by 50 Cent
I could fill in the rest in my sleep, so I decided to save her the trouble. “Yeah, yeah, I got it. There’s been a big emergency and the hospital has a staff shortage and if you don’t clock in right this very minute, the whole place will fall apart and burn right to the ground. Is that pretty much the gist?”
Mom sighed and reached out to rub my arms. “Oh, Bunny, I’ve been looking forward to surprising you all week. But you know I’ve only been at St. Vincent’s for a couple of months, and I already missed all those days when you were home. If they don’t think they can lean on me, well, by the time I qualify as a nurse, who knows if they’ll want to keep me on there? I mean, in this job market, I really am lucky to have gotten such a great job so close to home. I don’t want to take any chances.”
“Aight, I got you. It’s cool because I already had plans today, anyway.”
Mom’s face lit up, and she leaned back in her chair as if to inspect me from a new angle. “You did? With who?” She seemed to have forgotten that I was grounded for life.
“Just with some guys, Mom,” I said. “You wouldn’t know them.”
“Oh, well, that’s just wonderful, Bunny. I’m so pleased to hear that. Do you need some money?”
I shook my head, but she was already fishing through her wallet. Whoa, this was weird. She took out a ten-dollar bill—a small fortune in the brain of my cheapskate mom—and placed it in front of me on the table. “Here you go, sweetie. Don’t spend it all in one place, okay?”
“Thanks, Ma,” I grumbled, trying not to let her see me rolling my eyes. “Just send me a text when you’re on your way back, will you?”
“You know I always do. It should be before midnight, I promise you that.”
Before midnight, I thought. That was just great.
7
I spent the next four hours editing footage off my camera and wishing I had a real computer to store it all on. Then I could really make some cinema. Yeah, right—maybe next lifetime. When I was done, I plopped onto the couch and tried to find something decent to watch on TV. But my mom refuses to spend money on cable, so it was all stupid kids’ cartoons and a bunch of old white guys sitting around talking about the state of the world. Sometime around two, when there were no more pancakes in the apartment, I laced up my sneakers and headed outside to see if anything was happening on the mean streets of Garden City. Ha.
I’d been walking up and down Elgin Avenue, filming the shadows my legs made on the cracked sidewalk, when I saw that guy Andres from my class.
“Yo, Butterball!” he called out to me. He was coming out of the Checkers with a big soda cup in his hand. I waited for the light to turn and jogged over toward him.
“Hey, man,” he said when I caught up with him. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing, man, just roaming the streets,” I said. “Heading over to the bodega for a PowerQuench and that’s about it.”
“I’ll come with you,” Andres said, and I hoped he didn’t see the smile that spread across my face when he clapped me on the shoulder kind of like we was friends. “A bunch of the guys are heading over to the playground to shoot some hoops if you wanted to come with us.”
“Yeah, that sounds fun,” I said, and it did. But the truth is, I’m a terrible basketball player, like one of the all-time worst. I was bad even before I put on all this extra weight, and now . . . Well, now I couldn’t even imagine. “But I hurt my foot when I was suspended,” I went on. “I was hanging with my dad in the city and this crazy guy on a motorcycle swerved onto the sidewalk and almost took my foot off.”
This had actually happened—but to my dad, and about seven years ago. He still talked about it all the time. Andres, luckily, wasn’t paying much attention. He only nodded and said, “Yeah, I’m not playing either. There’re gonna be girls there, and I’m putting my energy where it matters.”
He laughed and though I didn’t really get it, I joined in. Pretty soon we’d walked the four blocks down Elgin that led to the playground of our school, the exact place where Maurice and I had faced off just two weeks—but what felt like a lifetime—ago. It seemed like a kind of weird place to hang out on the weekend, but Garden City isn’t that exciting a town, and we had to work with what we got.
