by Ni-Ni Simone
Silence.
“I mean, we could go to the movies, bowling. We spent a lot of time in the house this summer. But let’s change things up a bit. Because, babe, I’m starting to feel like . . . well . . . what I mean is . . . I don’t want our relationship . . . I mean I don’t want you to see me . . . or me to see you . . . as like, ummm . . .” Boring. “I just want us to have a little more fun. What you think of that?”
Silence.
Oh God. He’s not saying anything. He’s mad.
I swallowed.
“Boo, I don’t want you to take what I said the wrong way.” I held my head up and looked into Zaire’s face.
Oh . . . Um . . . Gee . . .
Like, really?
Really!
He’s ’sleep. Freakin’ ’sleep. ’Sleep on my freakin’ Saturday. My effen time.
’Sleep!
See, this is some bull!
I stared at Zaire and he had the nerve to suck in a breath and release a snore.
I promise you I felt like gut-punching him. I knew he was tired. I knew he worked six days a week. I got that. What I didn’t know, was if sitting here watching him sleep was the move for me.
I eased out of his embrace, slid to the edge of the couch, and grabbed a slice of pizza.
By the time I’d gobbled my third slice, I wondered—if I ate this whole dang pie would I stop feeling like I wanted to cry?
11
Most of the time the sequel sucks . . .
“I see you, ma,” poured from behind me as I stepped onto Skate Paradise’s scene—straight confirming my suspicions and intentions to be fly. And divaliciously work my roller blades. Wear the heck out of my black, painted-on short-shorts and black-and-gold tank top, complemented by my Rick Ross dookey chain. And bamboo earrings—with the word Bad running across one and Girl running across the other.
Bam!
It was Old Skool Eighties Night and since showing up here was last minute for me, I had no choice but to rock my new skool–old-skool-esque gear.
You get the picture.
And besides, all that mattered, at least at this moment, was that I was doing it, right?
Nobody in here needed to know that my boyfriend played me by falling asleep on me . . . again.
And nobody needed to know that I’d eaten half of a pizza pie and then rudely screeched my woe-is-me soundtrack by skipping past saying good-bye and hitting a sleeping Zaire with a peace sign as I walked out the door.
Nobody needed to know that, right?
But me.
All the folks in Skate Paradise needed to know was that I was hot and that I’d arrived.
Period.
I smiled and gave a small wave to the guys who’d just kissed my ego as I headed toward the center of the rink—or better yet, the dance floor—where I’d spotted Khya and Shae busting out the New Orleans bounce on wheels.
And, yeah, they were doing all right.
But there was one thing missing . . .
Me.
“That’s not even how you break it down.” I rolled in front of them and placed my hands on my hips. “Like for real, what are y’all doin’? Playin’?” I dropped down real quick, hit ’em with the bounce of a lifetime, and brought it back up. “That’s how you do it.”
Khya paused and Shae softly rolled her eyes.
“Who dat, Shae?” Khya did everything she could to fight back her smile.
“Beats me,” Shae said.
“I ’on’t cho, either.” Khya blew a pink bubble and popped it. “But de way she movin’, bey’be, seems like she be workin’ hard for them beads chere, dough.”
Freeze. Shae and I looked at Khya and both said, “What?”
Khya rolled her eyes. “Y’all lil Northerners, Lawdee. Y’all need to start sayin’ mo’ than son, my bad, my fault, and come hollah at me. All I said is that I didn’t know who you were, but that you were droppin’ down and gettin’ your bounce on like a Bourbon Street ho.”
“A ho!” I said, surprised.
“A ho. A cute ho. But a ho.”
“You think I’m a ho?”
“No. I just said that because I owed you one for saying that I stay looking for a man. Now we’re even. And besides, you know I have commitment problems.”
“You’re right,” was my way of apologizing. “I shouldn’t have said that. So, don’t be mad. Okay?”
Shae cleared her throat. “Excuse you, but ummm, Khya isn’t the only one standing here pissed.”
