by Amir Abrams
He laughs. “I feel you, yo. But it ain’t even worth it.”
“She’s really pushin’ it.”
“So what you gonna do? Take her back? That seems to be the only thing that’s gonna calm her down.”
I frown. “Hell, nah. I’m not takin’ that broad back. Are you serious, yo? Man, listen. I’m done wit’ Quanda.”
“I heard that, fam.” He chuckles. “But don’t look like she’s tryna fall back anytime soon, yo. You musta really put that smackdown on ’er.”
“Yeah, seems that way. Just like I’ma ’bout to do to you the minute we hit the courts. So D-up, mofo, ’cause I’m comin’ for ya.”
He laughs, hittin’ me wit’ a body shot. “You don’t want it, yo.” He makes an imaginary free-throw shot. “Swoosh! All net,” he says, holdin’ one arm in the air.
“Nah, mofo. You don’t want it. Lace up ’n’ let’s see what’s really good,” I challenge as we walk into the locker room to change.
“Yo, Pops,” I say, walkin’ through the front door. It’s a lil after six. His car is in the driveway, but it’s mad quiet in the crib. “Where you at, man?” Usually when Pops is home, he’ll have the TV on in the livin’ room even if he’s not in here watchin’ it and he’ll have some of his old-school music playin’ on his record player. I don’t know why he won’t toss all those old records out and buy CDs, like the rest of us. He says the music sounds better on vinyl. Whatever.
“Yo, Pops?” I call out again, walkin’ into the kitchen. He’s not there. I walk down into our basement to see if he’s loungin’ down there. We have it set up like a game room wit’ a pool table, full bar, pinball machines, and mad games for the PS3 and Xbox joints. Sometimes Pops comes down here to have a few drinks and shoot a round of pool. But, not today. He’s prolly upstairs gettin’ it in.
I climb the stairs and head back into the kitchen. I grab a bag of Doritos and pour myself some apple juice from the fridge. There’s a note on the counter from Pops. I straddle a stool at the counter and begin readin’ it while chompin’ on a handful of chips.
Tone,
I’m In Delaware With Marisol. Be Back Tomorrow Night. There’s Money Up In My Top Drawer If You Need It. Hit Me On My Cell If Something Comes Up. Make Sure You Handle Ya Business Right While I’m Gone. Oh, Marisol Cooked You Some Food. It’s In The Fridge.
Love,
Pops
I shake my head, smilin’. Marisol is one’a Pops’s jump-offs. They been rockin’ for a minute. He says he isn’t really diggin’ her like that. But if you ask me, yo, I think Pops is frontin’ heavy, though, ’cause he stays chillin’ wit’ her more than the other four broads he’s smashin’. Dude’s diggin’ her. I dig her too, real rap. She’s mad sexy for an older chick. Anytime she comes over, she cleans the crib and cooks mad food for me and Pops. I can tell she’s big on Pops.
I finish off the bag of Doritos, then get up and hit the fridge to see what Marisol cooked. My stomach growls as I pull out the six Tupperware containers. Marisol has hooked me up wit’ yellow rice ’n’ peas, fried plantains, empanaditas—turnovers stuffed wit’ meat. She also made fish balls—one of me and Pops’s favorite Dominican dishes—in tomato sauce wit’ green peppers, pitted olives, and onions—another DR dish. Real rap, Marisol can cook her butt off. And she gets mad points for bein’ able to cook bangin’ Dominican dishes when she’s Puerto Rican.
I grab a plate outta the cabinet, pile my plate up, then nuke it in the microwave. When the microwave beeps, I remove my plate and sit back at the counter. I guess I should be happy that I have the crib to myself, but I’m not. Not tonight. I was kinda hopin’ Pops was gonna be here so we could chill. Maybe shoot some pool. Or, maybe, play a game of chess.
Oh, well. Pops is out doin’ him. So I might as well do me tonight. While I’m housin’ my plate of food, I’m thinkin’ ’bout who I wanna do. I ain’t really beat to be drivin’ nowhere. And I’m not really feelin’ company. But I don’t wanna be alone, either. I decide to just kick back ’n’ play a few rounds of NBA 2K13, then take it down for the night.
