by Amir Abrams
She shrugs. Says something back to him in his ear. He grins. Then licks his lips and winks at me before walking off. I cringe inside, thinking that maybe this was a bad idea for me to come here. I feel so out of place. Like I’m the weakest link or something. I know it’s all in my head, but I feel like everyone in the room is pointing fingers over at me, laughing.
I’m feeling alone in a room full of strangers.
I am tempted to run out the door. But then Sasha is back from wherever she disappeared to, carrying two plastic cups in her hands; one red and one blue.
Jay-Z’s “Holy Grail” starts playing.
“Girl,” the girl Shayneetha says, cutting her eyes at me, “I’ma go find that fine Snoopy ’n’ get my pop on. I saw him earlier pinned up on some bubble head.”
“Do you, boo,” Sasha says, handing me the red cup in her hand.
“What’s this?”
She smirks. “Something to help get your mind right. Thug Passion, boo.”
“Oh, okay. Thanks.” I reluctantly take it, looking inside the cup. I smell it. I’d never had it before, but I knew what it was: A mixture of Alizé and champagne. I also knew it was the title of one Tupac’s songs where he’d referenced the drink in his song. I only knew this because I’d read it in a Vibe magazine article they’d written about the late, great rapper. “Isn’t this drink kind of old school? I mean. I didn’t think kids my age drank this.”
“Oh, it’s all ’bout the Ciroc, boo. But I figured you needed you some Thug Passion in ya life since you tryna be down. But this one has a whole lot of thug and a little less passion in it.”
I give her a confused look, not knowing what she meant by that. She notices the look on my face. “Girl, stop tryna analyze everything I say. Stay in the moment and drink up.” She taps her cup to mine. “Here’s to that thug life.”
“Mmmm. I like the sound of that.” I take a slow sip of my drink. Make a face as it slides down the back of my throat. I feel a slow heat course through my chest. And by the time I’m on my third, or maybe it’s my fifth sip, I’m melting all over myself from the flames. By the time the cup is empty, I am practically floating.
By my second cup, I’m soaring. And everything around me is moving in slo-mo. My skin is tingling. My sense of smell and sound seems magnified. Next thing I know, an August Alsina song is playing, “Nobody Knows,” and I’m in the middle of the floor dancing. Alone. Swirling and twirling.
One arm is up over my head. I rock my hips in big circles. I hike up my tiny skirt and start doing nasty things I’d never done before. It’s like I’ve become possessed. The beat hypnotizes me. I slowly twirl around. My eyes close. I sway left to right. Then throw my head back. Run my hands through my hair. I lose myself to the music. Become everything I’ve ever watched in Beyoncé and Ciara videos.
It feels like I’m slipping in and out of consciousness.
Dang, that drink really has my head spinning.
I feel my body overheating.
Oooh, it’s so hot in here.
I try to stop myself from untying my halter, but it’s like my hands, my fingers, my arms, have a mind of their own.
What’s happening to me?
I’m in the spotlight. And somehow I am feeling like I’ve just become the life of the party.
And everyone’s entertainment...
14
I will a bleary eye open. Then wince. My head is spinning. “Oooh, you kept it real classy, li’l Miss Party Girl,” Sasha says, smirking. “Mmph. You turned the party out. I didn’t think you had it in you, Miss Suburbs. But you turnt it up—all the way up—last night.”
I groan, trying to lift my head up from the pillow. My head is pounding. Regretting ever trying to move, I plop my head back onto the pillow, pulling the covers over my head then lower them enough to peer over the edge. My stomach sloshes. And I feel like I’m ready to vomit at any moment.
Please God. Let me get through this and I promise to never, ever drink another Thug Passion drink or anything with the word thug attached to it, for as long as I live. Please and thank you . . .
I don’t remember much of anything after Sasha handed me my second drink. I remember taking slow sips. Then I started swaying. Everything else is one big blur. And I’m afraid to even ask what happened. I’m not sure if I want her to fill in the blanks, either.
“Girl, I couldn’t get you off the dance floor. You gave Beyoncé a run for her money last night, boo.” She laughs, falling back on her bed. “Ohmygod! You should have seen you. A hot slutty mess!”
