by Amir Abrams
I feel the palms of my hands starting to sweat.
“I don’t mean to be an inconvenience,” I say nervously.
She narrows her eyes. “Well, you ain’t really no inconvenience, per se. I just want you up outta here so I can do me; that’s all. I’m tryna get my back blown out as much as I can while Momma’s down in Florida, but I ain’t bringin’ my man up in here while you here. I don’t want him getting no ideas that you on the menu, too.”
On the menu?
I keep from frowning.
Ugh.
She takes a long drag from her cigarette, then blows out a big, angry cloud of smoke. “Quita done already hipped me to how you are. Now, I ain’t seen it for myself. But she says you sneaky. She told me how you tried to sneak some boy up in here the other night.”
My stomach lurches.
What a liar!
“That wasn’t me,” I insist. “I’ve never snuck a boy in anywhere. I don’t even know any boys here.”
She twists her lips. “Mmph. So what you sayin’? It was Quita?”
All of a sudden, I hear Sha’Quita’s menacing voice.
“Keep ya mouth shut. Snitches get stitches up in here . . .”
I swallow. Look down at my hands, then my feet, then over at the television. Then stare at the two sweaty bottles of Heineken sitting on the table. I try to look everywhere except at her.
“No. That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying it wasn’t me.”
“Girl, you better look at me when you speak. I ain’t one of them hoes from the streets. I’m ya auntie. Don’t get it twisted. You better show me some respect. Don’t have me show you how we do it up here in the hood, boo-boo.”
She pulls a switchblade out from behind one of the sofa pillows, then sets it down on the coffee table.
I blink.
“See, I ain’t gonna put my hands on you ’cause you supposedly my niece. I’ma just cut you. Slice you right across that pretty face.”
She says this real calm-like. Doesn’t even bat a lash.
I gulp in air.
My heart starts racing.
So you won’t hit me because I’m supposedly your niece, but you’ll cut my face? What kind of sense does that make?
I look at her, starting to feel unsafe. I scan the room for an emergency exit, just in case.
“I already know Quita’s fast,” she says before I can respond, “but I ain’t even ’bout to put up wit’ it from somebody else’s child. You ain’t getting pregnant up in here. You on the pill?”
I shake my head. “No.”
She frowns. “The shot?”
I shake my head.
She narrows her eyes. “Well, you getting on something if you gonna be layin’ up in here. Like I tol’ Quita, you can let these boys bounce you down into the springs if you want, but you ain’t bringin’ no babies up in here. You like getting freaky wit’ it, huh? Give me the tea, boo.”
Tea?
“Um, there’s no tea—whatever that means,” I say, glancing down at the carpet. There’s a roach crawling toward my foot.
I blink.
“It means give me the gossip, boo. You ain’t ever gotta lie to me. That’s what I tell Quita. But that li’l heifer loves to lie, anyway. I think that girl loves it when I gotta smack up her face. So who you twerkin’ that thang up on?”
I frown. “I’m not that kind of girl.”
“Well, you like sex, don’t you?”
I shake my head. “I’m not having sex. Not until I’m married, anyway.”
She makes a face. “Not until you married? Girl, you need to stop it.” She stares me up and down. “Mmmph. Oh, you livin’ in fantasyland, huh? Well, news flash, boo-boo: Ain’t no real man gonna wife you unless you givin’ him a li’l taste. Just don’t be stupid about it. Be selective who you give the cookie to. Nucca gotta at least buy you six-pack ’n’ some hot wings, first.”
I blink.
“Um. I’m not interested in hot wings from a boy,” I say. “Because I’m not looking to have sex.”
She scoffs. “Girl, bye. I know you ain’t dumb enough to believe he’s not gonna wanna taste the milk before he buy the cow? Girl, you need to stop tryna follow behind them white people. Even the Bachelorette screwin’ up in the fantasy suite.”
