Hotlanta

by Mitzi Miller

  “Cash rules everything around me, Cream! Get the money, dolla dolla bills y’all!” Lauren bobbed her head along with the Wu-Tang Clan CD she was playing for inspiration as she pulled into the decrepit parking lot strewn with empty beer bottles and other assorted litter. This was where Trip Johnson, the famous rap video director, would decide which girls got to star in the video for Thug Heaven’s next single. Lauren was convinced this was where she was going to become famous.

  The blast of music from Lauren’s cell phone interrupted her impromptu Wu-Tang karaoke moment. “You all right?” Lauren heard her kinda-sorta boyfriend, Donald Aller, yelling into her phone. “What’s all that screaming? And why you sound all out of breath?”

  “I was rapping, loser.” Lauren laughed. “I thought I wasn’t ever going to get here—damn Friday evening traffic.”

  “So, nobody in your family knows where you are right now?” Donald questioned.

  “Are you kidding me? Keisha Duke would rather lay down in the driveway and let me climb behind the wheel of the family CL5 and drive full speed over her prone body, then back up and do it again and again before she’d approve of her precious seventeen-year-old daughter traveling to the hood to stuff her ass into an extra-small pair of La Perla hot pants and shake her half-naked badonkadonk in the new Thug Heaven video. In the Swats, no less.” Lauren laughed. “Ain’t no way. They think I’m at practice.

  “My agent told me I have a serious shot at this one,” Lauren said to Donald as she turned off the engine and checked her hair in the rearview mirror. “He said all I have to do is show up in something hot and super sexy and be ready to impress Trip with my moves.”

  “You been practicing, right?”

  “Come on now—I’ve been studying BET like it’s the SAT. You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to know what they’re looking for: You gotta be pretty, have long hair, know how to dance, and be real limber. Oh, and show more skin than clothes.”

  “Well, ain’t no doubt you fit all those categories.” Donald laughed.

  “Damn, Skippy. I’m about to pimp this right here,” she said as she took a swig of Diet Coke, dusted bronzer on her face, and fished around for her misplaced Lipglass—the latest shade of the Viva Glam collection was her current obsession. “Okay, gotta run,” she told Donald.

  “All right, sweetie—break a leg.”

  “Call you later,” she said, and hung up the phone. Then she adjusted her cropped blazer and stepped out of the car. Glass crunched under her feet. “We ain’t in Buckhead anymore, Dorothy.” She laughed to herself as she made her way toward the cameras, consciously putting a little extra twist to her hips for anyone watching. She spotted Dough Boy and Candy Man in the middle of a sea of guys in baggy pants and oversize white T’s and jerseys, Heinekens and Red Stripes sweating in their palms. She tossed her hair and put on her best sexy smile.

  “Over there,” a big, burly, bald-headed bruiser shouted gruffly, folding his arms for emphasis. He was as tall and wide as a wall; Lauren could barely see the crowd beyond his girth.

  “Pardon me?” She looked over each of her shoulders to see if he was talking to someone else.

  “Pardon you, huh? Let me rephrase.” He talked loud enough to draw the attention of a few of Thug Heaven’s boys. “Take yo’ ass over there with all the other yams and wait your turn. Mr. Pinner will start calling groups out shortly. Thank you.”

  Dayum!

  Embarrassed, Lauren hurried in the direction of his pointed finger. The laughter from the boys filled the air like it was her personal walking soundtrack. Now was all that necessary? She was even more jittery when she got to the other side of the parking lot and realized that there were a good forty girls ahead of her—all in various states of undress, looking much more scandalous than even Lauren could muster. They were waiting their turn to dance in groups of three for the choreographer, a random white guy with a pinched-up face, and a white woman who appeared to be as stiff as the clipboard she was holding.

  “Next!” the clipboard woman yelled. “Ladies—pay attention! We do not have all night. When it’s your turn, do the dance the choreographer demonstrates for you, then step over here to Mr. Pinner, who will let you know if you’re in or not. And turn off the damn cell phones!”

