by Nikki Carter
I let out a big sigh as the song ends. This long-distance teenage love affair is going to be a lot harder than I thought.
5
It’s late Saturday night and we finally finished up my video shoot. I’m tired like a big dawg, but still hungry, so Gia, Piper, Meagan, and I decide to make a stop at Waffle House before heading back to our dorm.
“I’m glad I decided to come to your video shoot,” Meagan says. “It was so less ghetto than I thought it would be.”
Gia bursts into laughter and spits water across the table. “Why did you think it would be ghetto?”
“Why did she admit that she thought it would be ghetto?” I ask. “Meagan, you are a trip!”
Meagan laughs too, as she takes a sip of her hot tea. Only Meagan would come into Waffle House late on a Saturday night and order hot tea.
“I thought it would be ghetto because of those reality shows, Sunday. You know that was a hot ghetto mess if there ever was one.”
I nod in agreement. I think about the first reality show that I filmed with Truth, Dreya, Bethany, and Dilly. There was drama on top of drama happening on a daily basis. Luckily, I wasn’t in the center of it all. It helped me with Epsilon Records that I came across as the “positive” one. I even got my own reality show special that they finished filming on my first day of college.
“The first one was pretty wretched,” I say, “but the one we just filmed with my video shoot for ‘Can U See Me’ is pretty good. There’s only a tiny, tiny bit of drama, but it’s really quite watchable.”
Piper smiles at me and shakes her head. “Don’t you just sound like a BET commercial.”
“Whatever, loser!” I tear the bottom of the wrapper off my straw and blow so that the paper flies in Piper’s direction.
“Was any of the stuff about you and that rapper guy true?” Gia asks. “He doesn’t seem like your type at all. All of those tattoos and those dingy tanks.”
“Um, no. Let me repeat that! Hecks to tha no! Truth was my cousin’s boyfriend, and he’s an abusive little punk.”
Gia, Piper, and Meagan all wince at the word “abusive.” I guess none of us like the idea of getting hurt by a boyfriend. For the life of me, I can’t figure out why Dreya won’t leave him alone. Even after she got jumped by a bunch of girls, supposedly at Truth’s request, she still deals with him. One of the bloggers took pictures of them hugged up in Club Pyramids—the last club in Atlanta anyone will ever find me.
“So that guy in your video is totally hot. Is he single?” Meagan asks. “Does he go to Morehouse?”
“He goes to Georgia State,” Gia replies. “He plays ball with Ricky.”
Meagan scrunches up her nose. “Never mind then. My guy has got to come from Morehouse.”
“Don’t you think that’s a silly rule?” Piper asks. “Like what makes the guys at Morehouse any better than the guys at Georgia State? A hottie is a hottie as far as I’m concerned.”
Meagan rolls her eyes. “Seriously? There is a huge difference. Morehouse is an elite private university. They don’t just accept everyone. You have to be a game changer to get in. Plus my mother went to Spelman and my dad went to Morehouse. Enough said. This is my destiny.”
All three of us give her blank stares.
“Oh good grief!” Meagan says. “Why don’t you all give her the blank stare for drooling over every black boy that she sees? You’re one of those white chicks that only dates black guys aren’t you, Piper? You might as well be a Kardashian.”
Ouch! That stung me and it wasn’t even meant for me. I don’t even get that vibe from Piper anyway, so Meagan is way out of line with her accusation.
Piper says, “That’s not me, Meagan. I like hot boys in every shade. I don’t discriminate.”
“I’ll believe that when I see you drooling over a white boy,” Meagan says.
Gia frowns at Meagan. It looks like somebody’s mama’s frown. “Why does it even matter? There are more than enough boys to go around.”
Meagan shrugs. “Whatever. I have my opinion, you have yours. Let’s agree to disagree.”
Several members of Gamma Phi Gamma walk up to our table, wearing their signature color, turquoise. Meagan sits up straight and beams a smile in their direction, but they’re focusing on Gia.
“Hello, ladies!” the shorter of the two girls says. “I’m Peony, and this is Sharday.”
