by Amir Abrams
“I better go,” I say, sitting on the edge of my bed, wiping my wet face with my hand. “I need to call my aunt before she goes to bed.”
“Okay. But make sure you call me back right after you talk to her.”
“I will,” I say, right before hanging up.
Seconds later, I am scrolling through my phone in search of Aunt Terri’s number. Then dialing it. It rings twice before a recording comes on. “The subscriber you’ve reached has a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service. . .”
I blink.
Oh, no. This can’t be right.
I try the number again.
“The subscriber you’ve reached . . .”
My heart stops beating.
I immediately try her house number.
Then I burst into tears, when the recording says, “The number you have reached has been disconnected . . .”
Defeated.
Dejected.
Distraught.
I end the call.
54
Frantically, I scramble around the room, pulling open drawers and stuffing my things inside my duffel bag. I snatch open the cramped closet and start yanking my clothes off hangers, tossing them inside my suitcase.
I have no plan.
Well, I do.
To get the heck out of here.
But with no money and no friends here, I’m at a loss.
My options are limited.
Real limited.
Stay here. Or wander the streets.
No, you can’t just wander the streets. Are you crazy, girl?
Those streets are dangerous at night.
What if you’re kidnapped, or worse... killed?
Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod, ohhhhhhhhmygod! What am I going to do?
I start pacing from the door to the window and back.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
I feel myself starting to lose it.
All of my life I’ve done what’s right.
I’ve been a good kid.
Never broken any rules.
Gotten good grades.
Stayed out of trouble.
Never gave Daddy any problems.
Did everything asked of me.
And for what?
Just so Daddy could die on me?
So I could be bamboozled into coming to New Jersey?
For Aunt Terri to disappear on me?
It just isn’t fair.
All these crazy thoughts start racing through my head. Thoughts of running away, thoughts of hitchhiking my way back across country, back to Long Beach.
Then I start imagining Sha’Quita getting out of jail and coming back to slaughter me in my sleep, or having me jumped by her crazy friends.
Stop. Get it together, Nia. Think.
I try Aunt Terri’s number again. “The subscriber you’ve reached has a number that—”
I end the call.
Oh. God.
How could she do this to me?
How could she—
Something slams into the wall, startling me.
It’s the door.
“Oh, you like sneakin’ hoes, huh, bisssssh?”
My eyes widen in horror.
It’s Keyonna.
And she looks crazed.
“I-I-I didn’t sneak her.” The words stumble out of my mouth as I step back.
She lunges at me. “Don’t lie to me! Quita tol’ me everything! You got my baby locked up. Snitchin’-azz trick!”
“I—”
Whap!
Ohmygod!
She smacks me so hard tears spring from my eyes, and I’m seeing stars.
My hand goes up to my stinging face.
And then Kee-Kee has me cornered, fist clenched into tight fists. “Sneak me, bissssh!”
“I-I-I didn’t sneak her!” I scream, tears flooding my eyes. “I don’t deserve—”
Whack!
“No, tramp! You deserve ya azz—”
“Kee-Kee, whatdafuq, yo?!” Omar demands, charging into the bedroom, yanking this crazy lady away from me. “Yo, I know you didn’t just put ya muthafawkin’ hands on her.” He’s up in her face, pointing his finger inches from her eyeballs.
Now I’m more scared than ever because he has this ice-cold look in his eyes. And every vein in his forehead is protruding. I’m afraid he’s going to hit her.
Or worse.
I’m terrified.
I’ve never been witness to any of this type of violence.
Ever.
I’m shaking.
“Yeah, I slapped that sneaky ho,” she yells in his face. I can see spittle flying from her lips as she speaks. “Quita’s locked up ’cause of this trick!”
“Yo, shut ya dumb-azz. Quita’s locked up ’cause of her own damn self. She stay runnin’ her mouth ’n’ you know it. She popped off at the wrong one ’n’ got that top rocked. Period. But word is bond, yo,” he warns, his tone bone chilling. “If you ever put ya hands on my seed again, I’ma break both ya arms, sister or not; ya heard?” He narrows his eyes at her.