I gave Shae a sad face. “Come on, pookie.”
“That doesn’t work with me. But . . . I guess you being here kind of sort of makes up for it.”
“Hold on, Shae,” Khya interjected. “We have one more thing to put to the test, which will determine how we roll out from here. Seven, why are you here?”
“I wanted to come to the party.”
“And where is the warden? I mean Zaire?”
I hesitated. I couldn’t think of what to say fast enough and just as I was about to say something, anything but the truth, I was saved by the DJ. “Roooooooooll call!”
Boom!
The Greeks went crazy and the Ques, as usual, barked the loudest. Folks repped their wards, parishes, sets, cities, states, and of course, Stiles U repped hard.
After roll call, the DJ turned it up with Sissy Nobby’s Pebble Walk DJ and then he mixed in a new-skool bounce tune. Dropped a few bass beats and this party was on a whole other level of fiyah!
Shae and Khya seemed to forget their question and instead of putting their paws in my business, we tore up the floor. Bouncing, moving, hip boppin’, and watching Courtney skate past us looking like a flamin’ fruitloop.
“Cornbread, your Gravy’s here,” came from behind us, and I knew, without even turning around, that Big Country had arrived. And wherever there was Big Country there was always . . .
“Wassup, Seven?”
Josiah.
I sucked in a breath and did my best to untwist my lips.
The three of us turned around and everyone smiled but me. My heart was too busy thumpin’ and my attitude felt like it was about to hit a thousand.
There stood Country—who now had Shae wrapped in his arms. And Bling, who’d tossed Khya a sideways nod and said, “Let me kick it to you real quick.”
Then there was Josiah, standing with some chick who looked like an ultra-cheap knockoff of me. Like seriously, dude. You on it like that?
“Oh wow, you’re Seven?” this chick had the nerve to say to me. “Seven Ni-Ni Girlz McKnight? I’m Eleven.”
Eleven? Immediately I shot Josiah a look.
The girl continued, “Except Eleven is a nickname for me. My real name is Evelyn. But anyway, I just want you to know that I read your blogs, girl! Especially when you do Tabloids-n-Tea, where you have the celebrity gossip, and when you blog about reality TV!”
Why was she on a thousand?
The chick carried on. “You have me cracking up, girlfriend.”
We’re not friends.
Her mouth kept going. “Josiah told me he grew up with you.”
“Oh really? That’s what he told you?”
“Yeah, he told me y’all went to school together. Now tell me, girlfriend—”
This chick has really got it twisted.
She continued, “What will you be writing about next?”
“I think I might switch it up a bit.” I smiled. “I’m thinking about focusing on sports.”
Josiah and I locked eyes, while ole girl said, “Really?”
“Yeah. I’ma write about playboy ballers and their groupies. Now excuse me.” I turned away and skated over to the food stand. “A large soda, please.”
I paid for my drink and the clerk handed me a large paper cup, lid, and straw. I skated over to the soda fountain, mixed in every flavor, and then took a seat on one of the benches and watched everyone bring their best skating game to the floor. I was doing all I could to shake my attitude, but I was failing miserably. Like, seriously,
I didn’t know what pissed me off more: Zaire falling asleep on me, Josiah always in my space, or Josiah being in my space with some random chick.
I mean, he did attend Stiles U. And he had a right to be at all the major hangout spots and parties in New Orleans. And we weren’t together, so he could kick it with whomever he felt worthy of kicking it with, right? So then why did I feel like getting up from my seat and gutting him?
Don’t look now, but I think the Big Easy is the place where I’m about to go crazy.
I diverted my eyes from Josiah and focused in on a group of Sigmas strolling.
“So it’s just one thing I wanna know—”
I rolled my eyes to the ceiling. There was Josiah. Talking to me. Again!
Before he could finish his sentence, I said, “Oh, you must be confused, being as how your lil girlfriend is the knockoff version of me, but I’m the real Seven. The fake one, what’s her name? Eleven. Yeah, she’s over there.”