I know a peony is a flower, but this girl has a ridiculously long weave on her head and the first thought that pops into my mind is pony as in horsey hair, instead of Peony. Plus her big wide-set eyes kind of remind you of staring a horse in the face.
Sharday is the prettier of the girls. She’s a dark ebony beauty with a wild afro held off her face by a headband. She doesn’t need any makeup, but she’s wearing just a touch of lip gloss.
“We saw you at the Chi Kappa Psi party,” Sharday says to Gia. “You are a really good dancer. Do you know how to step as well?”
“I do. I used to be the captain of the Hi-Steppers squad in my high school.”
Peony’s smile stretches across her face to reveal very long white teeth. “We’ll just have to remember that when it’s time for new member intake. We could always use a talented stepper for the big step show in the spring.”
“Well, girls, enjoy your waffles,” Sharday says. “We’ve got to get back to our boyfriends. We just wanted to say hello.”
“Hello, Big Sister Sharday and Big Sister Peony!” Meagan says like a soldier.
Both Sharday and Peony give Meagan tight smiles and sashay back over to their table, where they’ve got two very cute guys, obviously from Morehouse because they’re wearing their shirts and ties like they just came from church.
Piper covers her mouth with her hand to contain her giggles. “They just dissed you, Meagan! Are your big sisters not really feeling you?”
“Whatever!” Meagan replies. “They did not diss me! They spoke to all of us.”
“But obviously they came over here to get at Gia,” Piper says. “Sounded like recruitment to me, although we can’t even pledge until next year.”
“It doesn’t make me any difference one way or the other,” Gia says. “My cousin Hope is like my sister anyway. I don’t need a sorority.”
I listen to Gia and I’m glad that she’s my friend. I hope that we get to feel like sisters too.
“No matter what, I will be a Gamma Phi Gamma. Even if Big Sister Sharday and Big Sister Peony aren’t feeling me,” Meagan says. “It’s called legacy, girls.”
Gia, Piper, and I reply in unison. “We know!”
6
“You stressed/steady tryin’ to rumble wit da best/Sweetie, I’m blessed, passed every test/I like you less and less ’cause every time I see/you be talkin’ mess, talkin’ like people wanna be you/You? Who? A second-rate emcee?/You get less props from me than I give to my enemies.”
Something isn’t right about how Dreya is delivering these lyrics. There’s something too girly about it. Not that a rapper can’t be feminine, but she’s too feminine.
“Dreya, I want you to really think about what you’re saying,” I say. “These lines are disses, and you’re saying it like it’s a nursery rhyme.”
“I’m trying to remember the words.”
“Look at the paper. You can worry about remembering them later. I need to hear some attitude in your delivery.”
Big D sits in the corner of the lab, his room in the studio where Sam and I usually create. Dilly is here too, and he’s sporting a new look. A curly Mohawk that really flatters his face. I think it’s because his hair, eyebrows, and eyelashes are so dark, but it’s really working for him.
“Pretend that you’re spitting the lyrics at Truth,” Dilly says. “That should help you find some attitude.”
I roll my eyes, but keep my peace on the subject of Truth. She can’t say it like she’s saying it to Truth, because she’s still messing with that dude.
“Truth is still her boyfriend,” I say, wondering if everyon
e can hear the irritation in my voice. “So try someone else, like an enemy. Maybe Bethany.”
Big D stands from his chair looking like a big ol’ brown Incredible Hulk. “You’re back with him, Drama? What are you thinking?”
“I am not back with him,” Dreya replies. “So y’all can stop tripping.”
“Really? Then why are y’all on Twitter sending each other pictures and stuff?” I ask. “Cut the games, Dreya. Y’all are back together.”
Big D says, “You want to be real careful with that, baby girl. Zac and Mystique aren’t feeling him, and his time is up at Epsilon Records.”
“So what? Epsilon Records is not the only company out here signing record deals. Truth just got signed to Big Cash Gents Records, so he’s gonna be a’ight.”