Fifteen minutes into my game, my cell rings. I reach over and grab it off the nightstand, then glance at the screen. It’s Alicia. After she let me smash at the party, I ain’t really been beat for her. And she knows this. But she keeps hittin’ me up anyway. At school, she speaks ’n’ keeps it movin’, def not sweatin’ my space. And I dig that. But the minute we get outta school, she’s blowin’ up my line, wantin’ to chill again.
“Yo, what’s goodie?”
“You, boy,” she says, soundin’ all grown. “I was callin’ to see if you wanna go to the movies tonight.”
“Oh, word? That’s wassup. But, nah, yo . . . I’m kickin’ back, chillin’ tonight; feel me? But what you tryna go see?”
She tells me that new Denzel Washington joint. I glance over at the clock, again. It’s still mad early ’n’ it’s not like I got any other plans. I could tap that up again, even though she was kinda lame.
“And I was thinkin’ maybe we could grab something to eat before the movie started.”
“Oh, word?” I grin. Yeah, she tryna get rocked again. “Then what?”
“I don’t know. It’s whatever.”
“So you tryna let me get that?”
She laughs. “What you think?”
“I’m askin’, yo. So if you wanna ’nother round, just say it. We ain’t gotta hit no movie, yo—feel me? We can hit the sheets ’n’ make our own movie, so if it’s really whatever, come through and let’s get it crackin’. But check it. I ain’t tryna make you my girl so don’t start tryna make this out to be nothin’ more than what it could be.”
“Boy, please. I already know how you get down. I already know tryna be your girl isn’t gonna happen, so I’m good. I just wanna chill with you; that’s it. I had fun with you the other night. And I wanna do it again.”
I grin, rubbin’ my chin ’n’ goin’ into Kevin Hart mode. “All right, all right, all right. That’s what it is, ma. But check it. My paper’s mad low right now. So if we gonna hit the movies, you gonna hafta spot me.”
“It’s cool. I got you. I was gonna treat anyway if you wanted to go.”
I get up outta my seat, then walk over to my closet ’n’ start tryna find somethin’ to put on. “Yo, it’s all good. You comin’ through to scoop me, or you wanna link up at the movies?”
“Welllllll,” she says all low into the phone. “I kinda like that idea of us making our own movie tonight. So if you down, how ’bout I just come there and we can chill.” I hit ’er wit’ the ground rules. Tell ’er it’s strictly sex. That after we finish, she gotta bounce. There ain’t gonna be no cud-dlin’ or any other kinda mushy ish. “Ohhhkay. And who said that’s what I want? You don’t gotta tell me the rules, boo. I already know how’ta play the game. All I want is for you to make me feel the way you did the other night. That’s it.”
“Yeah, a’ight. That’s what your mouth says. But I don’t think you really ready for it.”
She laughs. “Oh, trust me, boo. I finally got a chance to see firsthand what all the other girls were talking about and I wanna keep gettin’ it.”
“Yo, check it. If I give you some, I don’t want you gettin’ all psycho on me ’cause you know how some’a you broads can get when the lovin’s good.”
She starts laughin’ again. Tells me I’m buggin’. That she ain’t weak. Yeah, whatever!
“A’ight. We’ll see. So what time you comin’ through to get this?”
“I’m on my way,” she says, gigglin’.
“A’ight. Bet. See you when you get here.”
For some reason that broad Miesha’s booty pops in my head and I feel myself gettin’ excited just thinkin’ ’bout all the things I would do to ’er. Today she came to school in these tight beige leggin’ thingys wit’ a brown crochet blouse thingy that hung off her smooth shoulders. I ain’t even gonna front. She was lookin’ mad sexy.
18
Miesha
A month into the school year and I still can’t find my groove up in this rathole. Truth is, I’m not even trying to. I still hate it! Most of these dizzy chicks are still ice-grillin’ me, the dudes stay tryna sex me wit’ they eyes and whatnot. And the only dude—well, uh, two dudes . . . okay, okay, three dudes—I’m even giving any airtime to is that boy Justin on the basketball team, this cutie Brent—he looks like he’s mixed with Indian with his reddish-brown skin and wavy hair—who’s one of the star players on the lacrosse team here. Lacrosse? Like really? What kinda dude plays that mess? A cornball, that’s who! But, whatever. And, then there’s Trevin, a big hunk of milk chocolate skin with slanty brown eyes, who plays on the football team. Outta the three guys, he drives the fliest car—a convertible Mustang. But, anyway, they all have nice bodies and they’re cute enough. Okay, fine! But they still aren’t my flavor. They dress nice and all. But that swag isn’t on high the way I like it.
