Chasing Butterflies

by Amir Abrams

  I blink.

  She cranks her neck from side to side. “Yeah, I said it. I should. Burn. It. And whaaat? Think I won’t. You coulda kept ya corny butt home for that. You real whack.”

  Then let me be whack. How is it bothering you?

  Chardonnay chuckles. “Quita, let Cali Girl do her. It ain’t like we got anything in common wit’ her. Let Miss Corny write. All we doin’ is babysittin’, anyway.”

  Babysitting?

  Corny?

  I frown.

  Quita laughs. “Uh-huh. But I ain’t changin’ no ho’s diaper, though.”

  I sigh.

  I’ve never been called so many derogatory names in my entire life as I’ve been called in the last month being here, around this girl.

  I’ve had enough.

  “Why do you have to refer to me as a ho?” I say brusquely. “I’m not a ho. Nor will I ever be one.”

  Quita bats her lashes, then rolls her neck. “Well, you must be a ho if you gotta tell me you ain’t one.”

  I match her stare. This time I’m not backing down. “I’m telling you I’m not one, because that’s what it is. It’s disrespectful.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Girl, bye. It’s a figure of speech.”

  “I know that’s right,” Chardonnay chimes in. “These sensitive hoes need to stop.”

  Quita sucks her teeth. “Psst. I ain’t thinkin’ ’bout her. You already know how I get down. I call you whatever I wanna call you.”

  I pull in my bottom lip.

  Think before I speak.

  I know this girl isn’t the most intellectual, but that doesn’t stop me from telling her that I don’t see it as just a figure of speech. I tell her I don’t carry myself like a ho so I don’t want her calling me one.

  But look in the mirror and I can show you one.

  She stares at me, long and hard. “Bish, please. I know you not even tryna check me.”

  Chardonnay pulls out a pack of Newport cigarettes. “Mmph. Looks like somebody tryna see you turnt up.”

  She gives Chardonnay a dismissive wave. “Girl, puh-lease. Don’t even try’n instigate this chick. Put a battery pack up on her back if you want ’n’ see how I turn up. I keep tellin’ her she don’t want it wit’ me. She knows she don’t wanna see these hands.”

  I shake my head. Decide to keep quiet.

  Silence is sometimes the best remedy for ignorance.

  Chardonnay taps her Newport box on the bleacher before opening the pack and thumping one out. She puts it between her bright orange lips, then pulls out a lighter and lights it.

  I scoot down to the next bench so the smoke doesn’t blow in my face.

  “Whatever,” she mumbles under her breath, but still loud enough for me to hear.

  There’s something so unattractive and unladylike about a girl smoking a cigarette.

  But then again...

  These girls aren’t all that ladylike to begin with. And their attitudes make them extremely ugly.

  I promise myself to never, ever, go anywhere else with these two. I wouldn’t hang with these types of girls back home, and I don’t want to start now. I don’t have to. But, if I have to be a hostage over here on the east coast, then I need to find someone, anyone, who is likeminded.

  I need positive energy.

  Not unnecessary drama.

  The sound of a ball bouncing breaks my reverie. I glance to the left of me.

  Shawn. I try to suppress the relief I feel at the sight of him. I don’t even know why I’m feeling this way. It’s not like he’s said more than a few words to me whenever he’s come around. Still, it’s the way he looks at me that intrigues me.

  “Shaaaaaaaaaaaaawn,” Quita says in a singsong voice. “Heeeeeey, boo.”

  “Yo, what’s Gucci?” he says to her and Chardonnay.

  “Not a damn thang,” Chardonnay says, grinning.

  “This neck work,” Quita boldly states, sliding her lollipop back into her mouth, then pulling the stick in and out. “That’s what’s Gucci, ninja. Thought you knew.”

  Chardonnay giggles.

  Shawn laughs. “Yo, Quita, you shot dafuq out.”

  She smacks her lips together. “Mmmph. I’m real, boo.”

  “Yeah, a’ight.” He glances over at me. “What’s good, cutie?”

  “Nothing,” I say, blushing.

  Quita narrows her eyes to thin slits. “Ooh, let me find out, you checkin’ for my man. Ho, I’ll claw your eyes out.”