My eyes widen at the mention of Big Cash Gents Records. They are known for gangsta activity. The rumor in the industry is that they got started with money from drug deals. Getting let go from Epsilon was not a good look, but signing up with Big Cash Gents is an even worse look.
“Let’s get back to this record,” Dreya fusses. “I’m trying to figure out my career right now anyway. I need to make sure I’ve got something popping off at the end of the day.”
“Okay, try the phrase again,” I say. “Bring the attitude.”
This time Dreya gets in a zone or something, because she brings the fiyah! She spits every line like she means it. Like she’s really got a vendetta with someone. She totally makes me believe it. Big D and Dilly like it too, because they both give her a round of applause when she’s done.
Dreya takes a little bow and smiles. “Who said I can’t be a female emcee?”
“It wasn’t me!” Dilly says, as he gives Dreya a fist pound. “You did that, girl. I felt that!”
“So now the only ones left to convince are the executives at Epsilon Records,” Big D says. “But I think if you go hard for your whole record like you did right there, you won’t have a problem convincing them.”
Dreya smiles hard, and I can’t help but share her joy. It’s not often that I get to see Dreya totally happy. We grew up like sisters, most of the time in the same house, and it seems like we were always competing. This is something that she gets to have all to herself. She never has to worry about me rapping. Even though I’m nice on the mic, I enjoy singing so much more.
“Do you think Epsilon Records would let me do a duet with Dilly?” Dreya asks.
“You want me to do a duet with you? That’s what’s up!”
Big D says, “I’m sure they would. They’re still trying to figure out how to put Dilly on the map.”
My phone rings, and I’m sure my face lights up when I see the caller ID. It’s Sam! With the video shoot, I haven’t talked to him all weekend.
“Hey, Sam,” I say in a voice that is just a little bit too bubbly.
“Hey, Sunday. Are you alone right now?”
Okay, he sounds weird. “No. I’m in the lab with Big D, Dilly, and Dreya.” I hold the phone up in the air. “Say hey to Sam, y’all.”
Big D says, “You need to get back to the A. We’ve got work to do, son.”
I place the phone back on my face. “What’s up?”
“Do me a favor and go upstairs for a second, so I can talk to you in private.”
Now, he’s scaring me. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes, it’s okay, but I just want to tell you this without everyone seeing your face.”
“Okay. I’ll be back, y’all.”
I take the steps two at a time, because Sam’s tone sounds anxious, and he’s such a cool dude. He hardly ever gets wound up.
Huffing and puffing at that little bit of physical exertion, I ask, “Okay, what’s going on?”
“I don’t know how to say this, so I’m just gonna say it. I went to a party with Zac over the weekend, and some things popped off that I wish never did.”
“What kind of things?”
I hear Sam sigh over the phone. Not a good sign.
“Well, I wasn’t drinking. At all. I was sipping on a Coke. But someone slipped something in my soda when I set it down.”
“What? That’s crazy! Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine. But after the party, Zac told me it was ground-up ecstasy.”
Ecstasy? Oh my goodness! My mother always told me to always buy my own drink and never set it down. Number-one rule of going to parties with strangers. Number two, leave with who I came there with. Sam needs to go to the Shawn Tolliver school of kicking it.
“You should be glad you didn’t get hurt. I’m glad nothing happened to you,” I say. “Next time, you should be more careful with your drink!”
“Well ... I wouldn’t say that nothing happened.”
“What do you mean?”
Sam clears his throat. A stall tactic.
“What do you mean, Sam?” I ask again, this time my tone of voice a little louder and harsher.
“Zac told me that I made out with a girl on the dance floor.”
I drop the phone. Hear the screen on my Android shatter, but I don’t care.
After I take a deep breath and blow it out, I pick up the wounded phone. “Come again?”
“Don’t make me say it again, Sunday. It was hard enough to say it the first time.”
“Come again?”
“I kissed a girl. Don’t know who she was or her name. Zac said I should tell you, because there was someone there taking pictures and it’ll probably be on the Internet.”
