and my wireless earbuds in, I turned on a hip-hop playlist, then joined the guys on the assembly line. It was usually me, my mom, or sometimes Fame’s first baby momma whenever he and she were getting along, but I was solo-dolo today. I was cool with the responsibility, though.
My pops taught me how to operate within every position like a boss, even the chef. “If you know how to feed a fiend, you will never be broke.” His survival teachings were embedded in my membrane.

  My dad, Fame, and the other worker scooped the appropriate amount of grams into the baggies, and then I made sure the yellow baggies were sealed, in bundles of ten, and in Ziploc bags of one hundred. We never finished with fewer than ten bags, and no one dared to move from the work area until we were completely done. The only person to bend that rule was my dad, and only I or my mom were allowed to have bathroom breaks. Everyone else had to piss in cups with their backs turned to us. Calvin barely trusted himself, so trusting others was out of the question.

  “Are you good, Porsha? Or do you want me to call Trin down for some help? This shipment was packed with more weight than the others since the streets been dry.”

  “I am okay, Daddy. You know I’m not trying to split my money.” Calvin paid $50 an hour for this position.

  “You are a mess, baby girl.” He laughed.

  “Dad, I’m not a baby. I am a few months shy of being eighteen. And I would really like that car I asked you for.”

  He laughed harder. “You are not mentally ready for a foreign whip, P. You are not about to get me sued for tearing up some shit in an accident.”

  I smacked my lips with attitude. “But let it be a drive-by, I can whip the Audi all day.”

  “Now I see why your momma wants to go in ya shit.” He shook his head.

  “Well, since I’m heading down a dead end on the car subject, let me know if I need to give you a list of things I like, Godfather.”

  Fame laughed. “I do not need a list. I’ma put a few bills in ya hand to set you straight, though. I swear, whatever nigga you be with better have some long money and deep pockets,” he joked seriously.

  “You damn right. Whatever muthafucka I let roll with my baby better be coming with more than that,” my dad said, jumping back into the conversation. “We ain’t playing with no lightweights. Ain’t that right, Porsha?”