Anyway, boys aren’t nothing but headaches. Still, they are a necessity, especially for a chick like me who likes to spend their paper. Forget tryna get ya hump on or getting all caught up in hot, steamy kisses. Feed me, boo. Take me shopping. Get my hair and nails done. That’s right. Feed me. Finance me. And, maybe, as a reward for his generosity, I might let him press up on this big booty or squeeze my boobies. You best believe he’s gonna have to earn a ride up on my goodies, or find himself standing on the sidelines. And, nope . . . I’m not a gold digger. I’m a chick who knows how boys move. They’re sneaky, they’re liars, and they’re always looking for a girl to give up the goody-goody, then when you don’t—or even if you do—they wanna run off with the next chick ’cause they’re greedy dogs. Boys ain’t shhhhheeeeit! So my motto is this: Let him chase, but don’t ever let him catch. That drives ’em crazy. It makes ’em want you more. And, then... just when you have ’em right where you want ’em—and they think they got you, dump ’em. Yup! Play ’em, before they play you. Simple as that. Besides, the chase is always more fun—well, for me, anyway.
So I’m not shocked when the hottest boy in the school, Antonio Lopez, finally walks up on me. I feel his burning gaze on me before he ever opens his mouth. And why I am not surprised that he’s finally got up the nerve to step to me is beyond me. Point is, he’s here. And I’m bracing myself for, well, uh...I really don’t know why or what I’m preparing for. All I know is, he’s up on me. Live and direct. But I play it off like I don’t know he’s standing here. Like I don’t smell his scent—a mix of fresh soap and cologne, swirling all around me.
He clears his throat. “So you just gonna act like you don’t know I’m standin’ here?”
I smirk behind the door of my locker, glancing at myself in the mirror before I decide to peer around the locker door. I look him up and down with as much stank as I can possibly dish up, which is almost kinda hard to do with him being so dang fine. Mmmph, he’s rocking the new Jordans. “Can I help you?” I say, looking up into his eyes.
He leans against the lockers, eyeing me. “Yo, what’s good wit’ you?”
I frown, placing a hand up on my hip. “Excuse you?” I say wit’ my ’tude still on ten.
He smirks. “Yo, you heard me. I asked you what’s good wit’ you. I mean. You sexy ’n’ all, but you walk ’round here wit’ ya head all stuck up in the air like you too good to speak when peeps holla at you. Wassup wit’ that?”
“Ain’t nothing up with it,” I say, swiping a strand of hair outta my face. “Maybe I’m not beat to speak. Maybe I’m not beat for chitchat. Maybe . . .”
“Heeeeeey, Tone,” this light-skinned chick with grayish-colored eyes says. She turns her nose up at me, flipping her hair as she walks by. I pay the ho dust. He gives her a head nod, never taking his eyes off me.
He narrows his eyes at me. “Maybe you need to be checked.”
“Checked? Ha! Check me, boo-boo. That’ll never pop off. Trust.”
“Yeah, a’ight. Whatever, yo. Dump the attitude for real, yo. I ain’t tryna come at ya neck; just tryna see what’s good wit’ you. But you wanna be all stank. How you expect to make friends here if you actin’ all funny-style?”
“Uh, newsflash, boo-boo: I’m not running for a popularity contest. So be clear. I’m not interested in convo. I’m not interested in makin’ friends. And I’m definitely not interested in you and your doggish self being all up in my face, so if you don’t mind”—I slam my locker shut—“I have a class to get to. That’s what’s up with me.” I walk off, and without even looking back I can feel the heat from his gaze on me. And there’s something about knowing that he’s staring me down that makes me feel, uh, nervous. No, light-headed.
He catches up to me. “Yo, you know you too pretty to be actin’ all funky, right? All I’m tryna do is holla at you for a minute, nothin’ serious, yo. But you actin’ like I’m the one who broke ya heart.”
I roll my eyes, stopping in my tracks. I stare at him. Shift my weight from one foot to the other, letting my handbag drop in the crook of my arm. “First of all, boo-boo, I don’t give a mofo the chance to break my heart, trust.” I do the heartbreaking. “Second, whatever it is you selling, I’m not buying. Third, I know ya kind. And, once again . . . I’m. Not. Interested. So step.”
He grins. “Oh, word? That’s what them pretty lips say.”