I cringe at what she says. I disagree with her. I don’t believe a girl has to have sex to be with a boy. And all boys aren’t going to pressure a girl to have sex with him, even if he does want it, thinks about it, or whatever else. All I know is, if he really cares for her, and wants to be with her, then he’ll wait for her. And any boy who wants to be with me is going to have to wait. Period.
I tell her this.
And she laughs in my face.
So I’m a laughingstock for having a moral compass different from hers?
She stops laughing long enough to say, “Yeah, he’ll wait all right. For somebody who’s gonna back that thang up ’n’ ride ’im like a roller coaster.”
I shrug. “Then I guess he wasn’t ever meant for me.”
I must admit, this whole conversation is dizzying.
“Girl, I don’t know what fantasy world you livin’ in, but you need to bring yo’ azz back down to earth, boo-boo. Whoever raised you done got you brainwashed. If you think some boy is gonna be waitin’ for you, you crazy.”
“It’s what I believe,” I explain. “And I won’t compromise that for anyone.”
“Well, good luck wit’ that,” she says, looking at me, shaking her head. “But I know you givin’ out head service, right?”
I give her a blank look. “What’s that?”
She sees the expression on my face, then bursts out laughing. “Girl, let me stop messin’ wit’ ya Goody Two-Shoes butt,” she says, slapping her thigh. “You should see ya face. Poor baby. You look like you ’bout to piss ya drawz.”
I really can’t believe what I’m hearing.
And this is coming from an adult.
A mother.
Thankfully, not mine.
Keyonna takes another puff from her cigarette, then mashes it out in an ashtray. “Quita tell you how me ’n’ her jumped that li’l ho down the block?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“We beat that girl down. She thought she was gonna bring it to Quita, but she shoulda knew she was gonna have to bring it to me, too. That’s how we do it ’round here. You fight her, you gotta fight me, and vice versa. I go hard for mines.” She balls her hand into a fist. “These hands are nice. And they hit hard.”
I blink.
“Do you know how to go wit’ the hands?”
I give her a confused look.
She huffs. “Damn, girl. You slow as hell. Can you fist up? You know, fight?”
“Oh. Kind of. I mean, if I have to. I’d rather not, though.”
She looks me over. “Oh, you one of them cotton candy ‘let’s talk it out’ kinda girls, huh?”
I shrug. “I guess.”
She scoffs. “What you mean, you guess? Girl, there ain’t no time for bein’ no punk ’round here. These hoes ’round here ain’t tryna hear a buncha yip-yap. And they ain’t lookin’ for no peace negotiations. They ’bout takin’ it upside ya head, you know what I’m sayin’.”
Umm, was that supposed to be a question?
She doesn’t give me a chance to speak, before she is giving me the rest of her survival crash course on life in the streets.
“You gotta be ready to knuckle up,” she says, becoming animated as she talks, “’n’ brawl just in case some ish pops off.” She punches a fist into the palm of her hand for emphasis. “Don’t let no ho punk you.”
And does that piece of advice include Sha’Quita?
She waves me over to her. “Girl, come over here ’n’ let me see them hands.”
I reluctantly walk over and hold my hands out to her.
She grabs them with hers, turning them over as if she’s inspecting them. Then grunts. “Mmmph. Yeah, you ain’t no fighter. Ya hands too dam
n soft. They cute, though; but you definitely ain’t putting in no hand work. You carrying mace in that book bag you always carrying around?”
I shake my head. “No.”
She twists her lips. “Well, you probably should.”
“No, that’s okay. I try to avoid problems,” I offer, stepping back from her.
Daddy always told me to pick and choose my battles; that every dispute doesn’t have to become a war.
And I believe that.
Keyonna smirks. “Good luck wit’ that.” She reaches for her beer. “You want some’a this”—she holds the bottle up—“before I take it to the head?”
I tell her I don’t drink.
“You smoke?”
I shake my head. Tell her no. Never have. Never will.
