by Meesha Mink
Yup, I know she will. Lucky has all that strength and fight that been beat down out of me.
“And I had his dick in my mouth,” she spat before she really did spit like she gettin’ the taste of him off her tongue.
I could tell her that shit don’t work. If it’s as easy as spitting to get the memory of somebody’s dick out your mouth, I woulda got over all that shit done to me a long time ago.
Lucky lets her head fall back against the graffiti-covered wall. “I love that nigga, Princess. I love him,” she says soft as hell as she turns her head to the left to look down the hall out the window.
I sit closer to her and take her hand to squeeze because that’s what she always does when I tell her about what all my momma’s men done to me over the years. Sometimes just holding Lucky’s hand keeps me from doing something crazy.
She squeezes my hand back before she reaches in her bookbag for her secret stash of cigarettes. She sees my eyes shoot to her front door. “My daddy ’sleep. He got to work the night shift.”
She lights it and takes a long drag before she passes it to me to pull on. “Sing something for me?” she asks, sounding more like she’s ten than seventeen.
I didn’t really feel like singin’ but if Lucky asks me to walk with her to South Carolina, I would do that shit for my girl for real.
“Shareefa?” I ask. We both like the singer so much ’cause her music reminds us of Mary J. and she’s a homegirl living right here in the A-T-L.
“Yeah. Sing that slow version of her song “Cry No More” that you made up.”
I close my eyes and tilt my head back as the words flow from me. I sing for her from my soul. That part of me that hold all them damn secrets and pain and shame. I have to admit that my voice sounds real good in the hall. Something called acoustics or some shit.
The door down at the end of the hall leading into the stairwell opens and this tall guy with a big-ass ’fro looks down the hall at us. He steps into the hall in a tight-ass camel leather motorcycle jacket, wifebeater, and oversized dark jeans with two big shopping bags in each hand. Diamonds or cubic zirconia, platinum, or silver—shit I ain’t know the difference, but his jewelry is shining like crazy.
The rest of my words fade away as I drop my eyes from his. Lucky sticks her cigarette between her lips as she hurries to use her hands to wipe the tears and snot from her face.
“Which one of y’all shorties was just singing?” he asks, his grilles making his words sound heavy. He drops his bags to put his hands on the back of his oversized jeans to hitch them up while he walks down the hall toward us.
Lucky cuts her puffy eyes at me as she stands to her feet looking real cute in a pink Baby Phat jean suit. “That was her,” she says, pointing her hand at me before she takes a long pull of her cigarette.
“That shit was mad crazy,” he says, standing beside me as he looks down at me.
I hate the way I want to flinch just because he’s a man and he’s near me.
He smiles at me and I’m damn near blinded by the bling. “You can sing your ass off, girl.”
I turn my head and look down at his fresh pair of suede camel Air Force 1s. I just nod my head. I’m nervous as shit. I’m always nervous and afraid around men.
“Who you is?” Lucky asks with all her boldness and confidence as she drops the cig to the floor and squashes it with the toe of her kicks.
He crosses his arms over his chest while he sizes Lucky up from head to toe. “Everybody calls me Danger. I’m a music producer.”
That makes me tilt my head back to look up at his face.
“Ooh, you looking for somebody to be in your videos?” Lucky asks as she turns and jiggles her big old ghetto booty in a thousand different directions before she pop, lock, and drop it.
“No,” he says, shaking his head at her like she crazy and should know better than dancing nasty in front of a man she don’t hardly know. He shifts them black-ass eyes on me and I have to make myself not look away.
Hi, I’m Princess, I want to say, but I can’t get the words out of my head.
“Who you work wit?” Lucky asks, reaching out to touch his arm. “Bobby Valentino? Luda? The Ying-Yang Twins? Ciara? Who? Huh? Who?”
He runs his tongue over his grilles as he looks at her like she’s working his nerves.
Leave him alone, Lucky, I think.
“I’m working with some new talent here in Atlanta,” he says, all proud and shit.
“Oh,” Lucky says, all disappointed and shit.
