Chasing Butterflies

by Amir Abrams

  She’s pitiful.

  And she’s clearly desperate for attention.

  Most bullies are.

  I continue writing.

  She boldly stands directly in front of me.

  Challenging me.

  Taunting me.

  Trying to intimidate me.

  My pen freezes over my journal page.

  “Pick and choose your battles, Butterfly . . .”

  I sigh inwardly.

  “But, Daddy,” I hear myself whining in my head, “I don’t know how much more of her I can take . . .”

  I don’t want problems with this nutty girl.

  I just want to do my time and get out of here with the least amount of complications.

  With very little aggravation.

  But this girl likes confusion.

  “Oh, so you gonna just act like you don’t see, or hear, me standin’ here, right?”

  Right.

  I am purpose driven.

  Not emotionally driven.

  Intellect over emotion.

  Think before you speak.

  Think before you act.

  Think about how your behavior will affect someone else.

  Think about the consequences of your actions.

  Think, think, think!

  Those are the principles Daddy instilled in me.

  Those are the rules that I have lived by.

  Up until now I’ve been fine with them.

  They worked for me.

  Well, guess what?

  I’m tired of thinking.

  My black felt pen glides across the page of my journal.

  I bite my bottom lip.

  The tension between this Sha’Quita girl and me is thick.

  So thick that I am fighting to breathe.

  Fighting to concentrate.

  I’m feeling lightheaded.

  She stomps over toward the window with the AC unit and yanks out the cord. “Don’t speak then, trick. But I bet you won’t be sittin’ up in here suckin’ up none’a this cool air.”

  Ohmygod.

  She’s so petty.

  She wouldn’t even have an air conditioner if it weren’t for me.

  She’d still be up in this hotbox with that raggedy ceiling fan swirling around hot air and dust and cobwebs. But okay. It’s not that serious. She can unplug it. Heck. She can push it out the window for all I care.

  First chance I get, I’m out of here anyway.

  I place the cap on my pen, then shut my journal.

  “I don’t want to fight with you, Sha’Quita. But it seems like that’s all you want to do. Pick fights with me. Why?”

  “‘Seems like thaaat’s all you wanna do, Sha’Quita,’” she mocks. “‘Pick fights wit’ me. Why.’ Boo-hoo. Boo-hoo. Crybaby, bye. If I wanted to fight you, I woulda been beat the skin off you.” She punches a fist into the palm of her hand to accentuate her point. “I keep tellin’ you, you don’t want it wit’ these hands.”

  “Then why are you always trying to start mess with me?”

  “Start mess? Girl, bye. I’m far from messy. I was only effen wit’ ya sensitive butt, but since you wanna get all up in ya stank feelin’s, eff you.”

  “Whatever,” I mumble.

  Screw you, too.

  “What?” she barks. “I know you ain’t even talkin’ slick under ya breath.”

  She steps closer in my space.

  My heart races.

  Beads of sweat start to line my forehead.

  I don’t look directly at her, but I watch her, her moving hands, in my peripheral vision.

  Don’t flinch.

  “You had better ask them hoes in the streets about me. You don’t know me.”

  I’ve had enough of her mouth. “And you don’t know me,” I snap, finally looking at her.

  She jerks her neck to one side. Her face is hard, her eyes narrowing into slits. “What, am I supposed to be scared? Am I supposed to cry? Hold on, boo-boo.” She holds a finger up. “Let’s wait for the tears.” She tilts her head. Then snaps a finger in my face. “Not.”

  I give her an impassive stare.

  Try to keep my cool.

  But inside I’m screaming, GET OUT OF MY FACE!!

  There go those hands again. Moving inches from my face. “Girl, I don’t know why you sittin’ there lookin’ all stupid, starin’ me down. I will take it to ya face.”

  Be my guest.

  I dare you.

  I don’t want this girl putting her hands on me.

  I swear I don’t.

  But, still...

  I double-dare her.

  Because if she thinks I’ll just sit here and let her hit me, she has—

  Daddy’s voice slices into the room.

