My Own Worst Frenemy

by Kimberly Reid

  Believe me, its only claim to fame is the vast number of people it has sent running for a bottle of Pepto. But I hate to tell her I already ate at Michelle’s since she looks so proud doing the mom thing, so I confirm her delusion that her casserole tastes good.

  “But you took so little. How about another big spoonful ?”

  “Watching my calories,” I say, and change the subject before she can make another offer. “I heard Donnell Down-the-Street was out. Did he make bail?”

  “No, they had to turn him loose. Kind of hard to hold someone on suspicion of theft when the evidence you thought you’d find in his car, at his house, or on his person, can’t be found. It also doesn’t help when you can’t place him at the scene of the crime.”

  “Theft? I thought he’d been picked up for dealing again. I guess he’s been expanding his business.”

  “Something like that,” Lana says, and then looks up at me, almost catching me spitting her casserole into my napkin. “Why are you so interested in Donnell? You haven’t been hanging around that hoodlum girl again, have you? Those two probably run together.”

  “MJ wouldn’t have a thing to do with Donnell. She’s gone straight.”

  “Yeah, and every perp who swears on his mother that he’s innocent really is.”

  I figure Lana’s anger is still too fresh for me to defend MJ, so I take another approach.

  “Michelle told me. She and Donnell used to go together, and he came by to see her today.”

  “If that’s the kind of boy she attracts, I want you to stay away from her, too.”

  Luckily she doesn’t know how tight Michelle and Tasha are now, or I wouldn’t have a friend left on The Ave. She leaves the table, saying she needs a shower after a long day trying to convince her confidential informants it would be in their best interests not to hold out on her.

  Donnell being back on the street is not what I wanted to hear. But it’s only a matter of time before he’s arrested for something else, at least this is what I tell myself so I can stop worrying. Because if Donnell really cares about Michelle (how could he when he had his tongue all down Rhonda Hodges’s throat?) and he thinks I’m the one who ruined it for him, I admit that Tasha might be worried about me for a reason. Just because you played kickball with someone back in the day doesn’t mean they grow up to be right in the head. And Donnell DTS wasn’t right in the head even back then.

  But Lana and Tasha are all wrong about MJ. In fact, I could use her friendship right about now. I mean, she saved my life. Or at least, saved me from a beat down. When it happened, I didn’t know how to thank MJ for keeping me from getting my butt kicked, because words didn’t seem to be enough and, if I’m being honest, she scared me, too. The two guys posted at the front door didn’t even try to stop her when she crashed the party, said she’d heard it was the place to be, and asked if they had a problem with her being there. Apparently her reputation had already spread to the south end of Denver Heights. I figured if she was living on The Ave, she’d be a good person to make friends with, and I’m nothing if not a diplomat. When she told me she had walked to the party (she was wearing Doc Martens boots, and wouldn’t know a stiletto from a wedge heel), I gave her a ride home from the party. Now that I look at it, this wasn’t such a grand gesture since she lived half a block from my house, but I can tell you that not a single other person at that party would have given her a ride.

  Michelle and Tasha were just plain rude about the whole thing. Since Lana was on stakeout—and the party was less than a mile away and she’d never spot that on the odometer—I took her car, the backseat of which doubles as a landfill because my mother is a little messy. The three of us fit just fine on the front seat on the way to the party, and as tiny as Tasha is, she could have easily sat on Michelle’s lap on the way back. But those two refused to share the front seat with a Blood/Crip girl, as if she could do a drive-by on them from inside the car. So we spent about ten minutes moving food wrappers, several pairs of shoes (including a pair of mine I thought I’d lost a year ago), old newspapers, a couple of blankets, a locked suitcase with half a blond wig hanging out of it, and a set of binoculars (I had a hard time explaining those last two items) into the trunk so they could sit in the backseat.