“Now why you start? All I wanted to ask you was how was Cousin Shake, ’cause you know that was dude. But now you gon’ force me to ask you the obvious. Where’s your kid? Back in juvey again? What is it, lights out? Cots down.”
I side-eyed Josiah. “You’re about to catch it. And the last kid I had, I broke up with. I now have a man. And why are you so concerned with him?”
“Actually, I’m not,” he said, full of cocky confidence.
“I can’t tell. And where’s your lil girlfriend?”
“She’s not my girlfriend. And why you worried about it?”
“Actually, I’m not.”
“I can’t tell.”
“Whatever.” I flicked my wrist.
“Still the answer you fall back on when you can’t express how you’re feeling.”
“Whatev—” I paused. And rolled my eyes. Hard.
“Dang. If looks could kill, I’d be splattered everywhere. Blood here, guts there, and my heart . . .” He nodded. “Yeah, that would be in your lap.”
I looked at Josiah and I swear I wanted to slap him. Not because what he’d just said was incredibly stupid. But because I couldn’t stop myself from laughing! “Ugh!” I shook my head and chuckled. “That has got to be the nastiest ish that I’ve heard since . . . since . . . I left you. Like really, dude.” I wiped the tears of laughter from my eyes and shook my head again.
“There it is.” Josiah boldly lifted my chin and stroked my hair behind my ear.
“There what is?”
“That smile. I missed it.”
I quickly erased it and snapped, “I’ll bet you did. Being as how you liked to turn my smile into a frown and reduce it to tears.”
“Where’d that come from?”
“No, the question is where’d you come from? And why are you all up on me? Go sit down! I can’t talk with you right now.”
“Why don’t you just kill the argument and admit that you miss me too?”
“But I don’t want to miss you! I can’t afford to miss you. I have a boyfriend!”
“He ain’t here.”
I hesitated. “He’s working.”
“You’re lying!”
“And you’re on my nerves. You all up over here on me and you got some groupie posted across the room, like seriously. You need to get that together.”
“So you can have a boyfriend, but I should be alone?”
“I don’t care what you are.”
“Didn’t I just tell you a few weeks ago you needed to learn to tell the truth?”
“And what about you?”
“Here’s my truth. I effed up with you. I did, and I’ve spent days and months, practically this whole year, missing you. But you know what, I’m not gon’ sweat you. I want you back, but I’m not gon’ stalk you. I want us to be best friends again, but if it doesn’t happen, I’m not gon’ die. So check this. You want me to step off? Then I’ma step. But one thing I know—now more than ever—is that you miss me. And when you’re ready to admit it, call me. My number’s the same.” And he turned away.
12
MIA
This was getting tired real quick.
And yeah, I had an attitude about it.
A serious one.
I hadn’t spoken to Zaire in two days, fourteen hours, and fifteen minutes. And the last thing I was, was beat for the bull-ish.
Like for real, for real, if he was done with our relationship and wanted to walk away, then all I needed him to do was man up and say, Peace.
’Cause see, me, I don’t do guys who flaked, acted funny, didn’t have time, or didn’t answer the phone.
Been there.
Done that.
And coming from my neck of the relationship hood, and according to what I put on my blog last week, when your man acted like all of the above, he was getting his creep. On.
Trust.
Zaire isn’t like that.
Then why is he acting like this?
Maybe he’s mad.
Maybe...
I started it?
How?
All I did was leave him sleeping.
And refused to answer the phone all day Sunday and half of the day Monday.
Helloooo! I was pissed.
I had a right to be.
My feelings were hurt.
But by Monday afternoon, I was good.
And he should’ve answered the phone when I called him back.
Not given me fever. Or boy-diva.
Like really?
Seriously?
Where they do that at? The tribe of Bitchyboyfriendville?
Not.
Get outta here with that.
No, I didn’t start it.
But I would surely finish it.
