by Amir Abrams
It takes a few minutes for my eyes to finally adjust to the brightness in the room. There she is. My mom. Standing at the foot of my bed with her arms folded, scowling. She’s pissed. Very pissed. And I know I’m in big trouble.
And I know I have no one to blame except myself. I should have never had all those drinks. But I only had three, I think. Or was it four? I remember the first drink. And the second one after that.
Ohgod! All I know is, my head feels like someone is stomping around on my brain with cement boots. It even hurts behind my eyeballs.
If this is what drinking does to you, then I want no further part of it. None. Never. Ever.
“I’m waiting, Kennedy,” Mom says through clenched teeth. “You and I are going to have a serious conversation, starting with where you were all night. And who dropped you off this morning with all that loud music playing, like this is some ghetto yard drop-stop.”
I cringe as my ears pop. Although she isn’t really yelling, it feels as if she has a bullhorn up to her lips and she’s screaming into my ear.
“Okay, okay. I’m up. Can I at least take a shower and put some clothes on before I have to face my inquisition, please?”
She narrows her eyes at me. I can tell she’s ready to go off. She takes a deep breath. Then finally says, “You have ten minutes. And not a second over.” She glances at her watch. “Starting now.”
16
“I’m very disappointed in you, Kennedy,” Mom says, eyeing me. We are siting at the kitchen table. A cup of green tea with honey is in front of me. Mom shakes her head. “I raised you better than this. No young respectable girl comes dragging herself into the house way past the crack of dawn, reeking of alcohol and marijuana smoke.”
“I wasn’t smoking marijuana, Mom.” I say this as if it’s going to make that big of a difference. As if it will lessen the consequences.
She eyes me incredulously. “So you think underage drinking makes it better?” She tilts her head. “Is that supposed to make me feel better knowing that my sixteen-year-old daughter was only out God knows where drinking instead of using illicit drugs? Is that what you’re telling me, Kennedy?”
“No ma’am.”
“So how was it?”
I blink. Give her a confused look. “How was what?”
“The party you were at? You know, the one you thought it was okay not to come home from.”
I lower my eyes from her burning stare. I fidget with the spoon in my hand, then dip it back into my steaming mug, stirring thoughtlessly.
Mom’s fingers tap against the tabletop impatiently. “I’m waiting for an answer, Kennedy.”
“I’m sorry,” I say softly.
“No. Don’t be sorry. I didn’t ask for an apology. I want answers.”
I think to tell her some elaborate tale, but I can’t remember exactly what I told her when I walked through the door this morning. I don’t want to tell a lie that doesn’t match whatever I’ve already told her. I am relieved when my mom unknowingly lets me off the hook from having to remember exactly what I told her when she asks me who this friend is I was out with last night.
“Her name is Sasha.”
She tilts her head. “And how do you know this Sasha girl?”
“From work.” I blow into my cup, then take a slow sip of my tea.
She purses her lips. “Mmm. Where does she live?”
“Across town,” I offer, hoping that’ll be enough to satisfy her inquiry. It isn’t. She wants to know exactly where across town she lives. I tell her not too far from the Flatlands, a subsidized housing development.
She purses her lips and keeps silent. I can tell she’s thinking. “I see,” she finally says calmly. I can tell by the look in her eyes she isn’t too happy about me being in the hood, but she doesn’t say so. “And how old is she?” I tell her eighteen. “And you thought it was okay to stay out over this Sasha’s house without me knowing anything about her or her family, is that right?”
I shake my head. “No. I know it wasn’t okay. I was wrong for not coming home, or calling you to let you know where I was or that I was okay. I know I know better. I thought I’d be home before curfew, I really did.”
“So, let me get this straight. My sixteen-year-old daughter stayed the night over at some eighteen-year-old girl’s house where her parent allowed underage drinking?”
“Her mom didn’t know we were drinking.”
“So the two of you snuck alcohol into her parents’ house, is that what you’re telling me?”
“No. She kind of already had the alcohol in the house.” Okay, I know it’s a lie.