She tells me how I was booty popping and hip thrusting it, dropping down on my knees and crawling on the floor, swinging my hair around. “Yasss, Miss Peaches! You showed out.”
“Miss Peaches?”
She cracks up laughing.
“Yesss! That’s what you had dem ninjas callin’ you last night after you took off ya top ’n’ started flashin’ e’eryone. You shoulda seen dey faces, starin’ at dem big juicy boobs of yours.”
I am mortified. All I can see in my mind’s eye is my slumped, drunk body being tossed around like a dirty rag doll. “Oh, God!” I grumble. “Please don’t tell me.” My face heats with embarrassment.
This is tragic! How could I be so stupid?!
I try to replay the events that took place before the booze and my lapse in judgment kicked in. But keep coming up blank.
Ohmgod! What was in that drink?
I’m never drinking that mess again! Ever!
“Girl, relax. You were just doin’ you. Lettin’ ya hair down ’n’ havin’ a good time. Shiiiiit, I was twisted. But not like you.” She laughs, reaching for a can of Red Bull on her nightstand. “I thought I was gonna have ta beat the brakes off some’a them ninjas. They kept tryna take you upstairs to get that train ride.”
My eyes pop open.
She senses my fear. Assures me that nothing happened. This time. “But, girl, you owe me. I coulda made a killin’ off you last night. Had I let them horny ninjas get at you I woulda had me enough for a down payment on a cute li’l BMW, or somethin’. And you fresh meat, too. Mmph.”
I blink. I can’t believe she’s talking as if she was considering pimping me out for the night. Although she’s laughing, the look in her eyes tells me if there were a way she could have gotten away with it, that’s exactly what she would have done. Rented me out to the whole party.
“You lucky Malik got there when he did and was able to keep them fools in check ’cause dey wasn’t even tryna hear me after a while. You had them horny ninjas goin’ through it.”
I swallow, wincing. My throat is dry. Sore. “Ohmygod! He was there, too?” My voice is hoarse, feels raw. Like I’d been screaming at the top of my lungs all night. Or as if someone scrubbed the back of my throat with sandpaper then rubbed salt over it.
“Girrrl, was he! Looking so fine. And trust. Drunk or not, I could tell he liked e’verything about you.” She made a popping sound with her mouth.
My eyes become unnaturally wide as she recounts the events from the night before. Tells me I danced eight songs straight. That I hiked my skirt up over my hips and showed the whole party my bare essentials.
Dear God!
She chuckles. “Next time, though, I’ma need you to handle ya liquor a li’l better.”
I cover my face. Shame courses through every inch of my body. Panic rises inside of me, making me feel sweaty and cold all at the same time. This can’t be happening! It has to be a terrible mistake!
“What time is it?” I finally croak out, feeling sick to my stomach.
“It’s almost ten o’clock.”
I jolt up in the bed, causing my mushy brain to swish around in my head. “Ten o’clock? In the morning? Ohgodohgod! I am sooo dead!” My feet hit the dirty beige carpet and scatter over to my bag, frantically searching from my phone. “Ohgod! My parents are going to kill me.”
“Girl, relax. It’s not like they’re gonna kill you over being late once in your li’l perfect life. It’s not
like you break your curfew all the time and stay out all night.”
“No, I don’t. But still... ohgod! I’m so done. I’ll probably get grounded for the next two weeks.”
I close my eyes. My eyeballs throb behind my lids. I let out a loud groan.
“You’re overreactin’ if you ask me. I bet all your parents are gonna do is put you in timeout, then take away your allowance for the next week or so.”
I keep my eyes shut, slowly shaking my head. “No. They are going to be livid. Trust me; especially my mother.”
“Not if you come up with a good lie,” she offers matter-of-factly.
I frown. “Are you kidding me? I’ve been out all night. And I didn’t even call home to let anyone know I was okay. What kind of lie could I possibly say that would keep my mother from wringing my neck? She’s going to kill me.”
“Poor thing,” she says nonchalantly, taking a swig of her Red Bull. She offers me some. “Here. This’ll help give you a boost of energy.”