“There are five types of conflict in fiction.” I refocused my attention on the professor of my fiction-writing class, Doctor Lake, who squealed joyously as she paced from one end of the room to the other. “There is man versus man. Man versus himself. Man versus society. Man versus nature. And man versus the supernatural.”
“This class is sooooo deep,” Khya leaned over and whispered in amazement.
“Really?”
“Yeah, girl.” Khya blew a small, bubblicious bubble and softly popped it. “Doctor Lake is soooo dope. She needs a nine hundred number, for real.”
I was completely confused. “What?”
“Listen, I took this class because I needed an elective. And, heck, anybody can make stories up. So I just knew this was the class for me.”
“Really?”
“Duh. All the times I’ve seen you write, I don’t ever see you sweat. And then I figured, why would you? How hard could writing really be?”
I blinked. Three times. “You’re right. It’s not hard at all. You just sit at the computer and bleed.”
“Girl, bye. Don’t bust out the drama on me. ’Cause you know Dr. Lake just blew away the dang secret! I’m soooo hyped.” She rubbed her hands together.
“Secret? What secret?”
“That all I have to do is write about my ex-boos. Boom, diva! I’m ’bout to kill the game. Best Sellers is ’bout to be my name!” She did a slight end-zone dance in her seat.
I arched my brow and looked at Khya like she’d just returned from, or was on her way to, outer space.
Khya grinned. “Check it. I have dated all types of conflict. I’ve been booed up with Man-Man Jenkins, Him-Rico Rodriquez, Society Boone, Nature Harris. Nature was a cutie too, girl. But by the time he was trying to step back and kick it my way again, I was on to Supernatural Johnson. And after him I met Jamil. Who I later wanted to kill. ’Cause he cheated on me with Chakalacka. So that’s the only one Doctor Lake forgot. Man versus Jamil.”
Oh my God . . .
“Seven, this class is tight. I might need to change my major to English.”
“Oh . . . okay. And let me know how that works out for you.” I reached in my purse and checked my phone. No missed calls.
Ugh!
“Thank you, class,” Doctor Lake said. “S
ee you on Wednesday.”
“Okay,” Khya said as students rushed out of the room. “You gon’ get your mind right today? Or we gon’ dance around your attitude a whole other day? And I really hope not. ’Cause I got something that I’ma need your full attention on.”
“And what’s that?”
“Well, you know I’m real kindhearted and everything. So, I volunteered us to help out.”
“Us?”
“Yes, us.”
“Help where?”
“At a charity event. At the Jordan Athletic Center. Right here on campus.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“Now?” I checked my phone again and confirmed, once again, that I didn’t miss a call. Not even one. Ugh!
“Yes. It’s now. So will you come on? We can talk and you can check your phone every five seconds on our way there.”
We walked out of the building and proceeded down the cobblestone path. “Now, Khya, what kind of charity event is this? You know I don’t have any money. You know I’m broke.”
“Would you relax? It’s not about money. At least not your money. It’s about your time.”
“Umm-hmm,” I said, checking my phone again.
“Okay, just spill it. When did y’all have it out? Why? And is he still alive or do we need to go work a gris on him and take care of his lil breathing situation?”
“Who are you talking about?”
“You know I’m talking about Zaire.”
I whipped my neck toward Khya. “Zaire?”
“Obviously you two had an argument or something.”
“And where did you get that from?”
Khya paused and looked me over. “From you, boo. You been ridin’ around and rollin’ up on us like we ’bout to catch a drive-by any day now. Courtney asked you what time it was yesterday and you practically cussed him out and put him out.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yeah, you did. You told him if he had his own dang apartment, he could put clocks everywhere and wouldn’t have to ask you for the time. And then you told him to keep Slowreeka off your line before you gut her like a fish.”
“Courtney asks for the time every fifteen minutes. Like stop. What the heck is his problem? Who needs to know the time every. Fifteen. Dang. Minutes? Get your freakin’ life! And get a watch! And, yeah, he needs his own phone. ’Cause I don’t want that girl calling me to get to Courtney. Have you ever spoken to Slowreeka? That chick is—”