“Don’t flex, ’cause I’m about to blow up and own my record label one day. All types of good shit comin’ my way, ya heard me?” he tells Lucky as he slides his thumbs into his front pockets.
Then why you hanging around Bentley Manor, Mr. Gonna Be a Big-Time Producer?
“Shee-it, then why you hanging around this motherfucker?” Lucky asks.
I smile ’cause she says what I’m thinking…in her own way.
“You know what,” he says suddenly as he points at Lucky. “You talk too much and your friend don’t talk enough.”
“She don’t talk much,” Lucky tells him, straight on my defense.
He squats down beside me and my heart damn near jumps up in my throat. Why can’t I be normal, shit?
“There’s a big-time talent contest at this community center downtown next Wednesday. You should enter. Your ass can blow them other chicks straight off the stage.”
Danger reaches in his back pocket for one of them glossy flyers like they use to promote for club parties and car shows. He hands it to me.
I look at it and then back up at him before I take it. A talent contest? Singing in these pissy halls or in my room or in front of Lucky is different than getting up on somebody’s stage. Shit, I don’t even have the clit to do that shit. Not even.
“Look, I got to get this shit to my baby momma and get to the studio—”
His baby momma?
“Who your baby momma?” Lucky asks before she drops back down on the floor next to me.
He stands and walks away from us to snatch up his shopping bags. Dangerous-ass Danger laughs while he shakes his head. “Your young ass nosy as hell,” he says before he turns and walks back down the hall.
“Inquiring minds want to know,” she calls down to him.
He just laughs again before he pushes through the door to the stairwell.
I’m surprised that it’s me that jumps to my feet with that flyer clutched in my hand. I go into the stairwell just to see him go through the door for the second floor.
“Big Princess,” Lucky jokes as I walk back down the hall. “He is hella fine. Looking in his face made me forget Dean for a while,” she says, suddenly sounding sad again.
I look down at the flyer and my eyes widen on the five-hundred-dollar first prize. “Lucky, you think I can really win this?” I ask, surprised that I am even giving any thought to this shit.
Lucky snatches up her bookbag and then jumps to her feet. She kicks the cigarette butt down the hall from the front of the apartment before she unlocks the door. “Not only do I think your ass can win it. You gone win it. Fuck that. It’s your time.”
It’s my time?
The thought of that felt good. Damn good.
“How I look, Lucky?” I ask for the thousandth damn time as we stand backstage.
“You look like you ’bout to throw up,” she jokes as she reaches over to give me a hug.
I try to laugh with her but I do feel sick as hell. But I have to do this. I want to do it. I can do it.
I’m going to sing my slow version of “Cry No More.” All week long Lucky made me practice and practice. On the bus ride to school. In the bathroom at school during lunch. After school in the stairwell or in her room.
She asked her daddy for money for a new outfit and then spent the money on me ’cause she knew my momma wasn’t shit. Hell, I didn’t even tell her about the contest ’cause I didn’t doubt my momma would enter and try to beat me to the first prize. Stra
ight triflin’.
I still can’t believe how good I look in these dark-denim skinny jeans and an off-the-shoulder white shirt. I have on a bunch of fake gold jewelry that will probably turn before I even get offstage. Keisha, Bentley Manor’s own bootleg hairstylist, curled my hair and then pulled it all up into a side ponytail. Lucky did my makeup.
I look like me only better. Older. Prettier.
“BOO! BOO! WHOMP-WHOMP! WHOMP-WHOMP!”
Me and Lucky look at each other as the crowd goes Apollo Amateur Hour on somebody. The singing stops and the booing gets louder and louder.
“Fuck all y’all!” a guy screams in a high-pitched voice.
We jump out the way as a thin light-skinned dude with a jheri curl—or good-ass hair—comes running past us off the stage. Some of his activator must have hit the floor ’cause his ass goes sliding face-first into a wall.
What the fuck?
Everybody backstage is dying laughing. Everybody except Lucky and me. My ass is up next and karma is a bitch.