I let out a disgusted grunt. “And that’s what it is. Like I said, I know your kind.”
“And what’s that?”
“A dog. A player. Someone who’s only out to get one thing . . .”
” How you gonna just pass up an opportunity to be wit’ the most popular dude at this school?”
I frown. “Easily. I’m not interested.”
He shakes his head, grinning. “I’m tellin’ you, yo, you ’bout to give up the opportunity of a lifetime. Don’t you know I’m the man who can make all your dreams come true?”
I twist my lips up. “Mmmph. Sounds more like a nightmare. I’ll pass.”
“Check this out, yo,” he says, stepping in front of me. “I’ma follow you all ’round school ’til you holla at me, yo. And if I gotta stand outside e’ery one of ya classroom doors and wait for you after each class, I’ma do that. And if I gotta follow you home, then I’ma do that, too, ’til you give me them digits so I can get to know you better.”
I almost smile. Almost. I take a deep breath. Stop walking. “Look,” I say, staring up at him, this time really looking at him. Right into his . . . Oh my god, his eyes are beautiful! And he has skin most chicks would kill for, smooth and clear. No pimples, no blackheads, no splotches, no scars. Perfect. Everything about this boy—his super straight, white teeth, his sexy grin, his broad shoulders and muscled arms and that thick curly hair—is hmmph . . . perfect. Too perfect! I can see why these silly girls fall all over him. But I’m not about to get caught up in the matrix. I’m not the one.
“You might as well skip on back over to them little hot-in-the-drawers hookers you got fighting over you ’cause you’ll never be ready for a chick like me.” And with that, I walk off, throwing a buncha shake in my hips. This time he doesn’t follow me, but I can feel his eyes on my butt. Damn him!
As soon as I round the corner to get to my class, there’s a posse of dudes hanging out in the hallway, clowning, popping jokes back ’n’ forth. They all laugh. The minute they see me . . . silence! Out of the little circus crew, a brown-skinned boy rockin’ cornrows with a zigzag design in his hair steps to me, all grins.
“Yo, ma, what’s your name?” His voice is deep.
I tilt my head. “Why?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I peep them nudging each other, like they’ve never seen a hot chick before. Then again, maybe they haven’t; at least not one as on fiyah as me.
He licks his lips and I frown. “Maybe I’m tryna take you out.”
Little boy, puhleeze. You couldn’t afford me. And even though I know this without having to look down at his sneaker game, I look down at his feet, anyway. I sigh. He has his long feet in a pair of blac
k Nike slides with a pair of black socks on. Call me whatever you want, but I’m never gonna stop checking a dude’s footwork before I look at anything else. I don’t care what he looks like, or what kinda body he has, if his kick game is whack, then womp, womp, womp . . . I ain’t got nothing for you. I toss my hair, then brush right by him, slipping into my Algebra III class just as the bell rings, with one of them saying behind me, “Yo, eff that stuck-up beeeyotch!”
I crack up laughing now when I hear that. Yeah, okay, I’m stuck up. Yeah, I’m conceited. Why shouldn’t I be? I’m hot like fire. And can’t none of these busters stand the heat. Obviously they know it too; otherwise they wouldn’t stay sweatin’ me. By sixth period, I’m staring at the clock counting down the minutes, the seconds, before next period. And the minute the last period bell finally rings, I’m amped to be gettin’ outta this hellhole. All I can think is, TGIF! I can’t wait for the weekend to pop. Mariah and I have plans to hit this club tonight in Bayonne—it’s teen night so we’re gonna turn it up. Then Saturday I’m goin’ to Brooklyn until Sunday night. Yeah, I’m staying with my dad. But, my girls are crashing there with me. Oooh, I can’t wait. I’m so psyched.
I race to my locker, grab the books I need to do my homework assignments, then head out the door. As I’m walkin’ out to the parking lot toward my car, someone whistles in back of me. Of course, I pays it dust ’cause I ain’t some trick you gonna whistle at, then expect me to turn around and be all grins and giggles. No, boo. You don’t whistle at me. I’m not in heat.
I keep stepping.
“Yo, ma, let me get some fries wit’ that thick shake.”
I roll my eyes, knowing who it is. He catches up to me, his steps falling into place with mine. “Can I help you?” I say, keeping my face forward but checking him outta the corner of my eye. He has his book bag slung over his broad shoulder and I can feel he’s looking at me as we’re walking.