When we got there no one was playing basketball. It was just me, Andres, Bobbie, and Darrell, who I didn’t know all that well. After we’d sat around for a couple of minutes a group of girls showed up. They all ignored me, of course—Janine went right up to Darrell, who I guess she was dating, and the rest of them huddled on the asphalt a few feet away from us guys, where they proceeded to whisper and stare and giggle every couple of seconds.
I was just standing around, not talking to anyone and wondering if maybe it wasn’t such a hot idea for me to have come here, when Nia walked onto the court.
She looked over at me, then just as quickly flicked her eyes away and headed over to join the semicircle of girls. I knew I had to say something to her, but I wasn’t sure where to begin, or how. After a few minutes I decided to just ask her directly. What’d I have to lose?
“Yo, Nia, how you doing?” I called over to her.
The group of girls burst into laughter, but not Nia. She just flinched a little before quickly composing her face into a smile. Before, Nia had been the one, the only one, who’d been nice to me, but now she seemed, I don’t know, almost frightened.
Andres poked me in the side. “Go on, go talk to her. You can tell she’s itching to get down with old Butterball!”
I glanced over at Nia again, hoping she hadn’t heard. Before Andres could make any other jokes, I went ahead and shuffled over to her. At my approach, her four friends dispersed like birds who’d just had a rock thrown at them. “You aight?” I said.
She nodded but still wouldn’t look at me. “Sure I’m all right. Why wouldn’t I be?”
I decided I might as well just come out and say it. “Hey, Nia, that thing you saw?” I said. “It wasn’t what you thought. I mean, Maurice and me, we had a private score to settle, that’s all. He only got what was coming to him, know what I mean?”
Nia kept her eyes firmly fixed on the asphalt under our feet. “It was awful what you did to him. I mean, what could he possibly have done to deserve that? I’ve known Maurice since kindergarten, and he’s always been a nice guy. And now—I mean, you ruined him, Butterball, you know that? He’s starting at Strake next week, did you hear? One week back at Watkins and he couldn’t handle it. So his parents transferred him out.”
I didn’t like it, the way Nia was lecturing me, almost like she was Liz or Evelyn or something. It wasn’t cool. “Yeah, well, his damn parents can afford it, so lucky for Maurice he finally got his wish. It’s always been his dream to go to a fancy school with a bunch of tight-ass kids with their heads buried in books all the time. I mean, really, what could be better for Maurice—a place where he can be surrounded by even more white people?”
I laughed at the expression on Nia’s face and went on, “I only wished I’d gotten to see him one more time, if you know what I mean, before he took off. See if he’d learned his lesson for good.”
Nia had no response to this, but she looked more freaked out by me than ever.
“Hey, Butterball, man, c’mere,” Bobbie called out suddenly, and I glanced over toward the basket where he and the guys were still standing in a semicircle. The girls were several few feet away all huddled together. Only me and Nia were on our own, a good distance down the court from the rest of them. She was still looking away from me, so I trotted over to Bobbie and the guys.
“So what were you and Nia talking about so hush-hush like that?” Andres wanted to know.
I shrugged. “Nothing much. Just talking.”
“Do you like Nia?” Andres asked me, a smile spreading across his face.
“Yeah. I mean, she’s a really nice girl. I like talking to her.”
This, for some reason, cracked the boys up. They all exchanged fist bumps, and Bobbie said, “Ah, yeah, talk
ing to her. That’s what I like to do with the shorties.”
But then Andres got serious all of a sudden. “So speaking of Nia,” he said, “you know she’s got a big party planned two weeks from now, don’t you? Her mom’s gonna be outta town, so it’s gonna be bumping.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I think I might’ve heard something about it.”
“And do you know who’s gonna be at that party?” Andres asked. “You know a guy by the name of Terrence Jackson?”
I shook my head. “Should I?”
“Don’t know. He lives around here, but he goes to Central now.”
“Yeah, and thank God for that,” Bobbie murmured. “I’d kill that mofo dead if I had to see his face every day.”
“I’d do the same if someone stole my girl,” Darrell said.