We hold hands as we walk closer to the curtain. “You can do this, Princess. You know I wouldn’t lie to you. For real. You can do this.”
The ruckus from the crowd quiets down and I hear my name being called.
Lucky holds my shaking body close and whispers in my ear, “If you get scared or nervous and all that shit just close your eyes and pretend you’re in your bedroom window. I’m right here and if dem niggas out there flex then we’ll just whup all they ass. Fuck it.”
I hug her back real tight. Real real tight.
When the announcer calls my name again, I know I have to do this. Lucky steps back. I peek out and see all the people waiting to boo my ass off that damn stage. I close my eyes and start singing right there behind the curtain. The audience and the people backstage clap for me, and I feel Lucky’s hand press to my back to push me out onstage.
I can’t explain what comes over me. Shit, I don’t know if it’s them lights shining on me on that stage, or the people clapping and urging me on, or knowing Lucky is right there waiting to whup these motherfuckers’ ass for me, or just my love of music, but when my ass hit that stage and sang, I ain’t feel like quiet, nervous, sad, and sorrowful Princess. I ain’t feel like me no more.
I open my eyes and sing into that mic as I remember to work the stage the way Lucky showed me. And I work that motherfucker. I stroll up and down that stage like it really is my time for something good to happen for me.
I stand in the middle of the stage giving myself goosebumps as I fling my head back and damn near taste the mic on my tongue as I hit a high note that is filled all up with the joy and happiness I feel…for me.
When I take my bow most of the audience is on their feet. As good as I feel, I have to force myself not to cry. I feel like I do have a voice. I do have something to say. Somebody wants to listen to me.
I hand the announcer the mic and run into Lucky’s arms. As we jump up and down, I wonder if my momma knew what I just accomplished if her ass would even be proud of me.
That night as I lay on my twin bed in the darkness I can’t even sleep. I’m too excited. I pull my diary from underneath my pillow and go to sit in the windowsill. The light from the streetlamp is just enough for me to see as I write:
I won! I won! I won! I still can’t believe it and I have nobody but Lucky to thank for it. She was surprised when I gave her half the prize money but she deserves that and more. She’s the only good person left in my life and I would have given her all of it if she woulda took it. She was just as excited as me when Danger came over to me and gave me a piece of paper with the address to this studio. He wants me to sing background or something on one of those “up and comers” he working with. Me on somebody’s record? Danger said I could blow up and be as big as Keyshia Cole or even THE Mary J. Blige. Me. He said he would pay me a little something, too. Regardless of where this singing thing takes me and that’s hopefully up outta Bentley Manor, Lucky is going with me. Together me and my friend can do anything. It’s OUR time.
12
Takiah
“C’mon. Just one hit. I’ll suck your cock. I’ll do anything you want. Just give me one hit and I swear I’ll pay you back.”
Hassan’s striking green eyes fill with disgust as he looks at me, and I really don’t give a shit.
“Takiah, there ain’t shit you can do for me but go home and take care of your baby.”
Guilt crashes through me at the reminder that I left Tanana sleeping in the middle of my bed while Grandma Cleo left to take Miz Osceola to her podia-trist appointment. It also means that I have a limited amount of time to score this hit. Shit, I’ve been back in Bentley Manor for seven weeks and I really need a hit bad.
“C’mon, Hassan. Help a sistah out. I promise I’ll make you feel real good.” I reach for the front of his pants and this motherfucker grabs my hands so hard, I swear he’s trying to snap them off.
“Get your goddamn hands off of me!” He pushes me away and I feel my chances of scoring fading. “Give me twenty-four hours; I swear I’ll get the money for you.”
He only laughs. “My name ain’t Visa. I don’t run shit off credit.”
“Please,” I beg, feeling my tears swell.
“Go home, Takiah.”
I stare after him as he turns his back and walks away from me. It’s all I can do not to drop to my knees and start sobbing like a thrown-away child. When I hang my head, my eyes fall to the band around my finger.
“Hassan,” I shout, running toward him and pulling at the gold band around my finger. “Here.” I stuff the ring into his hand. “It’s real gold.”