She curses him, calls him every dirty street name you can possibly call someone. Tells him she hopes he ends up back in prison. Then she threatens to have him handled for getting up in her face.
I can’t believe any of this.
“Yeah, a’ight. Tell them mofos they know where to find me!” He walks over to me. “Let me see ya face.” I drop my hand. He touches the side of my face, and I wince.
His nostrils flare.
He shakes his head. Then he says, “Yo, pack ya stuff. We gettin’ the eff outta here.”
55
A week later . . .
“Hey, sweetness,” Miss Peaches says, poking her head into the bedroom she’s so graciously given me to stay in. “There’s someone outside to see you. And honey, if I were fifteen years younger I’d hike up my skirt and show him a real good time.”
I look up at her in her red halter top and short denim skirt.
Her lips are bright red and glossy.
“Did he say who he is?”
She bats her lashes. “Oh, his name is Fine, girlfriend. That’s all you need to know. Now get up ’n’ go on out there to see what he wants. He says he has something for you.”
I furrow my brow, perplexed.
She playfully rolls her eyes up in her head, placing a hand up on her hip. “Well, don’t keep him waiting. Get on up ’n’ go claim your prize.”
I groan inwardly, getting up from the bed, slipping into my sandals, then shuffling out into the living room.
My mouth drops open when I get to the screen door.
The last person I ever expected to see is standing out on the porch.
Shawn.
He’s smiling.
“Ohmygod. What are you doing here? How did you know I was here?”
“Whoa, whoa. Slow down, ma.” He pulls a hand out from behind his back, holding out a leather-bound book. “I thought you might be lost wit’out this.”
My eyes widen.
OMG!
It’s my journal.
And before I know it, I am sprinting out the front door, practically knocking him over to take it from him. “Ohmygod! Thank you! Thank you!” I say, tears springing from my eyes as I clutch it to my chest. “I thought I’d never see this again. Thank you so much. Ohmygod!”
I can’t stop crying.
He has made my day.
“Yo, it’s all love, ma-ma. I scooped it up when you ’n’ Quita started rockin’,” he tells me, easing himself down on the top step. “Yo, sit wit’ me for a minute.”
I swallow. Then I sit beside him. He leans over and lightly bumps my shoulder. “You a’ight, though?”
I wipe my face with the bottom of my shirt, then nod. “Yeah. I guess.” Then I look down at the journal in my hand. “No. I’m better now. Thanks to you. You have no idea what you’ve done by bringing this here. I can’t thank you enough.”
He grins at me. “I’m glad I
could brighten ya day, love. You too pretty to be sad.”
My face heats. “Thank you.”
“Yo, how’s ya hand?”
I drop my gaze and open and close it. It still hurts, but not as bad. And it isn’t as swollen.
I shrug. “It’s okay.”
He rubs his chin, nodding. “Oh a’ight; that’s wassup. But, yo, ya hand game is mad nice, for real for real. Where’d you learn to rock like that?”
I shift uncomfortably. “My father.” There’s a panging in my heart as I say this.
“Oh, word? Damn. That’s what it is. You took her whole face off, yo.”
I shift uncomfortably. “I didn’t want to. Can we not talk about it, though?”
“No worries, ma. She ain’t really effen wit’ me right now like that, anyway, ’cause I told her she was dead wrong for how she came at you.”
I am surprised. Wow. “Really?”
He nods thoughtfully. “Yeah. She was definitely outta pocket.”
I look at him. “Thanks. But you didn’t have to do that.”
“I know. Still, it was effed up, yo. Quita stay runnin’ her mouth.”
Yeah. I know. “She’s home?”
He shakes his head. “Nah. She’s still locked up.”
Oh.
He chuckles. “The homeys’ still clownin’ her for how you knocked her on her back. You a real thorough chick, ma. She definitely slept on you.”