“His girl?” I glanced over at Janine, who was against the fence, whispering something into Nia’s ear. I saw Nia giggle. “You mean Janine?” I asked.
“Hell, no, I don’t mean Janine!” Bobbie said, sounding almost annoyed. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, she’s a nice enough girl, but Janine’s main advantage is that she’s around.”
“But I thought—”
“Nah, man, I’m talking about Tammy. That girl was fine.”
“He was psycho over her,” Darrell said. “Totally psycho.”
“Yeah,” Andres said. “The only girl our man ever really liked.”
Bobbie exhaled noisily through his mouth. “Yeah, and Terrence started messing around with Tammy behind my back, and no one’s ever done that to me before. And now I hear he’s got his sights set on Nia—that’s how come he’s going to her party, you know? To put the moves on her hard.”
“So Terrence and Tammy aren’t together anymore?” I was having a little trouble following the whole deal.
The boys all exchanged glances. “No, man, aren’t you following at all?” Andres said. “A dog like that, he moves fast. He don’t stick with any one woman for too long. Terrence is showing up at that party to put the moves on Nia, and there’s only one way to stop that from happening.” The three of them were looking right at me.
“How’s that?” I asked slowly.
“Well, by him getting punished, that’s how,” Andres said this as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “By our man Butterball, to be more precise.”
“Yeah,” Bobbie said, “a nice sock in his teeth might teach that dog a thing or two about whose girls not to mess with.”
I remembered that strange sad look that had flickered across Nia’s face a few minutes earlier and shook my head. “But Nia’s not my girl,” I said, and she wouldn’t be in a million years. “And I’ve never even heard of the guy—Terrence, you said his name was? Besides, I’m not even sure if I’m invited yet, you know?”
The boys totally cracked up at this. “Invited?” Andres said. “Are you joking, boy? You mean you’re waiting for a card in the mail, like? Oh, man, Butterball, sometimes I gotta wonder about what goes on in that fatass brain of yours.”
“That’s not what I meant, man,” I said, straightening myself up. “It’s just that I might be in the city that weekend, that’s all. I never know what my schedule with my dad is in advance. He’s a busy guy.”
“Yeah, well, if you do make the party,” Andres said, “just don’t forget the batteries, aight? That’s all I’s saying.”
“Yeah, Nia would totally love that shit,” Bobbie said. “Show her who’s boss.”
“Got it,” I said. “Show her who’s boss. Yeah, I get you.”
8
That Monday, Liz was back at it again with the annoying-ass questions. I swear she could look at me without blinking for what felt like the whole forty-five minutes, and if I was getting used to the ugly sailboat painting, her long-ass stares still wigged me out a little.
“Would you say your mom’s schedule makes you unhappy ?” Liz asked me for maybe the tenth time since I’d started coming here. For Liz, repetition was really the spice of life.
“Nah, not at all,” I said. “I like it, actually, because I get more time to kick back with my friends and shoot my movies and shit like that. Plus it’s nice that mom has a little more money than she ever did before. It makes shit more comfortable, you know?”
Not that she usually spent any of her cash on me, I thought, glancing down at my raggedy-ass sneakers. But whatever. Mom truly believed that all her penny-pinching would somehow “open doors” for me in the future, and at least my dad wasn’t as tight-fisted with his cash.
Which reminded me: I had to ask him for some new shoes. This weekend, I’d bring it up. My dad definitely understood the importance of a man looking his best, or so he was always telling me, and it had been almost a year since I’d asked him to buy me anything. There was no way he could turn me down.
“Tell me, were you ever angry at your mom for packing up your lives and moving out here? Maybe a little in the very beginning?”
I thought about this. “Angry? Nah, I’m not sure I’d use that word. She has her reasons for doing stuff.”
“And have the two of you ever talked about what those reasons are? What I mean to say is . . . Well, I’m sensing some anger in you, in the way you talk about your mother and the move out here, and I just wondered if you’ve ever really had it out with her about your issues.”