  Lauren pulled her jacket a little tighter around her chest, then thought better of it when she took another look at the amply exposed skin of the girls in front of her. Now’s not the time to be shy, she thought as she unfastened the top button, sucked in her stomach, squared her shoulders to make her chest look bigger, and tried to reclaim the warm and fuzzy feeling of confidence she’d had on the drive over.

  A couple of the thugs walked over, clapping and rubbing their hands together like they were about to say grace. “There’s some hoes in this house, there’s some hoes in this house!” one said, breaking out into song. Another walked right up to the two girls standing in front of Lauren and started kicking game.

  “So, how bad you wanna be in this video?” one with a twinkling gold grill asked, his eyes moving down from their breasts to their hips. “’Cause me and Dough, we can make it happen. If you can make it happen,” he added. But this time he looked at Lauren.

  “Oh, yeah?” one of the girls said, stepping up to him and turning his face back toward hers. “I like a brother who can make it happen, especially if he’s bringing Dough.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” the other guy said, clapping his hands.

  “What about you, shawty?” Gold Grill asked in a thick southern drawl, shifting his attention again to Lauren.

  Lauren froze. Was he serious? She didn’t know whether to puke or run but figured if she didn’t say anything he’d leave her alone.

  When he realized she wasn’t paying him any mind, he got ugly. “Forget you, then. This ain’t no place for children. Got plenty ‘nuff grown-up ass to go around,” he said. The other girls rolled their eyes and fell out laughing.

  Just as the group ahead of her reached the clipboard lady, Lauren’s Sidekick rang out Cee-Lo’s “Closet Freak.” It was Sydney.

  “What?” she whispered, so that nobody would notice her talking.

  “Listen, Daddy called me. He’s out. He’s staying at Aunt Lorraine’s in the West End and he wants us to come see him. I’m heading over there tomorrow morning before my charity work. You in?”

  Lauren reeled back from the phone like it was a scorching eight hundred degrees.

  “Lauren? Can you hear me? Where are you? What’s with that loud crunk shit?”

  “Never mind the music,” Lauren snapped as she watched the girls finish the dance and walk over to Mr. Pinner. Just that second, she was sorry that, in a weaker state, in the rush of excitement about securing an agent and her first video go-see, she’d told her twin about the whole video thing. Somewhere, somehow, that mess was going to come back to haunt her—this much, she knew. “I’m busy.”

  “Did you even hear what I said? Daddy’s out. And he wants to see his girls.”

  “Oh, now he wants to see us? Eleven years later?” Lauren snarked. The mere mention of her father dragged up memories of all the family dirt she tried so desperately to forget. Her mom didn’t want anything to do with Dice and had forbidden her daughters to contact him under any circumstances. After all Keisha had done to make a better life for them, the idea that Sydney actually kept in touch with the bastard who’d left their family high and dry made her nauseous.

  “Whatever,” Sydney said, and the phone went dead.

  “Damn!” Lauren said between clenched teeth as she looked at her cell to see if that heiffa really had hung up on her. She was about to call her sister back and give her a good and righteous curse-out when Clipboard Lady yelled, “Next!” in her direction.

  Lauren put her Sidekick on vibrate, tossed it into her purse, and strutted her way toward the dance area. All distractions aside, she had every intention of nailing her steps, particularly since most of the girls before her hadn’t been able to get
the choreography. As the captain of the varsity dance team at Brookhaven Prep, she had the uncanny ability to imitate, upon one showing, any choreography presented to her. Not to mention, she knew how to work her sexiness to make the football players’ tongues wag.

  The music was cued up and the choreographer quickly ran through a tight sequence of steps. She watched him intently and committed them to memory. The music was cued up again, and they were counted down. Five, six, seven, eight!

  She and the two girls who were in front of her bounced and threw their hands in the air. Pivot. Pivot. Turn. The music burned through Lauren, and she popped her limbs to the beat. Then she turned to twist into a roll. But instead of going left as directed, Lauren dived right. Right into another girl’s breasts.