I swallow. “I feel bad for that. I—”
“Nah, yo. She deserved that beat-down, for real for real.”
“Maybe. Still, I’d like to apologize to her.”
He gives me a perplexed look. “Why?”
I shrug. “Because that’s how I am. I don’t like seeing anyone hurt, and I don’t like hurting anyone. She’s a bully. But I still could have . . .” I sigh, shaking my head. “. . . I could have handled things differently.”
“Nah, yo. Not wit’ Quita, word up. She ain’t as forgivin’, ma. You handled her exactly the way she needed handlin’. Trust me. She won’t ever eff wit’ you again.”
I shift uncomfortably, tucking my hair behind my ears. “Still . . .”
“You got heart. Hands down. And you know how ta rock. She ain’t got no choice but to respect how you get down.”
“I don’t like bullies,” I say, shaking the whole Sha’Quita ordeal from my thoughts.
“I hear you, ma. Me neither.” He glances at his watch. “Yo, I gotta bounce. But I’ma come through ’n’ chill wit’ you in a few days, a’ight?”
I surprise myself when I say, “Okay. I’d like that.”
His grin widens. “Yeah, me too.” He stands, brushing off the back of his designer jeans. “Be easy, a’ight?”
I nod.
And then he’s off down the steps and down the sidewalk, slipping on his helmet.
He gives me a head nod, hops on his motorcycle, then turns on the ignition. He revs the engine, then speeds off, leaving me holding my journal up against my heart.
Touched by his kindness.
56
My pen freezes over my journal entry at the sound of squealing brakes.
I look up, surprised, as a black two-door Dodge Charger pulls up in front of the house.
It’s Shawn.
Again.
He grins, his arm hanging out of the window. “What’s good?”
I wave. “Nothing.”
“Can I chill wit’ you?”
My heart thuds. Ohmygod.
He wants to hang out with me.
All of a sudden my palms feel sweaty.
I shrug. “Um, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Not after all the drama I went through with Sha’Quita.
He feigns shock. “Why not?”
The act brings a small smile to my face. “Well, um . . . it’s better that way.”
He places a hand over his heart. “I’m crushed, yo. You actin’ like I’m gonna kidnap you or sumthin’. I’m not a serial rapist or killah or anything crazy, yo. I promise you. I ain’t on it like that, ma. I just wanna holla at you for a minute. Keep it real light.”
I raise a brow. Ohhhkay. I’m going to need him to define light.
On second thought, never mind.
I don’t need the headache.
He must see the hesitation in my eyes. “Yo, real talk, ma. I’m tryna keep it easy breezy. Real casual; feel me? I ain’t tryna take much of ya time. Just like twenty minutes of it. Then I’ma bounce.”
I look him over. “Well . . .”
He simulates a pout, holding his palms together. “Pretty please.”
That gets me to smile. I cap my pen, then shut my journal.
“Okay. But”—I narrow my eyes—“twenty minutes; that’s it.”
He grins, shutting off the engine. “Yo, that’s all I need, li’l mama.”
I eye him as he opens the door, then unfolds his six-foot-something frame from out of the car. It’s hard to pretend not to notice how just how hot he is.
He’s practically on fire.
And I’m feeling the heat as he makes his way toward me.
He stuffs his hands in his pockets, his left foot resting on the bottom step.
“I knew I’d find you out here on these steps wit’ that book in ya hand.”
“Writing calms me,” I say, clutching my journal to my chest as I try to steady my nerves.
“Oh, word? That’s wassup.”
I fidget with the edges of my journal.
He is making me increasingly nervous.
But why?
Then it hits me.
Because I haven’t had any real, genuine social interaction with a boy since I left Long Beach. All the guys I’ve come in contact since being here have all been disrespectful, leering pigs.
Shawn’s never been like that around me.
Still, that doesn’t justify my mouth going dry, or my heart beating faster.
He’s just a boy.
Okay, okay, yes—a very cute boy.
