True Story

by Ni-Ni Simone

  Knock . . . Knock . . .

  “Shhh,” I whispered. “Don’t say a word. Maybe he’ll think we left.”

  We all stood like mannequins.

  “I know y’all are in there!” Courtney’s voice harassed us from the hallway.

  Knock . . . Knock . . .

  “Nobody’s home!” Khya yelled, and I could’ve slapped her.

  I popped my eyes and gave her a twisted stare.

  “What?” She looked confused. “Somebody had to tell him something. We couldn’t just stand here.”

  Shaking my head . . .

  Knock . . . Knock . . .

  “It’s me. Courtney.”

  “We know that already!” I yelled.

  “Cool. So I don’t have to reintroduce myself. Now, I hate to bother y’all and everything—”

  “But you are.” I snatched the door open.

  “And we got things to do and a party to get to.” Khya smacked her lips. She was now standing in the doorway next to me.

  “Two snaps up and fruitloop, that’s what I’ve been saying,” Courtney insisted. “We finally agree on something. Big Country is throwing his annual partay in the Dip-Threw, bay’bay, and I gotz to be in the building. Okay? So what y’all say? Let me stay one, two nights. Tops?”

  Khya glanced over at me. “I got this.” She turned back to Courtney. “You betta two snap that homeless ish to the park bench.”

  Khya and I slapped a high five with one hand and slammed the door in Courtney’s face with the other. “See ya. Wouldn’t wanna be ya!”

  2

  Brick house

  “I see dollar signs . . .”

  Meek Mill was on blast and everybody who was anybody was here in the one room concrete club, better known as the Dip-Threw; where all that mattered was what you had on, the music and how you were dancing to it! Some were sweepin’ the floor with it, some were embraced in a booty-clap-to-crotch dance. Others were breakin’ down the art of the New Orleans bounce. And if you were reppin’ for the ratchet clique, then you were where? Over there, posted against the wall.

  Moving on.

  There were Greeks who catcalled to the beat of the music and others who stepped alongside it.

  Food lined the bar: shrimp and crawfish po’boys, dirty rice, gumbo, and all the pop and spiked punch one could drink.

  For real, for real, from the moment my girls and I walked in here, I felt like Meek Mill was rapping our theme song!

  ’Cause I just knew we was gettin’ it.

  For starters, I was a curvaceously hot brick-house.

  And, yeah, I’d gained the infamous freshman five, courtesy of too many po’boys and soul-food Sundays at my boyfriend’s big ma’s house. But, magically, the five pounds dove straight for my behind and upgraded my booty to the University of Pow!

  Not that I’m bragging or anything, but my booty has swag . . . for days.

  And I love it.

  After all, I’ve struggled with the never-ending thought of, Am I too fat? for way too long. And, no, being a size fourteen (and sometimes sixteen) doesn’t make me the biggest in the world, but it makes me the biggest one in my crew.

  My twin sister, Toi, is the skinny one; and skinny and me never got along. Why? Because after the hot dog diet, the hamburger diet, the lemonade and cayenne pepper one, the Atkins diet, Slim-Fast, and a slew of other starve-today-just-so-you-can-binge-tomorrow concoctions, skinny always fled the scene. Always. Secretly leaving my self-esteem walking a tightrope.

  Until recently.

  When I decided that meat on my bones was not a crime and that I didn’t have body regrets. I had assets.

  I have a tight waistline. My legs are long and I work five-inch pencil heels better than Beyoncé. Well . . . almost. I just need to figure out how to wear them all night without my feet dying and needing life support.

  Simply put, I am a honey-colored hourglass with an extra fifteen minutes on the side and who doesn’t like more time?

  I rocked a pair of rugged-cut, dirty-washed denim ultrashort shorts with frayed edges; a fitted, off-the-shoulder gray tee with a pink chained heart in the center; an armful of my handmade wrist candy; and five-inch, peep-toe pencil heels.

  Khya, who the moment we walked in hopped on the makeshift stage and started booty popping like a headlining stripper, wore a black, fitted miniskirt and a tight, low-cut, black T-shirt with white letters that read Anti-Fake Boobs written across her double D’s. And Shae, who’d walked in the party and beelined straight for her boo, Big Country, wore a hot-pink, sleeveless tee with black boy-shorts and wedge heels.