  But MJ must have thought me giving her a ride was a big deal, because after that, she wanted to hang with me. This meant I had two different sets of friends because Tasha and Michelle didn’t want anything to do with her. I didn’t know what the big deal was. Aurora Ave has enough madness going on that a Blood/Crip girl is hardly noticeable. But Michelle and Tasha have their standards. Drug-dealing Donnell DTS is one thing, but MJ apparently crossed a line. She was the first girl ex-con on The Ave.

  I liked having a double life, sort of like Lana. I had to hide my friendship with MJ from Lana, who would never approve, which made the friendship all the more solid. Everything I did before MJ met Lana’s approval. I was about to be a junior in high school and I was way overdue for breaking out. Suddenly my life was not so lame. People who’d been picking on me since grade school stayed out of my way. And that girl who threatened me over Robert Tice? She even came by to tell me I could have him. Which would have been nice if I knew what to do with him because Robert is fine, but unfortunately he lost all interest in me once he heard I was friends with MJ. Even boys were afraid of her.

  A few weeks into hanging out with MJ, I felt as close to her as I ever did to Tasha. Having someone save you from a serious ass-kicking will bring you together quick because you get to bypass all the usual girlfriend, frenemy drama. And because MJ knew I was forever indebted, she felt completely safe in telling me the real story, which she decided to do one day when we were watching TV at her grandmother’s house.

  People thought it was wrong that her grandmother, whom everybody had called Big Mama long before MJ showed up, had to take in a juvenile delinquent in her golden years. Part of MJ’s probation agreement was that she not associate with the people she ran with when she was arrested. Her mother thought it best she just get out of town altogether, which was how she ended up with Big Mama, who is not exactly frail and helpless. When she’s not attending her church meetings, she’s running her numbers game—an illegal lottery for people who like the halfway decent odds of winning five hundred dollars from the numbers more than the impossible odds of winning 10 million in the state lotto.

  That was another thing I liked about MJ—there really was no wild and crazy side to her, even though that was what I originally wanted from our friendship. She liked some of the same things I did, like books and detective shows (except I silently rooted for the detectives while she cursed them out loud). Tasha and Michelle imagined we were out knocking over liquor stores or something, but mostly we just hung out at MJ’s place watching game shows and reruns of Law & Order, which is kind of interesting when you watch it with an ex-con after years of watching it with a cop.

  One day a few weeks into our friendship, we were watching Jeopardy. Neither of us had spoken except to answer Alex Trebek in the form of a question, so it surprised me when she offered a confession that I hadn’t even asked for.

  “Okay, I’m going to tell you what really happened in L.A. I’ve heard all the BS that’s out there and I want to set the record straight.”

  I muted the TV because even though I hadn’t asked for her confession, I’d been dying to hear it.

  “First, stop calling me Blood/Crip girl. I know you think it’s funny, but it’s kind of annoying. I was never a Blood or a Crip.”

  I didn’t say anything, but was surprised how disappointed I was in hearing this. Blood/Crip girl was part of MJ’s mystique.

  “If you get all your information from TV, you’d think those are the only gangs out there. I was part of the Down Homes. Never heard of them right?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Down Homes don’t get any respect outside of SoCal. I think it’s because it’s two words. A single word like Blood or Crip just sounds harder, you know?”


  I didn’t know, but nodded in agreement, pleased to learn that (a) MJ really was a gang girl after all, and (b) she agreed with me about the oversaturation the Bloods and Crips have gotten in the media.

  “I did spend some time in jail, but I was fifteen, so it wasn’t so-called hard time. That’s what people say who haven’t been in juvenile detention. Let me tell you, it’s hard in JD, especially in L.A. County.”

  “So what did you go in for? That’s what no one seems to know. Not that I’ve been gossiping about you or anything . . .”

  “It’s a’ight. I know people are talking. I know you have my back when they do, which is why I’ll tell you. Wrong place, wrong time, that’s all.”

  “That’s all?” I was really hoping that wasn’t all.

  “My boyfriend was in the Down Homes. I knew that when I met him. Where I lived, just about everybody wore colors, so I either had to be a nun or go out with a G. I also took my books seriously. I wanted to go to college, the whole nine. But I was in love with that boy for real. So I stayed with him even though I knew what he was about.”