  “I know that’s right,” Chardonnay chimes in. “Slice right into the white meat.”

  I frown. But keep my mouth shut. Like always.

  “Annnnnyway,” Quita says, dismissively. “You smokin’, boo?”

  “Nah, not today, yo. Tryna cut back.”

  “Lies,” Quita says. She laughs. “Since when?”

  “Nah, real spit. Since I got hired at Walmart.”

  “Ooooooh, word?” she says, excitedly. “When they hire you?”

  “Today.”

  “Oh, that’s wasssup. My future baby daddy got him a j-o-b so I can collect them future child support checks.”

  He cracks up laughing. “Not. I ain’t havin’ no babies, yo.”

  “Yeah, okay. Not today we not.”

  He ignores the comment and takes a seat next to me on the bench, and suddenly I’m feeling nervous.

  “So how you likin’ Jersey so far, cutie?” he says to me.

  I shrug. “It’s okay, I guess.”

  He shifts his body and studies my face. His eyes are melted pools of deep, dark chocolate that I feel myself slowly drowning in.

  I don’t know why he makes me so nervous.

  I shift my eyes from his stare. Glance down at my sandaled feet. But he says something else that causes me to look back at him. “You should let me show you around.”

  I blink him into view. And I notice he has long, thick lashes for a guy. Okay, yes. I’m checking him out.

  But why?

  Because he’s a welcome distraction from the Chardonnay and Sha’Quita show.

  “You’ve been to the city yet?” he wants to know.

  I shake my head. “No, not—”

  “What, you tryna be her tour guide now? Or nah?” Quita butts in.

  “Maybe,” he says, lightly tapping my leg with his long leg.

  Is he flirting with me?

  He winks at me. And my face heats.

  Ohmygod, he is.

  Nia, stop. He’s only being nice to you.

  “Yeah, okay,” Quita says. “What. Ev. Errr. Annnnywaaaay. Later for the tour guide ish. When you startin’ ya job, boo?”

  “Next week.”

  “Ooooh, I know you gonna hook me up wit’ ya employee discount,” Chardonnay says excitedly. “You know I stopped boostin’, right? So I’ma need them discounts.”

  Before I can stop myself, I make the mistake of asking—no one in particular—what boostin’ is.

  Quita and Chardonnay both look at me as if I have three heads.

  “You’re jokin’, right?” Quita says, indignation coloring her voice.

  “No, I’m serious,” I say innocently. “I’ve never heard of it.”

  Chardonnay laughs. “Girrrl, you told me she was slow. But I ain’t know she was that damn slow.”

  “I’m not slow,” I snap defensively. “Slow is thinking Erykah Badu is a poet.”

  Shawn chuckles, shaking his head. “Yo, ma, leave it alone. You don’t wanna know.”

  Quita glares at me. “Bish, I know you not even tryna call me slow. Let me show you how slow these hands are . . .”

  And with that, she’s snatching my journal out of my hand, waving it in the air.

  “Now, come again. Who’s the slow one?”

  “Please give me back my journal, Sha’Quita,” I say calmly.

  “Nope. You stay tryna shade me. Ole shady-azz ho. I ain’t givin’ you sh—”

  “I’m not playing with you,” I say calmly, masking my rising anger.

  She
flicks me a dismissive hand. “What. Evvvvver. I was only playin’ wit’ ya butt. But since you wanna turn up. Turn up. Let me see ya work, boo. And while you at it, why don’t you tell us why you always cheesin’ up in Shawn’s face, like you tryna get at his eggplant.”

  I blink.

  Eggplant?

  I try to wrap my mind around what the heck she’s talking about.

  I don’t even like egg—

  Ohmygod!

  Finally it dawns on me what she means.

  Her filthy little muddled mind stays in the gutter.

  Shawn laughs. “Yo, Quita, chill, chill. You shot out, yo.”

  She snorts. “Chill, hell. This little slut-bucket stays tryna get in yo’ drawz on some slickness. I done already told her that you’re saving yourself for me. And this undercover top gobbler still tryna give you the business on the low. She knows she wanna give you the cookie. Tramp-azz.”