  “Gurrrrrl,” Khya said, curling her lips. She’d stopped dancing long enough to hop off the stage and retrieve us a set of drinks. “This. Welcome. Back. To. Campus. Jammy. Jam. Is straight fiyah! Whoop-whoop!” She swung an arm in the air. “Hmph. Big Country may be a lot of things . . .”

  “Like a countrified pest,” I said and then sipped my Sprite.

  “Who reps I-95 South way too much.” She clinked the rim of her clear plastic cup against mine.

  “And he may call Shae pet names like Cornbread and Biscuits-n-Gravy,” I chimed in.

  “But one thing’s for sure and two things for certain . . .”

  “Big Country loves him some Shae.”

  “And when it comes to throwing a party and gettin’ Stiles U to tear da wall down, this dude is the truth!” She snapped her fingers.

  “Amen.”

  We slapped a high five, playfully bumped our hips against one another, and broke out into a freestyle dance.

  Big Country killed the ones and twos, mixing in a hot bass beat as he dropped the next hit, and the next, and the next. The crowd was live and had grown by the minute! People were everywhere, spilling out from the Dip-Threw and straight onto the courtyard.

  Big Country held an earphone to his right ear and said into the mic, “Straight from the Borooooo! Murfrees-borooooo, North Cak. A. Lacky, baby! I-95 South all up in the hizzouse! Welcome back to Stiles U! The only place in the world I wanna be!”

  “Umm-hmm,” Khya agreed. “Stiles U is the place to be . . . and, Seven, did you notice?”

  “Notice what?”

  “That Big Country is lookin’ real ripe tonight.” She twirled one of her twist-out curls.

  I did a double take and stared Big Country straight in the face. “Yeah. He is looking a little less Rick Ross-y and lot more bossy.”

  “Yes, honey. All that thickness has finally come together. All that acne is gone, that five o’clock beard is finally lined up and tamed, and that low caesar suits him well. He is reppin’ swell for the big boys. I might have to get me one.” She paused. “Oh . . . em . . . gee.”

  “Okay now, Khya, Big Country is not looking that dang sexy.”

  “Big Country?” She looked at me, confused. “Chile, please, Big Country is yesterday. Plus, he belongs to Shae. I’m talking about lil One O’clock Daddy posted over there by the bar.” She brushed invisible wrinkles from her hips and then pointed across the room.

  My eyes followed her fingertip toward a group of guys, two who faced us and three with their backs to us. The two who faced us wore brown-and-gold Sigma varsity jackets and khakis. The other three wore purple-and-gold Omega Psi Phi T-shirts and dark blue jeans.

  “Which one is One O’clock?” I asked.

  “The tall one.”

  “They’re all tall.”

  “The one on the right in the Sigma jacket.” Khya pointed and then snapped her fingers. “Girl, he looks so good I’m ’bout to rename him Husband.” She smacked her glossy lips.

  “Excuse you,” I said in disbelief. “Last we left off, you were booed up with Chad.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Sexy White Chocolate. Your boyfriend from last semester up until . . . this moment, I guess.”

  “Eww. Him?” She curled her lips. “He could never keep me booed up for two semesters. Like, gurl, bye. I don’t do that.”

  “Do what?”

&nbs
p; “Long romances. I don’t believe in the same man for too long. Then the next thing I know, after I bless him with some goodness, he’s stalkin’ me. And then I have to sprinkle a gris-gris on him and make him disappear. Needless to say, when Chad called me saying he loved me, it was turnoff number one. And that I should transfer from Stiles U to be with him at NYU, turnoff number two. I knew he had to go.”

  “What did you say to him?”

  “I didn’t say anything. I tweeted him. Told him I needed some time to think. Some space. And that it wasn’t him, it was me. And once I was sure he got that tweet, I blocked him.”

  “Khya!” I said in disbelief.

  “What? Plus, he was doin’ too much. Had I stayed with him, I would wake up one day and he’d be a gym teacher. Not on my love clock. That’s a no go for Khya. Besides, on my to-die-for list is starring on one of those housewives shows, so I had to get back to my motto: Next!”