  “Damn!” she yelled, practically falling backward.

  “Stop the music—just stop it,” Clipboard Lady yelled. “Next!”

  “But we didn’t even get to finish our routine,” one of the girls whined. “She ruined our chance!”

  Lauren said nothing. She was shaking. When it came to dancing, she never, ever made mistakes.

  “Jessica, send those two over to me,” yelled Mr. Pinner, who was standing a few yards away with the entourage, all of whom were grinning from ear to ear.

  “What about this one?” Clipboard asked, holding Lauren by the shoulder.

  Pinner flicked his wrist away dismissively and turned back to his crew, who by then had circled around the two girls like vultures swooping down on their prey.

  Lauren slunk back to her ride.

  “Well, if it isn’t Pardon Me,” someone called out after her. She tried not to give him too much attention—just kept walking. “I’m sayin’ if you wanna be down, you could always just go down, shawty.” He laughed evilly.

  Lauren convinced herself not to Marion Jones it the rest of the way to the car, but she locked the doors as soon as she slammed the driver’s side shut. Just then, she felt her cell phone vibrating in the purse on her lap. The number was unfamiliar.

  “What?” she practically yelled into her phone.

  “Hey, baby girl,” the man on the other end said slowly. “That the way you always answer your phone?”

  Lauren should have expected that her dumb-ass sister would give their sperm donor her cell phone number.

  “You got the wrong number,” she barked, determined to keep the conversation short and simple.

  “Come on, Dewdrop. Don’t do me like that,” Dice implored, pulling out Lauren’s childhood nickname for old time’s sake. “Your sister gave me your number. But don’t worry, she already warned me that you probably don’t want to be bothered with me.”

  “Well, for once, my sister got the message right,” Lauren snapped.

  “You need to know I’ve been wanting to see you for the longest time, but since your mama wouldn’t bring y’all to see me…” Dice continued.

  “First of all, don’t blame my mother for us not seeing you. You’re the one who got locked up,” Lauren said through clenched teeth, cutting her father’s sentence short. “Seems like she managed to make all the right decisions for us without you, so don’t you ever question her. And second, I ain’t Sydney. You may have fooled her into thinking you care, but you’re not fooling me. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere to be, and it ain’t with you.”

  “Well, baby girl,” Dice said, resignation creeping into his voice, “if you change your mind, I’m at 1315 Hope Street. Your Aunt Lorraine will be happy to let you in.”

  3

  SYDNEY

  “Whew. I thought that damn meeting was never going to end,” Carmen complained bitterly fifteen minutes later as they finally headed toward the school’s exit.

  “Who are you telling? I was about to straight fall asleep up in there tonight,” chimed in Sydney’s other tight girl, Rhea. Sydney and Rhea had become close when they shared the same eighth-grade gym class. Rhea was the daughter of a lawyer and spoke three different languages, her favorite of all being the Angry Black Woman Curse Out. “And for the record, if Dawn said just one more word about the damn napkin holders, I swear I was going to leap across the table and strangle her!”

  “You know she could care less about the Gala,” Carmen sneered. “She’s just miserable because of what happened with Alonzo.”

  “Let’s change the subject, shall we?” Even though she privately agreed with her girls, as a rule Sydney Duke did not gossip, talk trash, or engage in catty behavior in public. She was better than that. “As long as the Gala is a success, I could care less about Dawn and Alonzo.”

  “I’m just saying, Syd,” Carmen started again, “she needs to stop showing out ‘cause she’s bitter. Everyone can’t be the black Barbie and Ken like you and Marcus.”

  “‘Marcus and I are going to the movies. Marcus and I are going to feed the homeless. Marcus and I are going to get married.’ Marcus, Marcus, Marcus,” Rhea mocked Sydney in a high-pitched voice. “I’m surprised you two haven’t totally morphed into one person.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Syd hedged as she fingered the new Chanel charm bracelet that Marcus had given her on their fourth anniversary. She tried to casually look toward the school entrance for his car’s headlights as she braced for the inevitable “we love Marcus but he takes up all your free time” discussion.