She grunts, furrowing her brows together. “Mmph. You don’t drink. You don’t smoke. You ain’t drankin’ watermelon. You ain’t even havin’ sex. What do you do then?”
I shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “Write. Play the piano.”
She gives me a blank stare.
Yawns.
Then digs down into her sports bra, scratches underneath her breasts. “Girl, you ’bout ready to put me to sleep.” She pulls out a credit card, stretching an arm out to hand it to me. “Take this EBT card ’n’ go get me two cans of Red Bull ’n’ a pack of Dutches. I need me a blunt.”
45
I’d never seen an EBT card until now...
“Damn, girl, you fine,” someone says as I’m walking by. This is the first time I’ve been forced to venture off the steps alone. I’m not going to lie, I’m nervous. Even if it is only to walk up two blocks to the store on the corner.
Still.
This is uncharted territory for me.
Even though I know my way back to the apartment, I still feel lost.
Real lost.
“Yo, shorty,” someone else calls out. “Let me holla at you.”
I keep walking.
Don’t even look in the direction of the voice.
“Yo, I know you not iggin’ me. Stuck-up bish. What, you deaf or sumthin’?”
I swallow.
Think maybe Keyonna’s right.
I need a can of mace, probably sooner than later.
“Yo, shorty, let me get a ride on that wagon you draggin’ . . .”
Wagon?
What is he talking about?
I’m not dragging a—
Oh, oh, ohhhhh.
That wagon.
I’d never heard a girl’s butt called a wagon. Until now.
I pick up my pace; not too fast, though, because I don’t want my wagon drawing more attention than it already is.
Sweet peach.
That’s what I think I hear someone say as I continue to my walk.
“Yo, ma, can I get a taste? I bet you sweet ’n’ juicy like a peach . . .”
Ohmygod! That’s exactly what I heard.
I frown, shaking my head.
I keep walking.
I hear them laughing behind me.
“Damn, she got a phatty, though . . . Aye, yo, ma. Let me get dem digits . . .”
I can feel their eyes on me as I walk by, practically undressing me.
And I am becoming increasingly uncomfortable. I’m in a pair of white shorts and a pink short-sleeved tee, but I’m wishing that I had worn a pair of sweats and a turtleneck, even though it’s ninety-two degrees out.
Sweat rolls down the center of my back.
Back home guys never call out to me like I’m some call girl. The boys I know in my neighborhood—well, the ones I associate with—are respectful of girls.
Of me.
Maybe because—
“Yo, what’s good, ma?” a thin, brown-skinned guy says, stepping in front of me, blocking my path. He’s wearing a white tank top and torn jeans, and a red Polo hat pulled down low over his eyes.
“Huh?”
He grins. “I said, what’s good?”
“Oh. Nothing.”
“Yo, where you from, ma?”
“California,” I say nervously.
“Oh, word. That’s wassup. What you doin’ out this way?”
Good question.
“Um, visiting.”
“Oh, a’ight. That’s wassup. Where you stayin’?”
I raise my brows.
He grins wider. “I ain’t gonna kick in the door ’n’ kidnap you, ma. I’m just askin’. I might wanna scoop you up ’n’ chill.”
“Oh. No thanks. I don’t chill.”
He laughs. “Oh, word? You one of them types.”
I frown. “What type is that?”
“One of them good girls.”
I shrug. “I guess.”
“Yeah, I need one of those in my life. Word up. These broads ’round here burnt out.”
“Oh,” is all I say.
His cell starts ringing. He lets it go into voice mail. But then it starts ringing again. And I’m relieved when he snatches it from his waist and barks into the phone.
“Yo, what? Damn. I’m on my way.” He looks at me. “Yo, ma, I’ma holla . . .”
“Okay,” I say, walking off as he starts cursing someone out on the other end.
A girl, I believe, since he calls the person all kinds of stupid B’s.
That couldn’t be me.
I wipe sweat from my forehead with my hand.
The sun beats down on me, hot and relentless.
I see the store.
Almost there! But not close enough.