I shook my head. It really was crazy, the extent to which Liz just didn’t get it. “Issues? I don’t care what shit you’re sensing, but I don’t have any issues, lady, I mean Liz. And besides, that’s not really my mom’s style. What’s that thing she always says? Oh, yeah. ‘I’m a doer, not a talker.’ And that’s pretty much true. My mom probably would have driven my dad crazy a lot earlier if she’d been into that touchy-feely shit.”
“Do you ever wish your mom was different?” Liz asked. “That she was easier to talk to?”
I scoffed at this. “Why would I? I love my mom, always have and always will. Sure, we have our fights, and yeah, sometimes I’m not as into this town as she is, but so what? Anyway, she’s right. It doesn’t do anyone any good to talk about stuff, you know?”
“Well, if it doesn’t do any good to talk about stuff, then why exactly are you here?” Liz asked.
I mean, damn, would she never get it into that brain of hers that I was here because I had to be here? Because I had like the opposite of a choice in the matter?
She must’ve seen the look on my face because she quickly changed her tune. “A little earlier you said your mom and you fight sometimes. What do you fight about exactly, would you say?”
“I don’t know. All kinds of things. Just the regular mom stuff.”
“Like what? Can you give me one specific example?”
Liz was really irritating me now. “I told you I don’t know! Like, she makes me look stupid sometimes, the way she treats me. And I never can have people over to our place because . . .”
“Because why?” Liz prodded.
“Because she’s never around long enough to clean it up and it looks like shit all the time, that’s why,” I snapped. “You’d think a woman so set on bettering our lives would clean up the kitchen once a month or so, but then you’d be dead wrong. My mom’s so busy cleaning up after people at work all the time that she never has time to clean up after herself. At least that’s her excuse.”
Liz was eyeing me with a new expression, and I realized I’d broken my own rules and let myself get a little heated up. She looked almost proud of herself, and that wasn’t gonna fly with me.
“Have you ever talked to her about that?” she asked gently, but I could see through her whole deal. “About how the mess really bothers you?”
“Yo, I’m not saying it bothers me, aight? I’m just saying it’s a thing my mom and I fight about sometimes, since you asked for specifics and all. She always says I should start by cleaning up after myself, but that’s not really the point, know what I mean? When she lived with my dad, she always kept the place real tidy, but now, well . . . I don’t k
now what’s happened to her since then. It’s kind of like she’s just given up on a bunch of shit.”
Liz didn’t say anything for a while, almost as if by waiting she’d trick me into talking again. But this time I wasn’t having it. I could stare as good as anyone else.
“What else, then? Any other sore subjects?” Liz asked after maybe five minutes of this forced silence. She had her pen poised right over that spiral. But she had another think coming because I was finished.
“Nope, not really. My whole situation is pretty sweet. I mean, in a funny way, my mom and I get along better on account of not seeing each other all that much, you know? We don’t get the chance to get up in each other’s grill like we used to. I get the best of both worlds, kind of. Relaxing school shit out here, and crazy fun weekends in the city with my dad.”
Liz nodded slowly, and to tell the truth she looked a little pissed, though why that could be I had no idea. Then she looked straight at me. “Butterball”—she always drew in a little breath before she could bring herself to say it—“I really believe you wouldn’t be coming here if your life were so perfect.”
“Yeah?” I met her stare. “That’s funny because I’m was pretty sure I was coming here on account of hitting Maurice. I don’t know what the hell that has to do with my life one way or another.”
“And why exactly did you hit Maurice?” she asked me challengingly. “That’s the question we still haven’t come close to answering.”
“Ah, lady,” I said, “I mean, Liz. If you knew that, you’d know everything, wouldn’t you? And no offense, but I ain’t about to let that happen.”
Liz let out a long breath—yep, she’d sure met her match this time—and leaned back in her chair. “All right then,” she said. “Let’s back up a little. How about you tell me about your first day here? Your first day at Watkins, I mean. Anything stand out for you?”