  My face flushes.

  Embarrassment floods me.

  I give her a baffled look.

  Where in the heck did she come up with this craziness? And what does it have to do with being called slow?

  I’m convinced, now more than ever—she’s bipolar.

  Shawn keeps laughing. And I’m not sure what part he finds most hilarious, him saving himself for her, the look on my shocked face, or her ridiculously ludicrous notion that I’m a top gobbler (yuck!) or trying to give him—or anyone, for that matter—my cookies.

  “I’m not you, Quita. I’m not giving up anything to a boy.”

  “Mmmph. Maybe not them drawz, but you a top slopper, bish.”

  “Yo, you buggin’, for real for real,” Shawn says, shaking his head. “Relax, yo. You play too much, Quita.” He glances over at me, a mixture of what looks like amusement and mischief and sympathy dancing in his eyes. “Yo, don’t pay her silly butt no mind. She stays talkin’ outta her neck, for real.”

  I shrug. “She can think what she wants. I know what I am.”

  “I don’t think anything, boo. I know what you are, too. I know ya kind. Undercover tricks. And I know you tryna get pounded out like a porn star.”

  Shawn huffs. “Damn, Quita. Sit down ’n’ relax, yo. Give shorty her book back. You effen up the vibe, for real for real.”

  “Oh no, nucca. I knooooow, you not even tryna play me for this corny broad.”

  “Yo, ain’t no one takin’ up for no one; I’m just sayin’, yo. Chill dafuq out.”

  Quita shoots me a nasty look.

  Head tilted, brow raised, I match her glare. I’ve had enough of her.

  “You can call me names all you want,” I say through gritted teeth. “But I’m not the one wearing cheap weaves and hooker heels, and walking around with a clown face on with all that crazy makeup caked up on your face. You can call me what you want. But I’m not the one who looks like one of the Muppets.”

  Someone laughs.

  “Ohhh, snap,” someone else says. “She called you out.”

  “Oooh, she callin’ you Miss Piggy, girl,” Chardonnay instigates. “She tried it.”

  Quita sucks her teeth. “Bish, please. She can’t come for me. Ain’t no pigs over here. Try again.”

  My chest starts heaving.

  “I’m not playing with you, Quita. I’m asking you nicely to give. Me. Back. My. Journal.”

  I’m trying hard to keep it together. But I feel my temper rising. Feel myself being pulled into the inferno.

  “Or whaaat, Miss Corny?” she challenges, defiantly snatching open my journal and preparing to violate my private, most inner thoughts. “Okay, let’s see what kinda juicy tales you servin’ . . .”

  My eyes flash wildly.

  My temper flares.

  And then I am hopping up from my seat. “No!” I scream, spittle flying out of my mouth. “Give me back my book!”

  She smirks. Amusement dances in her eyes as she begins to back away while preparing to read one of my entries. And this only incenses me more.

  “Ooh, she—”

  Slap!

  Before she has a chance to say anything more, my hand connects with her face. I smack her so hard her whole head swings to the right, practically spinning her around.

  I don’t give her a chance to think.

  Before she can gather herself, I am punching her upside the head until she’s stumbling backward. And my journal flies out of her hand.

  She’s awakened something deep within.

  And now I can’t stop myself.

  All I see is red.

  I’m on fire.

  And now she’s going to get burned.

  She’s going to learn: Don’t. Mess. With. Me.

  I am smacking and punching her, then wrapping my hands up in her weave and swinging her down to the ground.

  She screams and curses and tries to fight me off. But my hands are faster, my punches harder. I fight her for every disrespectful thing she’s ever said to me.

  I fight her for every kid she might have ever bullied.

  “Ohhhhh, sheeeeeeeeeeeiiiiit!” I hear someone yell out.

  “Ohmygod! Ohmygod! She’s beatin’ Quita down!”

  There’s hooting.

  And hollering.

  And cheering.

  “Fight!”

  “Fight!”

  And then...

  There’s Sha’Quita screaming for someone to jump in and help her.

  But no one does.

