by Amir Abrams
No matter how short.
I glance toward the door, narrowing my eyes, then releasing a frustrated sigh, peeling my glare away from the door, hoping like heck that they’re gone by the time I’m ready to leave the store.
I fish my cell from out of my bag, then call Aunt Terri. It rings and rings. Then I’m told that the mailbox is full. I quickly send her a text.
SOS!!! I NEED 2 GET OUT OF HERE! PLEASE AUNT TERRI. CAN U SEND 4 ME NOW?? OR CAN U GET IN TOUCH W/DADDY’S ATTY N ASK HIM TO CALL ME. PLEASE AUNT TERRI.
I send the text, then try calling her again.
Still no answer.
And no text response.
Yet.
Deflated, I drop my phone back down into my bag’s side pocket. Then shift my weight from one foot to the other. There’s a Chinese, no, Korean man behind a bulletproof glass waiting on an older lady wearing a multicolored headscarf and short-short skirt as she pays for her items. I look up and watch her through the store’s security mirror as she digs down into her shirt and pulls out her money.
I glance over at the cashier’s booth just as he frowns at her. He says something that sets her off. She goes from zero to a hundred. Curses him. Uses racial slurs. Gives him the middle finger. Then pulls her shirt up and flashes her boobs before storming out of the store.
Wow.
I take a step forward in line.
Wait my turn.
I’m the fourth person in line.
I want to get back to the apartment (never thought I’d say that!).
But I am in no rush to go back out in that heat.
Or be harassed.
I close my eyes, just for a second, to kind of get my thoughts together, when I hear a deep voice over my shoulder say, “Yo, what’s good, ma? I thought that was you.”
I crane my neck and look up into a familiar face.
But I can’t remember his name.
He grins. “Nia?”
I nod. “Yes. I don’t remember yours, though.”
“It’s Shawn. Don’t forget it.”
“Oh, okay. I’ll try not to.”
He smirks. “Yeah, you do that. But, yo. I bet them clowns were sweatin’ you hard, too. Cats mad thirsty out here; especially when they see a cutie wit’ pretty legs ’n’ a phatty.”
I blink.
Nervously shift my weight from one foot to the other.
“My bad.” He shrugs. “I’m keepin’ it a hunnid. It is what it is.”
He lets his gaze drop down to the flare of my hips. Then grins. “You real right, ma.”
Oh, okay.
I really should have worn those sweats and that turtleneck.
“Thanks, I guess,” I say, shifting my gaze from his to prevent him from seeing that he’s managed to make me blush.
I move up the line.
Three more people ahead of me.
“Where’s ya peoples at?”
I give him a confused look. “My peoples?”
“Yeah. Quita.”
Oh.
Her.
His obsessed girlfriend.
I shrug. “At the park, I guess.”
“Oh, word? And you ain’t wanna go?”
I shake my head. “No.”
I look straight ahead.
Try to avoid the heat from his eyes staring in back of me.
Don’t turn around.
Just don’t do it, Nia.
I ignore the voice in my head and glance over my shoulder.
Our eyes meet.
“You pretty as fu—”
His cell rings.
And I’m glad.
The line moves up.
Two more people left in front of me.
“Yo,” he says when he answers. I stare at the back of the head of the lady in front of me, trying not to listen to his conversation. But it’s hard not to since he’s practically up on me, and all in my ear.
I step forward, trying to put some distance between us, as best I can without stepping on the heels of the lady in front of me.
“Nah, nah . . . tell them mofos I said fall back. I’ma be through in a minute . . . Nah, I’m on the bike . . . oh, a’ight. Word... A’ight. Bet.”
I glance over at the door.
Those disrespectful idiots are still out there.
Great.
I roll my eyes and take another step forward.
Finally, I’m next.
I place the two cans of Red Bull on the counter, then ask for a pack of Dutches. I feel funny asking for them since I don’t even smoke. I’ve never even purchased a pack before. Or used an EBT card alone. Or seen what one looks like, for that matter.