“I see. And were there boys at this little party?”
“It wasn’t a party.” Okay, it’s another lie. And I feel horrible for looking my mom in the eye telling her this. I shift in my seat. “There weren’t any boys there, just Sasha and a few of her girlfriends.”
“Kennedy, you know the rules. No sleepovers over anyone’s house unless we’ve met the parents. No drinking. No smoking. No drugs. And definitely no sex.”
“I only drank.”
“But there was marijuana there... at this party, right?”
“It wasn’t a party. And there wasn’t any marijuana there.”
She gives me a blank stare. “Look, Kennedy. Do I look like I need to be in a clown suit or something to you?”
I shake my head. “No, ma’am.”
“Then why are you sitting here trying to insult my intelligence? I was your age once. You stumbled up in here reeking of alcohol, which you admit to drinking, and smelling like you were rolling around in a cloud of marijuana smoke.”
“But I didn’t smoke any. I swear.”
She lets out a frustrated sigh. “But you were around it. Kennedy, I raised you better than that. Why would you be around someone smoking marijuana, huh?”
I shrug. “I didn’t know there was going to be marijuana there.”
“And what if someone had called the cops and ended up raiding the place, then what? You would have been arrested, too.”
I lower my head. “I wasn’t thinking. All I wanted was to have some fun, that’s all. I didn’t plan on getting drunk or staying out past curfew, or coming home hung over. I feel horrible for what I did.”
“And so you should.” She eyes me, then reaches over and places her hand over mine. “I’m angry and extremely upset with you. But I’m relieved that you’re okay. That still doesn’t mean you aren’t punished.”
“I know I am. It won’t happen again. I promise.”
“Let’s hope, for your sake, it doesn’t.”
Mom slides her chair back from the table, then stands. “Look, sweetheart. I know what it’s like to be sixteen and wanting to be adventurous. You’ve always been inquisitive. And a good kid. And I don’t want anything to change that. There can be a lot of peer pressure to sometimes do what’s not right. I just don’t want to see you getting caught up in peer pressure. Your father and I have taught you to make your own decisions, haven’t we?”
I nod. “Yes. But I wasn’t being pressured to do anything.”
She eyes me. “You should not be drinking. First of all, you’re not old enough to drink. And secondly, anything could have happened to you out there being intoxicated. Young women get taken advantage of all the time.”
“I know, Mom,” I say sheepishly. “And I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” Not getting drunk, that is.
She stares at me, then squeezes my hand. “Listen, sweetheart. I know my little baby girl is growing up. And I know your father and I have to trust you to do the right things. But all I’m asking is that you not grow up too fast. You have a bright future ahead of you.”
“I know, Mom,” I say.
She stares at me. Then narrows her eyes. “Are you sure you’re not using drugs?” I tell her I’m sure. She wants to know if I’ve ever tried them. Again, I answer no. She eyes me as if she’s trying to decide whether or not she should believe me. Technically, she shouldn’t. I know it.
Thankfully, she doesn’t.
I run my hands across my eyes and over the crown of my head. I’m feeling queasy.
“I’m not naïve, Kennedy. I know what goes on at teen parties. The last thing I want is for you to get yourself caught up in something you can’t get out of.”
“Mom, I won’t.”
“You have one more year left, sweetheart, then you are off to Harvard or Yale.”
I swallow. “Can we please not talk about that right now?”
She sighs. “How long has this drinking been going on?”
“Last night was the first—and my last—time.” I groan. “I feel awful. I don’t like it.”
She smiles. “Then I guess what you’re going through should be punishment enough.”
“Are you going to tell Daddy?”
“No. You’re going to get a pass, this time. But don’t let it happen again.”
“I promise. I won’t.”
The next day I’m on my thirty-minute lunch break sitting at a table in the food court filling Sasha in on all the drama with my mom.