I shake my head. Tell her thanks, but no thanks. I’ve had enough of her handing me drinks for one lifetime. She shrugs. “More for me.” She pulls out a little baggie from out of her nightstand top drawer. It’s packed with marijuana. I watch with wide-eyed amazement as she empties the tobacco of a blunt out on her nightstand and fills it with the weed, sealing it by licking and pushing the seams together. Next she lights it and takes a long pull from it. She starts coughing instantly as if she were coughing up a lung.
She clutches her chest. “Ooh, yesss! This that good ish right here.” She laughs in between coughs, a puff of thick smoke curling out of her mouth.
I frown.
She holds her blunt out to me. “You sure you don’t want some of this? I’m tellin’ you, it’ll help you wit’ that hangover. “
I shake my head. “No. I don’t do drugs.”
She bucks her eyes. “Bish, what you tryna say? I know you not even tryna call me out. I don’t do drugs either. I mean, yeah. E’ery now and then I might do a li’l molly wit’ my girl Shay-Shay. But that’s it. I don’t eff wit’ none’a that hard ish. So don’t even get it twisted. I’m no druggie, trick.”
I cringe. “I’m not a trick,” I say evenly. “So please don’t call me one.”
She grunts. “Mmmph. I can’t tell. From what I saw last night looked to me like you was trickin’ for somethin’ ’n’ it sure wasn’t for dollars, boo.”
“I got drunk,” I retort defensively.
She takes another pull from her blunt, then blows smoke in my direction. “Yeah, whatever. Blame it on da a-a-a-alcohol. Chile, please. I may not be da sharpest knife in the drawer, but I’m no idiot, boo. You a real live freak and a half. I bet if I hadn’t been there to save you, you woulda let ’em all get a taste of ya goodies. So you can front if you want. But I know ya kind.”
I blink. “My kind? What kind is that?”
She takes another long pull from her blunt, eyeing me. “Pssst. Like you don’t know. An undercover freak; dat’s what kind.”
Seeing the smug look on her face makes me angry. I squirm. Not wanting a confrontation, I decide to take the high road and tread lightly. “Well, I’m not a freak. And I wasn’t trying to call you a druggie or anything. I was just saying I don’t do any drugs; that’s all.”
She frowns. “Girl, you silly. Weed ain’t no drug. It’s from da earth. There’s nothing wrong wit’ smokin’ weed. It does da body good. Trust.” She takes two pulls, holds the smoke in her lungs and coughs.
“Well, it’s against the law,” I counter. “And I’d rather not indulge in anything illegal.”
She rolls her eyes, blowing circles up at the water-stained ceiling. “Girl, miss me wit’ dat moral code ish. So is underage drinkin’, but you didn’t have a problem doin’ dat, did you?” She gives me a hard stare, then rolls her eyes. “Like I said, weed comes from the Mother Earth. It’s one of God’s greatest wonders. So if he didn’t want us to smoke it, he wouldn’t have created it. Now would he?”
I have no comeback for her. It’s clear she has all the answers.
I give her a blank stare, deciding it’s time to slip back into the clothes I’d come here wearing before my world got turned upside down, and head home to face my fate.
15
“Kennedy, where have you been?!” my mother snaps the minute I step through the double doors. Hand on hip, nose flaring, eyes drawn to narrow slits. She’s fuming.
“I-I-I,” I stammer nervously. I’ve never seen her so mad. “I was . . .”
“Before you open your mouth with a lie, think about what you are going to say to me. Because I know, and you know, that you weren’t with Hope or Jordan because I’ve spoken to both of them. Now where were you?”
“Ohmygod. I can’t believe you’d call me a liar. Have I ever lied to you?”
“I’m not calling you a liar. I’m warning you to not let any lies fall from your lips in case you wanted to.”
I stand here silently, racking my brain as to what I’ll tell her. She has me cornered. I’ve never been in this situation so I don’t know what to do to get out of it. Finally, I hang my head. My lashes wet with tears.
“I-I-I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“Oh, no, young lady. You’re not getting off the hook that easy. I want to know where you were and why your phone is off? I’ve been calling it all night. And all morning.”