I’m shocked when the guy doesn’t even ask me for ID, even though it clearly states that anyone purchasing cigarettes must be at least nineteen.
My hands are sweaty pulling out Keyonna’s EBT card. I hand it to the cashier. I don’t know if I should feel embarrassed or not, but I do. The cashier peers at me, then swipes the card.
I am relieved when the transaction is completed, and the cashier bags my items. But then my anxiety kicks back in the second reality sets in.
That I have to walk out that door.
I grab the bag, and give a half wave to Shawn. “Okay, bye,” I say, not really knowing what else to say. I’m too afraid to ask him if he’d walk out with me. I’m not comfortable telling him that some boy grabbed my butt and now I’m nervous to walk down the street by myself, even if it is broad daylight.
“Nah, yo. Hol’ up,” he says. “I’ma walk out wit’ you.”
Thank you.
“Okay,” I calmly say. But inside I’m so, so relieved. I could almost hug him, and kiss him on the cheek.
Almost.
I wait and watch as he pays for his purchase: a pack of cinnamon gum, a pack of Twizzlers, and a can of Sprite. He grabs his bag, and grins at me. “You ready?”
I nod, following him toward the door.
He holds it open, and I step out.
The wolves start salivating.
“Here she come, yo,” someone says.
I try not to look to see who is saying what. I don’t want to look at any of them.
They’re repulsive.
“Damn, baby. I need to hit that, yo . . .” one of the guys still hanging out in front of the store says.
I ignore him.
But Shawn doesn’t. “Yo, fam. Fall back. That’s my peoples, yo.”
“Oh, word?” someone says. “That’s you? My bad, Slick. I ain’t know.”
“Well, now you do,” Shawn says, his voice filled with authority.
What does he mean by, ‘That’s you’?
Is “that’s my peoples” synonymous to family and friends? Or does it imply she’s yours as in your girl?
I lower my gaze to the sidewalk. But then something inside of me tells me to look up, to look at them. And I do. I eye them all, taking in everything thing about them. Then I decide to boldly ask, “Which one of you grabbed my butt as I was walking into the store?”
I tilt my head.
I have the right to know, don’t I?
They all look at me like I’m crazy for asking such a thing, as if I’m making it up.
Shawn frowns. “Say what?”
I repeat myself, feeling slightly empowered.
Bolder.
A tall and wiry brown-skinned guy is the only one who opens his mouth to speak. “Man, ain’t no one—”
“Yo, fam, I know how you cats move,” Shawn says, shutting him down. He eyes them all, gritting his teeth. “Word is bond, fam. Don’t let me find out who disrespected my peoples, yo. It’s gonna be a problem.” He looks over at me. “You sure you don’t know who did it?”
I glance around the group of guys. Then I shake my head. “No. I didn’t see who it was.”
He shoots the posse of idiots an icy glare. “Y’all lucky. Word is bond. But let me find out who disrespected her ’n’ I’ma see you. On my bruh’s seed, you already know.”
He leads me by t
he elbow toward a shiny black motorcycle.
A Harley.
I blink.
Try to remember if I saw it here earlier. I can’t recall.
He opens the storage compartment, drops his bag inside, then reaches for mine. “No, that’s fine. I got it.”
He removes his helmet from off the handlebars. “Nah. C’mon. I’ma take you back up the block.” He glances back over at the group of guys. “Man, that ish got me hot, yo.”
Now I’m embarrassed. “Let it go, okay. Please.”
“Yeah, you right. For now. Let’s roll.”
I take a step back, shaking my head. “Uh-uh. I’m not getting on that.”
Not with you.
“You safe wit’ me, ma.”
I shake my head again. “No, thanks. I’ll walk.”
He looks me up and down, then shakes his head. “So you really gonna have me leave my bike here and walk you up the block in this heat?”
“You don’t have to,” I say halfheartedly. “I can walk by myself.” No, I really can’t!
“Yeah, I know you can. But I ain’t ’bout to let you. Not after some dumb mofo grabbed ya butt. Nah, I ain’t feelin’ that.”