  “Don’t ever let a bully think you’re scared of them . . .”

  “You lucky I’m not tryna eff up my nails today, otherwise I’d smack ya lights out.” Pointing a finger at me, she leans in and grits her teeth, trying to intimidate me. “But keep it up ’n’ you gonna feel my wrath.”

  This girl is exhausting.

  This time I’m determined to keep my stare locked on hers, my expression a mixture of disgust and disbelief.

  But then something catches my eye.

  Movement.

  There’s a roach crawling up her leg.

  And she is seemingly unfazed by it.

  Or maybe unaware.

  Her phone rings.

  And, just like that, our stare down comes to a screeching halt.

  She rolls her eyes. “You lucky, boo-boo.”

  Oh. Okay.

  “Heeeeey, boo,” she says all jolly-like. “Whaaaat? Say, word, bish! Yasss, yassss! When? Ooh, you know I am feenin’ for a taste of that dark chocolate. Oooh, yasss, yasssss . . . I wanna ride him like a roller coaster . . .” She laughs. “You know that’s my boo . . .”

  Who isn’t?

  “Bye, trick. I’m comin’ through right now. Tell him I said don’t leave.” She grabs her lip gloss from off her dresser, then shoots a nasty glare over at me before shaking her hips toward the door.

  I think to tell her she has a roach crawling up her legging. But I decide to let her go on about her business with her travel companion in tow.

  Nasty girl.

  42

  “Aunt Terri,” I whisper into the phone, two days later. It’s taken me that long to finally reach her. “Please. You have to get me out of here.”

  “Well, what’s the problem now, Nia?” she asks, sounding the least bit concerned.

  “The same stuff. These people are . . .”

  “Your blood family, Nia,” she says matter-of-factly.

  “But I don’t relate to them, Aunt Terri. They are—”

  “Sweetie,” she says, interrupting me. “We’ve already had this discussion. I need at least a month or two to get things situated.”

  Wait.

  A month or two?

  Am I hearing things?

  Where is this or two coming from?

  I begrudgingly agreed to one month, after she convinced me to come here for two weeks. Now she’s saying or two. When did things change, again? And why am I just hearing about it? I feel myself starting to get choked up.

  “Aunt Terri, I agreed to two weeks. Then you said you needed another few weeks. And I unhappily said okay. Now this.”

  How can she do this to me?

  “Well, there’s some issues with your father’s estate that need to be cleared up first.”

  Ohmygod.

  I massage my left temple, trying like heck to fight back the beginnings of a headache. “What do you mean?”

  “This has nothing to do with you, Nia. So don’t worry yourself. Everything will work itself out one way or another.”

  I frown.

  What the heck does she mean this has nothing to do with me?

  This whole ordeal has everything to do with ME!!

  “Please, Aunt Terri. I’m not going to make it here for a whole month, or two. That’s my whole
summer! What about school?”

  She sighs into the phone. “We’ll cross that bridge when it’s time,” she says nonchalantly.

  But the bridge has already been crossed. And I’m ready to jump off!!

  “Just try to enjoy your time getting to know your family.”

  I bite into the side of my bottom lip to keep from screaming, but inside I feel myself about to lose it. Being fresh and disrespectful to any adult isn’t how Daddy raised me. So I keep biting, until I draw blood.

  “Can I have the number for Daddy’s lawyer?” I ask, sniffling.

  “Why?”

  “So I can talk to him about me staying somewhere else until I can come to Georgia.”

  “I don’t have his number on me,” she quickly says. “Anyway, like I said, Nia. You need to get to know them, especially your father.”

  “Aunt Terri, I’m not trying to be disrespectful, but why are you trying to push me off on these people, huh? Do you hate me that much?”

  “Nonsense, Nia. I don’t hate you.”

  Umm. I can’t tell. “Then why are you doing this to me?”

  She sighs in my ear again. “I’m doing what’s best for you, Nia. I know it’s hard for you to understand right now. But you’ll thank me later.”