That’s strange. I don’t remember turning my phone off.
I reach in my bag, pulling it out. Yup . . . it’s off. “My battery died,” I lie. “And I didn’t have a way of charging it.”
“And no one else had a phone you could use.”
“No. There wasn’t any service.”
“Excuse you? What do you mean, there wasn’t any service? Well, where were you that you couldn’t make calls or get your butt home before your curfew?”
“At a friend’s house.”
She tilts her head. “Don’t try my patience, Kennedy. What friend’s house? And who are this friend’s parents?”
“It’s just her and her mom. Her dad died.” That’s a lie. But I don’t think she’d like hearing that Sasha’s father is in prison for armed robbery. And I think she told me drug charges, too. Or maybe it was a gun charge. I can’t remember. All I know is, this information is on a need-to-know basis.
She eyes me. “That’s not telling me what I want to know, Kennedy.”
I’m starting to feel light-headed.
“Mom, please. Not right now. I don’t feel well.”
She huffs. “Who do you think you’re telling not right now, huh? Like I’m bothering you. You don’t get to strut up in here twelve hours after your curfew without one phone call and tell me not right now. I will smack the piss, the snot, and everything else out of you. Do you understand me?”
I clutch my churning stomach. Ohgodohgod! I’m going to throw up!
I don’t answer. I take off running toward the powder room across from the sunken great room. She’s hot on my heels.
“Don’t you dare run off from me while I’m talking to you. Kennedy! I want to know where you’ve been! I’ve been up all night, worried sick about you! I’ve called all over town looking for you! And you have the gall to stroll up in here like everything is fine! This is not acceptable, Kennedy!”
“Not now, mom, please!” I slam the bathroom door in her face. Flip up the toilet seat and grip the cool porcelain, throwing my guts up. I cling to the coolness with all my might. Tears spurting from my eyes as I empty the remaining contents of my cramped stomach out.
I stay in this position—face inside the bowl, hands squeezing the sides, until I am coughing and dry heaving. And then I do the unthinkable.
I poop on myself.
Four P.M., my mom is at the foot of my bed, shaking me. “Wake up! Rise and shine!”
I groan as she walks over and flips on my nightstand lamp. I don’t remember how I got into bed. Or when I took off my clothes and slipped into my pajamas. But somehow I did.<
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My mind is blank.
Completely gone.
Mom starts shaking my bed again. “Let’s go, Kennedy! It’s time to get up. You should have gotten your sleep wherever you were last night. Sleep time is over.”
Ohmygod, nooo! I can’t believe this!
I groan again. Everything around me is still spinning from the night before. I’ve spent most of the morning throwing up. I’m exhausted. And now all I want to do is sleep. Sleep. Sleep!
But it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen with my mom breathing down my neck doing everything she can to kill my sleep mode.
I close my eyes. Snatches of last night flitter through my head. I’m in the middle of the floor dancing. Alone. Swirling and twirling. Guys are pressed up against me, grinding and groping me. My boobs are exposed. The teenie-tiny skirt I was wearing is hiked up over my hips. Someone tries to slide his hands in my panties. I remember, now, telling him no. I pushed his hand away.
Ohgod!
I think I see Sasha over in the corner with her friends, laughing at me. But why would she do that when she cursed those boys out for trying to hump me all up on the dance floor?
“Mom, please. I don’t feel well,” I grumble, pulling the covers up over my head.
“That’s not my problem. That’s yours.” She snatches the covers off me. “Now get up out of this bed.”
“Why can’t I sleep?” I whine. “We can talk later tonight, or tomorrow.”
“Oh, no, little Miss Party Girl. You don’t get to choose when we talk. We talk when I say we talk. So get up. You are sadly mistaken if you think you’re going to lie in this bed and sleep the rest of the day away. I was nice enough to let you sleep off whatever it is you drank or smoked last night. Now it’s time for you and me to have a little chat.”
She shakes the bed again. My stomach churns and I feel like screaming at the top of my lungs. I take two deep breaths, then roll and stretch. I rub my burning eyes. They can barely open.