He shuts the storage compartment, then calls out to the group of guys. “Yo, y’all ugly muhfuggahs watch my bike. I gotta make sure shorty gets back to the crib all right.”
They tell him they’ll keep an eye out on it for him.
He tucks his helmet under his arm, then ushers me by the elbow. “You lucky I kinda dig you, yo.”
Relieved, I try not to smile.
But I do anyway.
47
Omar walks into the living room from the back of the apartment, wearing a white, ribbed um—what is it they call those tank tops?
Wifebeater, I think.
Yeah, that’s it.
He’s wearing one of those, and it clings to his muscled chest, showing off his numerous tattoos.
“Yo, baby girl. You eat yet?”
Baby girl.
Ugh.
I wish he’d stop calling me that. “I’m not really hungry.”
“No, she ain’t eat,” Keyonna answers for me. “She’s too busy layin’ ’round here, waitin’ for someone to feed her behind like she royalty or some mess. Ain’t nobody over here playin’ Master Chef.”
Omar frowns at her. “Well, maybe if you tried masterin’ the kitchen, you’d have a man ’n’ ya own spot.”
“Really, O? That’s how we doin’ it? You really tryna go there, huh? Says the nucca fresh outta prison. Mmph. Don’t do me, boo-boo.”
He sucks his teeth. “Man, shut ya trap up, yo. You always runnin’ ya mouf ’bout nothin’.”
She grunts, snatching open the bag and pulling out the pack of cigarettes.
No, wait.
Cigars.
No, no, blunts.
That’s what I meant.
Blunts.
Lord, help me. I know not the difference between the two. So forgive me if I call them the wrong thing around here.
Ugh.
Cigarettes, cigars, blunts: they all smell horrible, if you ask me.
Omar looks over at me. Asks what I want to eat. I tell him I’m not hungry.
Keyonna grunts. “Mmph. What, you on a diet now?”
No. I’m just not ever eating out of that nasty kitchen.
I shake my head. Tell her no.
Omar pins her with a hard stare. Then he frowns as she takes her knife and slices open a cigar.
“Yo, whatdafuq. I know you ain’t even ’bout to do that now.”
She huffs, stuffing it with marijuana then rolling it. “Do what? Smoke?”
“Don’t play stupid, yo.”
She lights the cigar.
“I ain’t playin’ stupid. You the one playin’ dumb, askin’ me some mess like that. You know what time it is, nucca.” She laughs. “Don’t front.”
I blink.
So he smokes, too.
Keyonna takes a deep drag off her blunt, smoke curling around her head as it floats to the ceiling.
Omar gives her a hard stare.
“What, boo? You mad or nah? You better c’mon ’n’ get you some of this good-good.”
“Yo, you trippin’, man.”
She takes another pull from her blunt. “Boy, bye.” She points her cigar at Omar and blows smoke in his direction. “You sure you don’t want some?”
He grunts. “Nah. I’m good.”
She shrugs. “Good. More for me.” She takes another pull, then pulls it from her mouth and stares at its glowing ember as she slowly exhales and draws smoke into her nose.
I watch her with a mixture of fascination and disgust.
“Mmph. I don’t even know why you tryna put on a show in front of her. We was just smokin’ three nights ago. Now all of a sudden, you good.”
I glance over at Omar.
He furrows his brows and sucks his teeth, shaking his head. “This broad,” he mutters. “Yo, c’mon, baby girl. Let’s go get sumthin’ to eat.”
“Ooh, boo,” Keyonna says sweetly, “if you ’n’ ‘baby girl’ goin’ to that Caribbean spot downtown bring me back some jerk wings.”
* * *
Well, we don’t make it downtown to the Caribbean restaurant Keyonna was hoping for. Instead, we’re at a soul food restaurant; something I’m really not that into.
Fried, fatty foods slopped with gravy and heavy sauces just don’t do it for me.
But okay.
We’re here.
Together.
Me.
And Omar.
Yippee.
Anyway. We caught a taxi to the train station, then rode the train into, uh, I can’t remember the town.