  I’ll never thank you. Never. “Aunt Terri, what I need is to be with the family I know. Not with . . .” I pause, heaving a sigh. “These people are crazy. They’re a bunch of alcoholics and drug addicts.”

  “Well, are they mistreating you?” she asks dismissively.

  I blink. “Yes. Well, no. I mean, I guess.”

  “Well, which is it? Are they or aren’t they?”

  I swallow. “Not really. I mean this girl keeps trying to start stuff with me . . .”

  “And do you not know how to fight?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then whip her tail.”

  “But I don’t want to fight her. I want to come home.”

  “You have no home, Nia. How many times do I have to remind you of that?”

  With those words, I suddenly lose my composure, bursting into tears and sobbing into the phone.

  Her words, her truth, slice into my heart.

  “Nia, you need to pull it together. Crying over spilled milk isn’t going to bring your father back. He’s gone, but . . .”

  Through breathless gasps, I think I hear her telling me that I need to count my blessings.

  What blessings?

  I would often overhear Daddy saying Aunt Terri was crazy.

  Now I see why.

  She is crazy!

  Crazy to think pawning me off on a bunch of strangers is a blessing!

  “Daddy always said all you ever cared about is money,” I blurt out. “And now you’ve said it yourself. You don’t want me around because you can’t get your hands on Daddy’s money.”

  “Nia, you watch your tone with me, young lady. I’ve said no such thing. I don’t want what he left for you. So don’t you dare go putting words in my mouth! All I care about is getting what’s rightfully mine—my portion of my mother’s inheritance that my brother stole from me. That has nothing to do with you.”

  “B-b-but you said I would come live with you.”

  “I know what I said, Nia,” she says sharply. “But that was then. And this is now. And up until now, everything has been handed to you on a silver platter. You’ve been spoiled rotten, little girl. And right now, it’s time for you to get a taste of how life is on the other side.”

  Ohmygod! What is she talking about? “But this place is s-so n-n-nasty,” I whine, wiping tears from my face. “And these roaches . . .”

  “That’s too bad, Nia. You’re going to have to figure out a way to deal with it. Now I’m done with having this conversation. You’ll come here when I’m ready for you to come here. Until then, get over it. I’ll call you in a few weeks to check in.”

  “B-b-but, Aunt Ter—”

  Blooop.

  The line’s gone dead.

  43

  “Hey, Cali Girl,” Sha’Quita calls out, bursting into the bedroom, swinging open the door, “you wanna roll to the park wit’ me ’n’ my girl Chardonnay? It’s nice out so I figured I’d be nice to you today.”

  I look up from my journal.

  Take her in.

  Maybe for a few seconds longer than I should, but I let my gaze linger anyway.

  She cut her weave out. Well, all of it except the one long piece she has stitched in on her right side, which she has curled around her jawline. But her hair is dyed platinum blond.

  I force a smile.

  But I am cringing on the inside.

  This girl has some nerve!

  As if she’s doing me some favor by asking me to hang out with her and her pimply-faced friend.

  I’m sooo not interested.

  “No, thanks,” I say nicely.

  She stares at me, then dramatically bats her lashes. “What, you think you too good to hang in the park wit’ us?”

  I shake my head. “No, not at all. I just don’t want to go. Besides, I thought you said you like traveling light.”

  She bats her lashes and scoffs. “Yeah, I do travel light. And?”

  I shrug. “Just checking. But thanks anyway.”

  She rolls her eyes. “You mad shady.”

  “I’m not shady. Why would you say that?”

  “’Cause you are.”

  “Why, because I don’t want to go to the park with you?”

  She sucks her teeth. “Girl, you retarded. So you rather stay cooped up in this stank room instead of bein’ around a buncha cuties in basketball shorts?”

  Well, the room wouldn’t be stank if you stopped keeping dirty clothes piled up over there in the corner, I think, closing my journal.

  She huffs. “You messy as hell, girl. I’m tryna get me that Michael Kors bag I saw in Marshalls last night ’n’ you blockin’ my flow.”

  I give her a dumbfounded look.