“That lady better get her life,” she says, tilting her head, causing her bright fuchsia bangs to swing over her left eye. I’ve finished telling her that my mom wants to meet her. And she’s not the least bit pleased about it. “I know dat’s your momz ’n’ all, but where dey do dat at? I ain’t even ’bout to come to ya house ’n’ let ya momz scrutinize me like I’m some backyard trash. I be done cussed her out, okay? She bet’ not even try it. I’m too grown for da mom games, boo.”
I blink. “She’s not trying it. Or playing games. She’s only interested in seeing who I’m hanging out with.”
She snorts. “She better go have several seats at da Garden.”
I give her a blank stare.
“I know how dem uppity broadz like your momz move. They think their precious daughters are too good for chicks like me.”
“That’s so not true,” I say defensively.
“Yeah, right. Lies. Rich broadz like your momz stay lookin’ down at girls from da hood like we lepers or like we have a bad case of herpes. No ma’am. Dat ain’t gonna happen. Not today. Not any other day. ”
“That’s not her intention—to scrutinize you,” I say softly. “She just wants see who I’m hanging out with; that’s all.”
She huffs. “Yeah, right. More lies you tell. What, she wanna make sure I’m good enough for her precious little princess to hang out wit’?” She rolls her eyes. “Girl, bye. Miss me wit’ dat. Ain’t no momz I know checkin’ for dey kidz’ friends. Ya momz is buggin’ for real, girl. She doin’ way too much.”
I shrug. “Yeah, I guess.”
“Mmmph. Well, guess dat ish somewhere else ’cause ain’t nobody got time to be meetin’ her.” She waves me on dismissively. “Movin’ on. So you tryna hit dis party up wit’ me dis weekend or what?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I kind of promised my mom I wouldn’t get into anymore trouble.”
She frowns. “Girl, bye! You betta get ya life! All dat good girl ish gonna get you is a buncha borin’ nights at home. I know you ain’t even ’bout to let her ruin ya summer fun, boo.”
She’s right! I said I wanted to party and have fun. So why should I stop now when the fun is just getting started?
“What time are we going?”
She grins. “Bish, dat’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout. It’s gonna be live. Trust.”
17
“So what’s good, yo?” The voice blares into my ear over Busta’s “Thank You” playing loudly out of the three large speakers situated around the basement. I’m at a house party in East Orange with Sasha. Somewhere I shouldn’t be, of course. But the energy is live. The music is all that. And there’s a pack of thug cuties here. Once again, I lied. Told my mom that I was staying the night at Hope’s. That I’d be home tomorrow around one or two. Luckily for me, she believed me.
I keep my gaze low and avoid making eye contact with most of the kids here, mostly because the boys who are ogling me are making me uncomfortable. And the first time I do look up and scan the room, I’m being greeted with girls eyeballing me nastily.
“I see you all over here by yaself,” he says, looking me up and down, slowly dragging the pink-colored tip of his tongue over his dark brown lips. I remember him from the last party Sasha brought me to. He was one of the guys standing out on the porch smoking a blunt. He’s a brown-skinned guy with slanted, bloodshot eyes. Probably from drinking and smoking. He’s about six feet with a muscular build. He’s wearing a white T-shirt and a pair of baggy jeans. True Religions, I think.
I sweep my eyes around the party and notice guys grinding up on girls. And girls doing strip club moves on the dance floor. A few are pressed up in corners making out. Or smoking weed.
Without thought, I bob my head from side to side.
“You wanna dance?” he asks, taking me in with his gaze. I look up at him, then glance around the space. The floor is packed with hoochie-type girls grinding their booties up on crotches, twerking and bouncing real hard to a Jay-Z song now playing.
I shake my head. “No, thanks.”
It’s so packed that bodies are practically pressing into each other just to walk by. And there’s a thick fog of smoke hovering in the air. I feel myself getting light-headed from all of the marijuana smoke.
He leans into my ear. “Oh, a’ight.” He grins, then licks his lips.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Like you’re trying to figure me out or something.”
He laughs. “Oh, nah-nah. You lookin’ mad sexy, though.”