“Zac told you to tell me? You didn’t think that was information I’d like to know? You’re all the way in New York City, playing tonsil Twister with some skank, and Zac had to tell you to man up and let me know?”
“Sunday. You are overreacting. I can’t even tell you what the chick looks like.”
“But everyone on Mediatakeout.com will know tomorrow. You know they get like a million hits a day?”
I press end on my shattered screen. I can’t listen to his voice another minute. How can he say that I’m overreacting? He would sooo not be saying that if the shoe was on the other foot. I know, because we’ve already been down this path when Truth was trying to push up on me. I wasn’t giving Truth any play, but Sam still went into trip-out mode.
Sam calls right back. I don’t answer. I click decline and send that joint to voice mail. Do not want to continue this conversation.
Two seconds later he calls again. I do the same thing.
On the third time, I pick up.
“Sam, do not keep calling me.”
“I’m gonna keep calling until you talk to me.”
“Then I’ma have to block your number.”
“Don’t block my number.”
“Then don’t keep calling me.”
I hear Sam sigh. He doesn’t have the right to sigh. After a few moments of silence and breathing, I disconnect the call again.
I’m beyond angry. Trying to feel this with an emotion other than rage and I’m coming up short. Even though I know he didn’t do it on purpose. Even though the girl is some faceless, nameless groupie. Well, she’s faceless and nameless now. She won’t be tomorrow or the next day when someone decides to put Sam on blast to the Internet community.
Somebody right now is probably saying, “Tweet that” on a picture of Sam lip-locked on the dance floor. It makes me sick to my stomach. I swear, technology is a blessing and a curse.
I try to compose myself before going back downstairs, but I’m sure Dreya and Big D are going to know something is up immediately. Why didn’t Sam wait to tell me this when I got back to the privacy of my dorm? He wanted to clear his conscience, I suppose, but now he’s gonna have me answering questions that I don’t want to answer.
“What’s wrong with you?” Dreya asks as I reenter the basement studio area.
“Nothing. I’m straight.”
Big D says, “You are definitely not straight, but I know better than to press you when you’re not trying to talk about something.”
“Ooh,
what did Sam do?” Dreya asks, ignoring Big D’s declaration. “Did he break up with you for some New York video vixen? Do we need to go to NYC and regulate? He’s got some nerve with his ugly self! How he gonna play you and he ain’t even cute?”
I shake my head and frown. “Sam did not play me! Not really. Someone slipped him a drug at the club, and he kissed some girl.”
“And he told you?” Dilly asks. “Did he think you’d be okay with that?”
“Do you believe him?” Big D asks.
“Yeah, I do, but I’m still heated.”
“And you should be, because he’s probably lying,” Dreya says. “Ain’t nobody slip him nothing. He was doing the slipping. Slipping his tongue in another girl’s mouth, and now he’s just trying to cover his tracks.”
Big D frowns at Dreya and says, “Sam isn’t like that. If he wanted to break up with you he’d do it. He’s not that guy, Sunday.”
“Every guy is that guy if they have the opportunity.”
I feel angry with myself for letting the tears fall. Especially in front of Dreya, who seems to gain strength off my unhappiness like some kind of super villain who thrives on negativity.
“I don’t know if you care what I think,” Dilly says, “but I don’t believe Sam would cheat on you. First of all, you’re hot. Second of all, you’re Sunday Tolliver! That’s like the ultimate come-up for him.”
“For every fly chick in the world, there’s a dude that’s tired of her and on to the next one.”
Dreya reminds me of that little grey stuffed animal on Winnie the Pooh. Was he a donkey? The one who was always saying, “Oh bother” and raining on everyone’s parade.
“That’s enough, Drama,” Big D says. “You sound a whole lot like misery loving company right now.”
Dreya snatches her purse and puts on her sunglasses (even though it’s dark outside) and starts walking toward the steps.
“I’m out of here. If you want to be in denial, Sunday, that’s on you. I hope it all works out for you.”
I scowl and plop down on Big D’s comfortable leather sectional as Dreya sashays out of the basement. Just like I said ... she loves to rain on everybody’s parade.