  All I could do was laugh. “Thank goodness I am happily booed up.” I smiled. A wide smile. One where my dimples sank deep into my cheeks. “And as soon as my honey gets here, I’ma be just like Shae.”

  “What? Servin’ shrimp po’boys?” Khya looked disgusted.

  “No. Servin’ love.” I playfully did the runnin’ man, then paused in the middle of it, looked at Khya, and cheesed. Hard.

  “Well er’body can’t be like you or Shae. And that’s exactly why I’ma need you to go with me so I can run up on my future lil daddy . . .”

  “Run up on him and what?”

  “I’ma faint.”

  “What?” I looked at Khya like she had gone completely insane. “What is wrong with you?”

  “Don’t worry. The voodoo doll I have in my purse will make sure that he drools all over me until I come back to life.”

  “I’m not going over there for you to faint! What kind of sexy is that?”

  “Damsel in distress. White girls do it all the time.”

  “Nope. Not gon’ happen. Think of another hot-mama move.”

  Khya slammed a hand up on her hip. “Seven, maybe you don’t understand. One O’clock Daddy plays golf. And he is on his way to being the next Tiger Woods—except his name gon’ be Hood Woods. ’Cause he is minus the sex freak and the Korean.”

  “Golf?”

  “Yes, girl. Not all the brothahs are chasing behind balls and pushing ’em through baskets; some are in plaid pants and working the greens. Did you forget that Stiles U is a division-one school? We have the best, of the best, of the best, athletes here. That’s why I came here.” She paused. “Well . . . that and the education, but you get my point.”

  “Yeah, I get your point.”

  “I knew you would. Now look, let me tell you about Mister Pop-Pop-Make-Your-Panties-Drop. He’s a sophomore. But this is his first year at Stiles U. His real name is Devon Goods the third. He’s from California. Compton, California, to be exact. So we got a lil West-Side-Crips-walk in the house. He has two sisters. His grandmother died this summer, but it’s okay ’cause he didn’t really like the old heifer anyway. His religion is Catholic. And although I’m Southern Baptist, as long as he believes in Jesus”—she snapped her fingers—“it’s all right with me.”

  I blinked. Twice. I didn’t know what shocked me more: that Khya knew all of ole boy’s business or that she’d told all of it in practically one breath.

  “Are you serious? And how do you know all this?” I asked.

  “Facebook. As soon as I broke up with Chad, I did a search on all the athletic scholarships Stiles U awarded this year and his picture came up. Plus, I saw him on ESPN and I was in love from there. I sent him a friend request. He accepted it and I have been glued to his page ever since.”

  SMH. Only Khya.

  “Well, it sounds like he has potential, but I’m not going over there for you to faint. Not gon’ happen.”

  “Seven,” she whined, “I can’t go by myself.”

  “You can’t go with me either.”

  She sucked her teeth. “Okay, okay, what if I changed the approach?”

  “To what?”

  “I don’t faint. I just try and snatch a piece of his hair so I can work a new spell and maybe kick it to him later.”

  “Now you wanna attack him? This can’t be real.”

  “So then what’s your plan?”

  “You’re lucky you’re my girl, or else I would leave your crazy butt standing right here.”

  “Would you just tell me the plan?”

  “Okay, this is it. Are you ready?”

  “Yeah, just tell me.”

  “This is what you do: you simply walk up to him and say, ‘I’m Khya and you are?’ ”

  “How anticlimactic.”

  “Well then, go over there and faint. But I will not be going with you.”

  “All right. You are such a prude. This better work.”

  Khya and I clicked our heels toward the semicircle of cuties. Once we were close, my plan was to stand off to the side and give Khya enough room to do her thing, but she wouldn’t let me. Khya grabbed my hand and practically yanked me to the right of her. She stood in front of One O’clock Daddy, looked him over from head to toe, and then stopped and gasped at the cast on his left foot. She looked back up and into his face. “You’re on crutches? What happened to you?” She frowned.

  I couldn’t believe this. Her frowning and asking about his medical condition was not a part of the plan. What happened to her introducing herself? “Khya,” I said, as tight-lipped as possible. “Just tell him your name.”