“You lookin’ good,” Shawn says, his eyes gliding over me as he takes a seat beside me.
I scoot over, feeling my face flush. “Thanks.” I tuck my hair behind my ear.
So what’s good wit’ you?”
I give him a confused look. “What do you mean?”
“I’m sayin’, ma. What’s up wit’ you? You gotta man back in Cali?”
I swallow, then slowly shake my head. “No.” I’ve never even had a boyfriend, much less a man. But there’s no need for self-disclosure of my nonexistent relationships with anyone of the male species.
“Oh, a’ight. That’s wasssup.”
Oh. Is it?
“So, what about you? Do you have a girlfriend?” The question is asked before I can reel it back in. I’m not even sure why I’ve asked it. It’s not like anything can ever come of it if he doesn’t.
He locks his gaze on mine. “Nah. Not yet.”
I raise a brow. “Oh. Well, what about Sha’Quita?”
He frowns. “What about her?”
I shrug. Then shake my head, looking away. “Never mind.”
“Nah. Don’t do that. Say what’s on ya mind.”
I swallow. Then I glance back at him. “Aren’t the two of you . . .” I pause, silently scolding myself for opening my mouth.
“Are we what?” he pushes. “Gettin’ it in?”
I nod.
He laughs. “Hell, nah.”
Oh.
I give him a confused look. “I thought you were her boo.”
“Nah, nah. She’s just my peeps; she stay talkin’ mad ish, that’s all. I ain’t ever pipe that.”
My face flushes, but I manage to give him a side-eye “yeah right.”
More laughter. “Nah, nah. Don’t look at me like that. I’m keepin’ it dead-azz, yo. I ain’t tryna kick my girl’s back in, but Quita got too many miles on that thing to be my girl, yo.”
Oh.
I open my mouth to say something, but no words come out. It’s probably for the be
st.
“Quita stay doin’ the most,” he continues. He looks me over. “I like my girls classy . . .”
Oh. Not trashy.
I mentally scold myself again.
Stop it, Nia. That’s not nice.
Yeah. But it’s true.
She is trashy.
“I’ma keep it straight up. Quita’s the type to meet a dude up on the Gram . . .”
I give him a confused look.
“. . . on Instagram; my bad. Or up on KIK or the Book . . .”
Okay, Facebook. Got it!
“. . . then two days later she talkin’ ’bout that’s her boo ’n’ ish. And she in love. I be like ‘yo, if you don’t go sit ya dumb-azz down somewhere.’ Then she be all up in her feelin’s when she doesn’t hear back from dude.”
I keep my expression neutral. But inside I’m saying, “Tell me about it. I’ve seen her nasty ways firsthand.” Instead I say, “Well, maybe she just needs someone to call her on it.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “Nah, she needs to go somewhere ’n’ read a damn book. I keep tellin’ her all she ever gonna be good for is a smash ’n’ go if she doesn’t fall back ’n’ relax ’n’ stop lettin’ mofos hit it on the first hello.”
“Oh. So you don’t meet girls online to hook up with?”
He frowns. “Hell nah. I’m good on that, ma. Trollin’ for booty online doesn’t do ish for me. I can’t build anything wit’ you through keystrokes; feel me?”
I nod.
“So, no girlfriend?”
He shakes his head. “Nah. I’m searchin’ for the one. The right one, that is. Why, you tryna put in an application?”
All of a sudden, this is not feeling so much like an easy, breezy, light conversation. Well, actually, it stopped being easy, breezy the minute he sat down beside me.
He leans back on the step and stretches out his long legs. I can’t help but look at his long feet covered in a pair of Gucci sneakers.
“But anyway. That’s my peeps. She wild as fawwk, but she good peeps when you get to know her.”
I give him a shocked look.
“A’ight, a’ight. She got her moments.”
“Oh, you think?” I say, half joking.
“After that hand work you put in on her, she prolly won’t ever come outta her neck at you.” He glances at his watch. “Damn. I gotta bounce.”