“Thank you,” I say over the music, trying to avoid the narrowed eyes glaring at me from across the room. There are like four girls standing over on the other side of the dance floor giving me nasty looks. I don’t even know any of them. But because they don’t like Sasha—for whatever reasons—they don’t like me. So whatever problems she has with girls I’ve inherited. Guilty by association.
Speaking of Sasha, she disappeared up the stairs with some boy with dreads, leaving me holding up the wall, like the lone wallflower that I am.
I glance at my watch.
Ohmygod, I can’t believe she’s been missing in action for almost half an hour.
“Yo, you too pretty to be standing here looking like a bored statue,” he says, reaching for my hand. “Let me holla at you for a minute.”
I pull my hand back.
He laughs. “Oh, word? It’s like dat? I ain’t gonna bite, ma; not unless you want me to. I just wanna get away from all’a dis loud music; feel me?”
I nod. “Yeah, it is kind of loud.”
He gestures his head toward the stairs. “Let’s go upstairs for a sec.”
I glance over at the group of girls across the room. One of them grabs her crotch, then flips me off with her middle finger. I cringe. Another girl takes her finger and slides it across her throat. The threat clear: “I’m going to slice your throat.”
I swallow.
He looks over at the group of girls. “Yo, don’t pay them birds no mind. They hatin’, that’s all.”
“But why?” I ask innocently.
He scrunches his face. “Why? You fresh meat, babe. E’ery dude in here wanna get at you. And them haters know it.”
I blink. Then glance over toward the staircase when I see a guy and a girl coming down the stairs. I hope to see Sasha. But I’m disappointed when it’s not her.
“Yo, you can stand here if you want, but Sasha’s upstairs doin’ her, so you might as well do you.”
I guess he’s right. Anything is better than standing here feeling stupid. Maybe I’ll find Sasha upstairs, and she’ll be ready to go.
“I was told to never walk off with strangers,” I joke.
“I’m not a stranger, baby.”
“Uh, um, if I don’t know your name you are.”
He smirks. “Yo, I dig you. It’s Shaheed. But my peo
ples call me Sha.”
“Nice to meet you, Shaheed,” I say, trying to flirt without seeming flirty. I mean, I don’t want to give off any mixed messages. I only want to have some fun.
It’s a party for Christ’s sake.
And Sasha is nowhere to be seen.
What else am I supposed to do? Stand here and look lost and silly?
I don’t think so.
Shaheed lightly grabs me by the elbow and leads the way. I follow him through the throng of partygoers, then up the dark stairs. There’s a slit of light coming from under a door. The bathroom, I think.
We walk past another door which is slightly open, a slice of light creeping out from beneath it. Save from the slivers of light and the glow of a nightlight stuck in a wall outlet, the whole upstairs is dimly lit.
We walk a short ways down the hall. I count six doors, including the two I assume are the bathroom and a bedroom, in my head. Music is playing up here as well, so it’s hard to hear anything being said behind any of the doors.
Shaheed turns the knob to the third door on the left, pushing it open. It’s a bedroom. There’s a twin bed, a dresser, a nightstand, and a big flat-screen television mounted up on the wall across from the bed. A nightlight is plugged into an outlet near the door.
I step inside and Shaheed shuts the door behind us. My eyes have to adjust to the darkness. I blink several times.
“So, I’m sayin’ . . . what’s good? When you gonna let me show you my long stroke?”
I raise a brow. “Your long stroke? What, you swim? I used to belong to the swim team at my school.”
He laughs. “Yeah. I swim a’ight. Up in dem guts.”
I blink, caught off guard. “What did you say?”
“Nah, I’m sayin’. I gotta long stroke, but it ain’t for da pool, feel me.”
“Wait. You want to have sex with me?”
He grins. “You already know what it is, ma. Yeah I wanna hit dat.” He steps in, pulling me into him. He reeks of weed and alcohol. He licks his lips. “I ain’t even gonna front, yo. I’ve been eyein’ you all night, ma. From da moment you stepped through da door I started schemin’ on dat phatty, yo. I’m tryna see what’s really good wit’ all’a dat.”