  51

  “This is some straight BS,” Omar says, a look of disbelief on his face, as he opens the passenger-side door. He shakes his head, and waits for me to get in, then slams the door. He’s come to pick me up from the police station. I can’t remember much of anything after I swung Quita down to the ground and punched her in the face. I remember everything around me starting to fade in and out. I remember my heart beating hard. Remember heat flashing through me. Remember hearing screaming and, at some point, feeling hands trying to pry me off of her.

  And then I am in the backseat of a patrol car. Hands cuffed. Shirt torn. Face scratched. Being taken to the station. Sitting in a tiny cell.

  Waiting.

  Waiting for my racing heart to slow.

  Waiting for the blaze to extinguish.

  Waiting for the ashes.

  Waiting for Omar.

  None of this would be happening if I’d never been forced to come here. If Aunt Terri hadn’t lied to me, if Daddy hadn’t died and left me, I would never know these people.

  These derelicts.

  Yeah, that’s what they are. Derelicts. Degenerates.

  Okay, okay . . . that’s not nice. But, oh well. I’m not in the mood for niceties at the moment. I’m angry. Still.

  Sha’Quita caused this.

  She asked for this.

  Not me.

  I open and close my right hand, and wince. It hurts like heck.

  I rub my swollen knuckles.

  I wouldn’t have had to beat up that troublemaking girl if she hadn’t kept pressing me.

  Quita.

  Quita.

  Quita.

  I can’t stand her!

  She’s still inside. Locked up. Good. She has some kind of warrant for not going to court, or something like that. So they’re keeping her.

  Serves her right.

  She had the audacity to blame me for her troubles when she’s the one who started this. All she had to do was give me back my journal.

  Wait—

  My journal?

  Oh, noo!

  I quickly dig through my bag.

  My heart sinks. No, it stops beating.

  It’s not here!

  My journal.

  “I should burn it . . .”

  I feel lightheaded.

  My chest tightens.

  No, no, no, no...

  Not my journal!

  My thoughts.

  My feelings.

  My entire life . . .

  Gone.

  I start rocking.

  And hyperventilating.
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  No, no, no, no...

  That journal is my whole existence.

  Without it, I’m, I’m, I’m—

  Dead!

  Flatlined!

  Do not resuscitate!

  Please and thank you.

  No, no, no . . .

  “Yo, I need you to tell me . . .”

  I hear Omar talking when he gets in the car, but I am too distraught to comprehend a word he is saying.

  All I can think of is my journal.

  Missing.

  “Y-y-you have to take m-m-me b-b-back,” I stammer, trying like heck to keep from crumbling. But it’s too late. I’m cracking open, and have become a babbling mess. “M-my j-j-journal . . .”

  “Huh? Take you back where?”

  The tears fall heavy.

  “B-b-b-back to the p-p-park.”

  “The park?” He gives me a look of disbelief. “Now?”

  “Y-yes. Please. M-m-my j-j-journal. It’s losssssssst.”

  And now he’s looking at me as if I’m insane.

  Maybe I am.

  Maybe I’ve finally fallen—or jumped—off the proverbial cliff.

  Omar starts the engine, then pulls off. “Yo, I’ll buy you another book, a’ight? It can’t be that serious. It’s dark as hell out there by now.”

  I choke back a scream.

  Is he kidding?

  I don’t care.

  It is that serious.

  Everything I am is in that journal.

  I’ve been carrying that 192-page black leather book around with me since I was twelve. Four years of front-and-back free-thinking and self-expression has been captured on most of those pages over the years.

  Gone.

  Thanks to that—that heathenish girl.

  I sob louder.

  “A’ight, yo. C’mon. Don’t cry. I’ll take you back to the park.”

  52

  It wasn’t there!

  My journal.

  My knees buckled when I finally resigned myself to the fact that we weren’t going to find it, no matter how hard we looked.

  We combed through the park. Nothing.

  We searched up and down, under and around the bleachers. Still nothing.

  I cried so hard that it made me dizzy. Blood rushed to my head. All I could do to keep from collapsing on the ground was plop down on the bleacher and cover my face in my hands and scream.

  I cried out until my throat burned.

  I even cursed.

  Shocking.

  Yes.

  Me.

  Used words I’d only heard in movies and in the streets.