  She stopped to ask if I wanted a Coke.

  Uh, no. I wanted to hear about the boy she loved enough to do time for, which was obviously where the story was headed.

  “One day he says he needs to go to the bank, and could I drive him because his license was suspended. I should have known something was wrong right there because of two things. One, he kept all his money at home where he could keep a better eye on it. He always said there was no better vault than a shoebox and a Smith and Wesson. He was funny as hell, way better than Chris Rock.”

  MJ stopped to laugh at the memory of this bit of comedy. I prompted her back on track by asking her about the other thing that should have clued her in about her hilarious boyfriend.

  “Oh yeah. He never cared before about driving on a suspended license. All of a sudden, he was law-abiding. He was almost twenty, and hadn’t had a license in two years. That’s just another way for the man to keep track of you.”

  “So he was really going to the bank to rob it?” I asked, in case she got sidetracked by stories of keeping ahead of the man. I know all about staying ahead of the man, since I live with him. Her.

  “You guessed it. I’m sitting in the car, and he comes out and says, ‘Let’s go.’ So I do. I don’t even know what’s happened until there’s a blue light on us. Then two more sets of blue lights. My first thought is whether we have any pot in the car. It didn’t even dawn on me that he’d just robbed the bank until the Five-Os jumped out of the car screaming ‘Put your hands up!’ They wouldn’t do all that over some weed. Not in L.A.”

  “So they got you as an ‘accessory after the fact.’ ”

  “Man, Chanti you watch too much Law & Order. Sound just like a cop. I’d probably been better off with you as my public defender. That dude was clueless, just out of law school. Got me close to two years in JD.”

  “So wait, how old are you? You said this happened when you were fifteen.”

  “I lied. I’m not sixteen. I’ll be a legal adult my next birthday, but I feel like I’ve been grown for a long time.”

  MJ was done with her confession. She took the TV off mute just in time for the Final Jeopardy round, which I got wrong and she got right. During the closing credits, a cruiser went down Aurora Ave running hot. MJ stopped smiling over her victory in Final Jeopardy and with a voice like ice said, “Man, do I hate the cops.”

  Chapter 10

  It’s one of those late-summer days that make me think I’ll never leave Colorado, even when I’m grown—mid-eighties, sky bluer than you could ever make up in a dream, the highest mountain peaks dusted with early snow. The sporting-goods stores have started running ski sales, but winter and snow seem so far away that you forget how cold November will be. It’s a day made for a convertible.

  I guess Bethanie isn’t certain she has my friendship yet because she insists on taking me shopping after school—her treat. When I told her I needed to dress business casual for my new job but I didn’t know exactly what that meant, she suggested I get a subscription to In Style magazine and said we were going to the mall. She doesn’t need to buy my loyalty, but I’m not doing much to stop her. If nothing else, I figure it will be a chance for me to see if she’ll be “borrowing” clothes from the mall or if she’ll be dipping into the glove box for some spending money. She still hasn’t let me in on the source of her funds.

  I text Tasha and Michelle that I won’t be joining them for our usual Friday happy hour—the buy-one-get-one deal on tamales at the Center Street bodega, then kick back and enjoy the ride to the mall. Call me shallow, but I like riding around in a brand-new BMW with the top down, people looking at us and assuming we’re rich girls. If I was with Tasha and Michelle and two girls went by in a car like this, we’d immediately start hating on them, angry it was them and not us.

  The wind blows a receipt from somewhere in the car into my lap. Bethanie doesn’t notice so I take a look. It’s from the campus bookstore, dated the first day of school, for a greeting card and a Montblanc pen. I see why Smythe got all agitated—it cost three hundred dollars! So the only thing Bethanie lied about that day is not noticing Lissa’s compliment about Smythe’s pen. Not only did she notice, she ran out and bought one just like it. I’d be embarrassed to admit that, too. But I’m glad to know the only thing she’s guilty of is having low self-esteem. Except now I’m wondering how she can afford to buy something that expensive. Bethanie says she isn’t broke, but it’s a big leap from not being broke to being able to buy overpriced stuff you don’t even need.