I ask Omar where we are again. Downtown Newark, he tells me.
Not that it matters. I’m lost, no matter where we are.
But, anyway, from the train station we caught another taxi to the restaurant.
So here we sit.
Across from each other.
And I’m eyeing Omar as he sucks meat juice off the bone of an oxtail.
Yuck.
He eats fast and furious and smacks while he eats.
How insane is that?
But for some reason, I’m not the least bit embarrassed sitting here watching him eat like Conan the Barbarian.
It’s almost amusing.
Still, I want to ask him why he gobbles up his food like he’s rushing off to a race and it’s his last meal.
But I decide against it.
Not my business.
Still, I’m curious to know.
He licks his fingers, then his lips, before taking a sip of his drink. “So, how you gettin’ along wit’ Quita?”
Umm. I’m not. “Okay, I guess.” I pick at my small plate of garden salad.
“Cool, cool.” He picks up another oxtail. And slurps on it. Then looks up at me. Grease and meat juicy coats his lips. “You ’n’ her been kickin’ it?”
Define kicking it? I shake my head. “Not really. But she told me you bribed her with the promise of a new pocketbook if she dragged me along with her.”
He frowns, furrowing his brows. “Yo, word is bond. Quita’s full of BS, yo. I ain’t tell her no shi—mess like that. She asked me to cop that joint for her on the strength.”
“It really doesn’t matter. I was just surprised when she said it.”
I take a sip of my cranberry juice.
“Yo, don’t listen to that girl. She likes to keep a buncha mess goin’, like her moms.”
Yeah, I see. “Oh,” I say.
He looks at me and grins. I try not to stare at the meat stuck between his two front teeth. “Yo, don’t front like you ain’t peeped it, too.”
I shrug. “Sort of.” I don’t trust him to say more than that.
After all, blood is thicker than water.
The ties that bind them run deep.
He may embrace me as his, um . . .
I swallow.
Fight to
bring myself to finish the sentence.
To say the words.
But I can’t.
I am not what he believes I am.
I am not what he wants me to be.
I feel no kinship to him.
He sighs. “Quita’s a . . .” He pauses, shaking his head.
Liar.
“. . . piece of work; for real for real. She’s got mad issues. Her moms just lets her run the streets ’n’ do whatever she wants. So she’s not used to dealin’ wit’ people. Her mouth’s real slick.”
No kidding.
He eyes me. “Yo, on e’erything. Don’t let Quita bully you; real ish. If you gotta check ’er, then check ’er. Otherwise she’s gonna stay poppin’ off at the mouth; you feel me?”
I shrug one shoulder. “I guess. Fighting isn’t really my thing, though,” I say. Truth is, I’ve only had one fight my whole entire life, and I cried every day for almost a week after that. I was in seventh grade and this eight grader kept taunting me, pushing me around, until one day I’d had enough of her and punched her in the mouth.
The scary thing is, I kept punching her over and over until there was blood everywhere, and the poor girl was almost passed out.
I was suspended for a whole week. Not because I defended myself from her bullying me, but because I’d beaten her up really, really bad and her parents were all up in arms about it.
What else was I supposed to do?
I’d colored within the lines. Followed the rules. Told the teachers. Told the principal. Daddy had even come to the school and had a big meeting with the girl and her parents. And, still, she kept taunting me every chance she got.
“Well, sometimes you gotta go wit’ the hands to show a mofo what time it is,” Omar says, steamrolling over the memory, “otherwise they’re gonna keep testin’ you, nah’mean?”
He wipes his mouth with a napkin, then his hands.
He belches.
Loud.
Doesn’t even cover his mouth.
I frown.
“Yo, my bad.”
Our server comes back to refill his orange juice. I can’t remember what she said her name was, so I glance at her name tag. Alani.
Nice name, I think.
Her pierced eyebrow rises at the sight of my barely touched salad. “Umm. Is the salad okay? Can I get you something else?”
“It’s okay.” I force a smile. “I’m not really that hungry.” She asks if I want a refill on my cranberry juice. I shake my head. “No, thanks.”