  “You heard what I said. I need that bag. But Omar ain’t even ’bout to drop no paper on it unless you start gettin’ wit’ the program ’n’ bring ya stank-azz out.”

  I frown. “Wait.” I shake my head, trying to wrap my mind around what I’ve just heard. “So you’re saying that Omar promised to buy you a new pocketbook if you drag me along with you?”

  She tilts her head. “Ain’t that what I said?”

  No.

  “Oh,” is all I say.

  “So . . . ?”

  “Is Omar here?”

  She grits her teeth. “Do I look like his keeper to you, huh? Where you think he is? He’s where he’s been for the last three days. Not here.”

  I swallow. “I only asked a question. Because he texted me and said he was on his way back.”

  “And I gave you an answer. So you comin’, or nah?”

  I shake my head. “I’ll pass.”

  She swings her bang from out of her face. “Psst. Girl, bye.”

  “Okay, bye,” I say, eyeing her as she heads for the door. “Have fun.”

  She stops in her tracks, craning her neck, hand on her hip. “Don’t get cute. Remember, I’m being nice.”

  Yeah. For a new pocketbook, so please don’t think you’re doing me some favor.

  I tilt my head. “I’m not getting cute.”

  “Oh, I know you not, sweetie. You’ll need a whole new makeover to be that. Still, I think you tried it.”

  This girl really gets under my skin.

  “I wasn’t trying anything. I simply said have fun. How’s that trying to be cute?”

  She throws a hand up. “Girl, talk to the hand. Like I said, you tried it.”

  “And I said, have fun.”

  She sneers, stomping out the room, slamming the door behind her.

  I shake my head, opening my journal again. I write.

  I sigh, closing my journal. Then I get up and walk over to the window facing the street and peek out through the curtains. There’s a group of young girls in the middl
e of the street jumping rope. They’re laughing and having a good time. They look to be no older than twelve, or thirteen. But nowadays, it’s so hard to tell. Most of the young girls I see look and act so grown, especially around here.

  I start to wonder what life is like for them behind closed doors. Are they really as happy and carefree as they appear to be now? Or are they stifled by oppressive living conditions? I can’t help but wonder what will become of them. Will they become products of their environment? Will they become eaten alive by the streets? Will they become the next generation of Sha’Quitas in the world?

  Or—

  Ohmygod!

  One of the girls twirling the rope snatches it from the girl on the other end of it and starts hitting another girl with it. Then the two of them start fighting before two other girls jump in, while onlookers pull out their cell phones and capture it, live and direct.

  Disgusted, I step away from the window.

  So much for wondering...

  44

  “You know my baby, Quita, stay tryna take you under her wing,” Kee-Kee says, eyeing me as I walk by to go back into the bedroom from the kitchen.

  Oh.

  Is that the lie she’s telling her?

  Okay.

  I stop, glancing over into the living room. Keyonna’s sitting on the sofa in a white sports bra and a pair of cutoff jean shorts with her legs spread open.

  I raise my eyebrows, confused. “Uh?”

  “I saaaaaid, Quita been tryna get you outta this apartment.” She blows cigarette smoke up at the ceiling. “But you just ain’t tryna act right.”

  She eyes me hard. “What, ya uppity butt think you too good for my baby?”

  I swallow. “No. I don’t think that.”

  “Mmmph. I can’t tell. You walk around here like you gotta long di—stick—up in your tail. You stay struttin’ around here wit’ ya head all up the clouds like you somebody special.”

  I am special.

  “I don’t think I am,” I say apologetically. “That’s not my intention.”

  She takes a pull from her cigarette. Newport, I think. “Uh-huh.” She curls her lips and lets the smoke swirl out between them. “Well, you need to get ya siddity self up outta this house. Go out ’n’ get some fresh air. It’s too damn nice out for you to be sittin’ up in here. I’m sick of lookin’ at you all the damn time, anyway. Omar brought you up in here, but he ain’t never here to be wit’ you. Mmph. He’s a savage for that. I already gotta daughter. I ain’t tryna look after his, too.”