He looks disappointed in me, but in the end hands over three vials of crack to complete our business transaction.
When I return to Grandma Cleo’s apartment, I’m relieved to see Tanana is still sleeping in the center of my twin-sized bed. I find my tattered duffel bag at the bottom of the bedroom’s closet and pull out my beloved glass pipe. I’m practically salivating and barely able to keep my hand steady as I go through the motions. On my first puff, tears fill my eyes and I swear this shit is like one big-ass orgasm, causing my tits to harden and my legs to shake.
Ah, this is the shit.
This takes me away from the world and its problems. Since I hadn’t been a Georgia resident in a while, it’s taking longer to get government help for my baby, and Grandma Cleo keeps talkin’ ’bout me gettin’ a job.
Shit. I don’t know how to do nothin’. And I damn sure ain’t about to go get some minimum-wage job asking folks if they want fries with their burgers. You got me twisted.
What I need is a man, boyfriend, or sugar daddy that’s gonna take care of me and Tanana. Despite the way Hassan had looked at me, there are plenty of men who would still love to get with this. Trust.
I’m only good at stealin’ and fuckin’ and that’s the honest-to-God truth. Nobody knows how fucked up that is more than I do. Now that that ex junkie, Keisha, is going to school, it’s all Grandma Cleo talks about.
“Why can’t you be more like her? If Keisha can clean up her act anybody can,” Miz Nosceola always cosigns.
Fuck Keisha.
If Keisha was such a saint, how come her man is out here selling her damn kids’ toys, tryna get high or whupping her ass like it ain’t shit all the time?
Keisha is just as fucked up as I am and the bitch knows it.
The phone rings and I nearly jump out my skin thinkin’ it’s my grandma chargin’ through with the cavalry. Trust when I say she will stone-cold whup my ass if she caught me smokin’ this shit in her house. I draw in another deep puff thinkin’ this high would be worth whateva trouble down the road.
I slump over the floor, completely ignoring the ringing phone. Another puff and I swear I can feel the soft mush of my brain floating inside my head. That shit always trips me out. Lowering the pipe to the floor, I’m vaguely aware that I need to put the shit up, but I’m too fascinated about how good everything feels right now: my face,
my chest, my breasts. I give them a little squeeze and pinch and another orgasm shoots off through my quivering clit.
Ah. Thank you, Jesus. I needed this shit so bad.
Yes, I know I should be ashamed for thanking Him for this hit, but you just don’t know how good this shit makes me feel. It feels good to stop the worrying.
I curl onto the floor, enjoying my high. Vaguely, I’m aware of the other two vials of rock on the floor. No need to waste those motherfuckers, ’cause I won’t get another chance like this to be alone once Grandma Cleo comes home.
I quickly load up the pipe again, determined to get higher than I’ve been in a while.
And I succeed.
I just wish I’d gotten that last vial of crack off the floor before I fell asleep and my baby woke up.
13
WooWoo
“Are you happy?” Lexi asks me as we walk into the parking deck of Phipps Plaza.
I slip my new Fendi shades on and laugh. “Hell, yeah. Why?” I ask, even though I know my words are a damn lie. I’ve been married for almost two months and I’m not any closer to getting Hassan up outta my system.
“Just doing my job as a sister and checking on you.” She throws me a half smile that says more than her words.
She’s worried about me.
“What about you? It’s been a minute since we talked about Luth—”
Lexi’s eyes flash with anger and way more hatred than anybody should have illuminating from their eyes. “Don’t you dare mention that motherfucker’s name to me. Fuck him.”
Walking in on your husband in the shower with one of your baby daddies will put all that anger in a woman’s soul.
“Shit, I feel you on that. Fuck him.”
I change the subject. That shit with Luther and Junior really touches her hard. Now she don’t even fuck with any dudes, and I can’t ever remember my sister being without a man…ever. That chick don’t do shit but go to work and hang out with her kids. Considering her track record with men, maybe that’s a good damn thing.