  “Sure you don’t. And I guess you also haven’t noticed that every time we try to make plans with you, it requires two weeks’ advance notice because you’re constantly overbooked saving the world or spending quality time,” Rhea said.

  “You guys have been complaining about this for as long as Marcus and I have been dating. Don’t you ever get tired of repeating yourselves?” Sydney snapped back as they reached the curb. Normally, she would simply pacify her girls with an apology and the promise of a ladies’ night out. But little did they know that she literally had to threaten Marcus with bodily harm to even get this little movie date scheduled. So she certainly wasn’t about to let them jump all over her because of it.

  “Come on now, Sydney,” Carmen said, softening. “We’re just saying Marcus can’t be your whole life.”

  “My whole life isn’t about Marcus!” Sydney insisted as she peeled off her jean jacket. Even though the sun had set, the humidity was getting worse by the second.

  “Then prove it,” challenged Rhea. “Come with us to check out the AKA’s open mic night at the AU Student Union tonight.”

  Sydney avoided eye contact by fumbling in her purse. “I can’t,” she sighed. “Marcus will never let me hear the end of it if I skip out on tonight—”

  “See?” Rhea taunted, with her hands on her hips. “You say being a strong black woman is a priority, but you’re really all about your man.”

  “Oh, please, Rhea. One thing has nothing to do with the other. Just because I’m happy in my relationship does not mean I’m not a strong black woman or a good friend!”

  “You know what? You may be right, Sydney,” Rhea spit back. “However, it does mean you’re an unavailable friend.”

  Sydney’s mouth dropped open. She instinctively looked to Carmen, who was studiously reapplying her lip gloss, for some backup.

  “She’s right, Syd,” Carmen finally agreed. “I feel like the three of us have barely hung out the last few months, except when we drive to committee meetings and stuff. Marcus is my boy, but the whole drop everything when he calls is so caveman.”

  “Exactly. Let’s go, Carm.” Rhea turned on the heel of her boot and stomped off.

  “But I’ll definitely hit you up later and let you know what you missed, Syd,” Carmen called over her shoulder as she followed immediately behind Rhea.

  “Whatever.” Sydney tapped the redial button on her cell. She wasn’t about to defend the time she spent with her man to anybody. Speaking of which, where was Marcus?

  Thirty minutes, fifteen text messages, and ten phone calls later, Sydney’s ass was still sitting on the curb, and she was fuming. A mere two months
ago, something like this would never have happened.

  Seriously.

  Until two months ago, Marcus was the perfect boyfriend. Cosigned by both Sydney’s social-climbing mother and her extremely overprotective stepfather, Marcus Green had a reputation for outstanding community service and stellar academic achievement that had been well established since the seventh grade. It seemed only natural that he, the official good-black-man in training, and Sydney, the Duke family’s golden girl, would be together. Not to mention how much Marcus’s mother, Ms. Althena Green (the hard-nosed, revolutionary, former Black Panther-turned-city councilwoman), L-O-V-E-D Sydney. Both parents and peers admired the couple equally. Aside from his occasionally controlling, slightly chauvinistic, somewhat opportunistic attitude, Marcus Green was the cream of Atlanta’s young, progressive African-American crop. And simply put, life couldn’t have gotten any better—except that for some reason, ever since junior year had started two months ago, Marcus had been acting real funny.

  Sydney knew Marcus was busy studying for the SAT on top of his numerous extracurricular activities. But dammit, she was, too. Yet she found the time in her busy schedule to try to make room for their relationship. Whenever she tried to talk to him about it or about the distance growing between them, he insisted she was being emotional and overreacting. But now he had her sitting out in front of a deserted high school in the middle of the night because he wouldn’t answer his phone. And there was nothing emotional about that.