  Finding the receipt also leaves the question of who actually stole the pen. I know it wasn’t Marco, and the only other person in the room, the one who thought it was such a great pen, was Lissa. She was in the cafeteria when it went missing, but I still want to get the story on her because if anyone could make my life at Langdon miserable—other than Smythe—it would probably be her. It’s smart to have information on people who might one day cause problems.

  “You never gave me all the details of your ride with Lissa after y’all dropped me off. So what’s she like?”

  Lissa knew all about a neighborhood she’d never be caught dead in (mine). She says her maid lives around there, but I’m sorry, I just don’t see Lissa riding with her father to take the maid home. She’s the type who probably doesn’t even know her maid’s name.

  “At first she was kind of standoffish, but after we started talking fashion, we found some common ground.”

  “Enough to build a friendship on?”

  “It’s not about friendship, Chanti. This is business.”

  Now here’s something new. “Business?”

  “I want all the best. If she’s the person I need to run with to get it, then that’s what I’ll do. Friendship would be good, but that’s secondary.”

  I thought she already had all the best, but I keep quiet about that. And I make a mental note whether I can trust Bethanie with anything real, even though we now share secrets. She makes friendship sound a little disposable.

  “That’s why I’m going shopping today, too. For her party next weekend. She mentioned I might want to rethink my style, because your sense of style says more about you than words or actions.”

  “Wow, that’s deep.”

  “Well, I happen to agree with her.”

  “So she gave you style tips based on what? How you iron your uniform skirt? No one has any style wearing a uniform—thus the name. Uniform.”

  “Sure you can. She pointed out that my old manicure was inconsistent with my Coach bag. See?” she says, waving her right hand in my face. “I’ve changed it to a French manicure. More understated.”

  When I first met her, Bethanie had what I thought was a cubic zirconia glued onto her manicured pinkie fingernail. Now I wonder if it was a real diamond, but that’s still a little ghetto fabulous for a girl trying to feign Langdon style. I have to agree with Lissa on one point. Bethanie
is a walking inconsistency. She might be trying to cop Lissa’s style, but sometimes I get the feeling Bethanie is from around the way just like me.

  When we pull into a parking lot full of shiny new cars made everywhere but in America, Bethanie announces, “This is Cherry Creek Mall,” as if we’ve just arrived at the end of the yellow brick road. We’re walking toward the mall when a woman running away from it nearly knocks us down as she passes by.

  “Watch where you’re going!” Bethanie yells at the fleeing woman. “What was her problem? She’s running like she stole something.”

  It’s true. I’ve seen plenty of people running out of the Denver Heights Mall and usually someone was after them. In most cases, it was the off-duty cop the mall hired as security. I didn’t get a good look at the woman, but being Lana’s daughter, I watch to see where she goes. She stuffs two huge bags into the trunk of a tiny orange car, gets behind the wheel and guns it out of the lot. License-plate number 431ZTF2. The way she’s moving, I expect to see a couple of security guards run out the door after her, so I’m ready to give them a description of her car. But no one follows her.

  “Maybe she was just in a serious hurry to get home.”

  “Forget about her. We’ve got shopping to do,” Bethanie says.

  I have never seen so many designer bags and jeans on the arms and butts of girls my age, or younger in some cases. How is it possible to be thirteen and afford the kind of clothes these girls are rocking? Where I come from, you’d have to be a baller, rapper, or dealer to afford this stuff. Michelle had a Louis Vuitton wallet after she spent a few paychecks on it, but there was no way she could afford a whole bag. I thought it kind of defeated the purpose when she had to pull her LV wallet out of her Payless purse. But at least Michelle earned the right to spend stupid money; I doubt the girls in this mall earned theirs.

  “You ever been here before?” Bethanie asks, leading me into a store so shiny and bright that it almost makes sense some shoppers are wearing sunglasses inside. Even the sales racks appear to be made of gold. Ms. Reeves would pass out if she just walked past this place.