  She looked back at him and gave a nervous chuckle, but before she could say anything, he asked her, “Do I know you?”

  “Nope,” Khya said quickly.

  “Say yes,” I mumbled.

  “No,” she mumbled back. “I don’t do injured athletes.”

  “You don’t do what?” One O’clock said, taken aback.

  “My fault.” Khya gave him a plastic grin. “I didn’t mean for you to hear that. I was . . . just coming over here to get introduced to your . . . friend.” She spun around and pointed at a tall, butter-colored cutie with a low, curly cut and a half smile on his face. I just knew for sure he was laughing at us. “I’m Khya,” she said to whoever this was. “And you are?”

  “Jaylyn.” He gave a full smile. “But you can call me Bling. That’s my line name.” He smiled and revealed a full grill of diamonds.

  Khya lit up like a country Christmas tree. “Oh! Look at you. You look real cute. That is soooooo hot, but does it come out?” She paused. “ ’Cause when you get to be like forty-five and ancient old, that might not be the look you need to be going for. Old G’s make my eyes hurt.”

  I couldn’t believe she said that.

  Bling must’ve thought Khya was cute because he smiled, bent down, and whispered something in her ear.

  Khya giggled and blushed. “Yeah. I guess we could make it happen.”

  I tapped Khya on the arm and asked, tight-lipped, “Make what happen? Khya—”

  “Oh word, it’s like that, Seven?” A familiar voice floated from behind me.

  Freeze...

  “You really gon’ keep your back turned to me and not even speak?” Instantly Khya and I both turned around, and standing there was my ex-boyfriend Josiah.

  Kill me . . .

  This dude was always somewhere I didn’t need him to be. Seriously, did he just walk up behind me or was he standing here the whole time gawking at me?

  Ugh!

  Josiah was truly the last person I wanted to see, especially since I’d just gotten to the place where I didn’t think about him anymore or have internal bouts of wondering what had happened between us.

  I should’ve known I would see him at this party though. After all, he was one of Stiles U’s all-star basketball players and Big Country was his boy. But still . . . we had a history... and it wasn’t pretty.

  After being together for almost three years (two years in high school and half a year at Stiles U), this dude went crazy on m
e. Lost his mind, and his morals. And while I was off loving him, he took my heart, my secrets, my dreams, my virginity, my faith and belief in him, laid it all on the bed, sandwiched it between him and some ho, and together they screwed me.

  Royally.

  And now he stood here trying to play me . . . again, like really?

  Just chill.

  I twisted my lips and just as I was about to work through my attitude enough to be cordial to him, something came over me and forced me to say, “Yes. I can speak. But I didn’t.” I turned back toward Khya and Bling.

  “I see you still feeling some kinda way.” Josiah chuckled arrogantly.

  Rewind. What did he just say to me?

  I whipped back around, looked at Josiah like he was crazy, and what did he do? He laughed in my face. And the single dimple in his left cheek lit up. Ugh, I hated that he was so fine all the time! I mean, Jesus, did this dude ever have a busted day? Everything about him reminded me of my weaknesses: Tall—six-four. Smooth skin the color of caramel.

  He’d gotten a little more buff since the last time I had seen him; and his hard, protruding pecs definitely had a presence as his deep purple Omega Psi Phi T-shirt, with Big Brothah Fly written in gold, lay nicely over them. His baggy jeans fit just right and his purple Nikes . . . oh, baby, this dude was doin’ it in the deliciously cute department.

  But. What. Ever.

  Because I knew that underneath all that fineness was a creep. Plain and simple.

  My eyes inched over Josiah from head to toe as I curled my upper lip and said, “I’m definitely not feeling any kind of way but happy. ’Cause from what I see, you did me a favor, boo.”

  “So then tell me.” He took two steps toward me and boldly stroked the right side of my hair, tucking it behind my ear. “Why you mad?”

  Did he just touch me? “Boy, I don’t have time for you.”

  “You need to learn to tell the truth.” He took two more steps toward me and we were chest to chest with my back pressed against the bar. My heart pounded like thunder and I wondered if he could feel it.

  “Why’s your heart beating so fast?” he asked.

  Silence.

  “I know why, ’cause you and I both know you gon’ always have a place for me.”