One more block, Nia. Focus.
This heat is torturous.
Brutal.
Stifling.
I feel like I’m in the middle of a concrete desert.
Surrounded by abandoned houses and graffiti.
I wish I could blink my eyes and be back home, in my backyard, under a palm tree.
“Oh, damn, that’s wifey right there,” I hear someone call out. I look over and there’s a light-skinned boy with light green eyes and locks, blowing a kiss at me. “What’s good, baby?”
He looks young. Real young.
But, obviously, too grown for his years.
I give him a half wave, the soles of my sandals still hitting the pavement with one purpose in mind: to get to the store and back in one piece.
I get to the corner, the store in reach, waiting for the light to change.
I shift my book bag from one shoulder to the other, waiting, as cars zip down the street and through the light.
A silver Mercedes truck stops at the red light, a thick cloud of smoke whirling out the opened windows with it.
“Damn, ma. You got pretty on fleek,” a dark-skinned guy wearing cornrows says from the backseat, leaning out the window.
Pretty on fleek?
Me?
Who would have thought it?
Daddy always told me how beautiful I was. And the boys at my school thought I was cute. But no one has ever told me I had pretty . . . on fleek.
That’s a new one.
I crane my neck and look over at him. He has a trimmed goatee, and looks to be at least in his twenties. Waaaay too old to be talking to me.
Still, I smile. Say thanks. Then look straight ahead, counting the seconds in my head for the light to change. Hurry up and change.
“Can I get ya digits, baby?”
I blink. Shake my head.
“Mofo,” someone yells, “shut yo’ thirsty azz up. Leave shorty alone. Can’t you see she mad young?”
“Man, eff that. You see that phatty on her . . .”
Ohmygod.
The light changes.
And I hurriedly cross the street.
Speed up my walk.
Hope not to trip over my feet.
The truck zooms by with Mr. Twenty-Something yelling out, “Let me be ya baby daddy, sexy?”
Yuck.
Some pickup line.
This has truly been the longest two blocks of my life.
I’ve literally lost c
ount at the number of boys—annnd men (yuck!)—who keep trying to get my attention. I almost feel like I’m walking the infamous walk of shame, even though I know I haven’t done anything to be ashamed of.
There’s a posse of guys hanging out in front of the store.
Great.
Just what I need.
As soon as they spot me, they start eyeballing me.
I brace myself.
My heart thumps.
Louder.
Harder.
Faster.
And then comes a chorus of “What’s good, ma? What’s good, baby?”
They’re all nice enough to step back and let me through.
That is . . .
Until someone grabs my butt.
46
My whole left butt cheek captured in the palm of some boy’s filthy hand!
I’m flustered, to say the least.
No boy has ever grabbed my butt.
Ever.
Then the rest of those ignorant boys thought what he’d done was entertaining, and laughed.
Savages.
Where the heck do they get off thinking that grabbing a girl’s butt—or anything else on her body—is acceptable? Or funny?
And they have the nerve to still be hanging outside, waiting . . .
For their next victim, perhaps.
Or maybe for me.
Like predators.
I don’t know which one of the six or seven boys who are hanging outside violated me, but I’m too shaken to walk back out that door to find out.
I tap my foot, shouldering my bag, imagining myself becoming loud and belligerently cursing them all out—and, maybe, even fighting them, if I had it in me, if I were more like Sha’Quita.
I suppose it’s a blessing that I’m not loud and obnoxious like her, but in this instance, I wish I had a switch I could turn on to blast them real quick, then turn off.
If I weren’t so pissed, I’d laugh at the thought of Sha’Quita going all Love & Hip Hop on those trifling fools. I’ve never watched that show. But I’ve heard lots of things about it. And not all of it is good.
I grab the back of my neck, then roll my neck side to side.
I’m tense.
I take several breaths.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
As cool air from the store’s AC hits my skin, I somehow manage to let out a sigh of relief—from the heat and from my arduous two-block trek.