by Ni-Ni Simone
“Breaking news!” Khya yelled and snapped her fingers—as rain sprinkled into our faces.
“What?” we all said simultaneously as the plastic bags we held over our hair rattled in the wet wind.
Khya blew a bubble and popped it. “I met a cutie.”
“Who, Jesus?” Courtney snapped. “ ‘Cause you have ran through every other cutie on campus.”
“Seriously,” I said, never thinking I’d ever agree with Courtney.
“Who is it this time, Khya?” Shae asked.
Khya popped her gloss-covered lips. “Devin, Josiah’s roommate. We saw each other in the caf the other day and ole boy insisted on having my number. I knew my natural effect would work and I wouldn’t have to sprinkle no gris-gris on him.” She snapped her fingers, did a Beyoncé drop, popped back up, and gave a Miss America wave. “I’d like to thank the academy of swagger….”
Courtney twisted his lips to the side. “Two snaps up and a fruit loop—”
Two snaps and a what?
“With that one-track-mind cutie,” Courtney continued, “I’m sure it has less to do with your swagger and more to do with your Serena Williams–like booty. ‘Cause I’m sure he’s trying to make it his duty to get up on that.”
Khya paused. “Oh, snap, Courtney, I didn’t know you could rhyme. You should be a rapper, you would kill it.”
WTF? “That didn’t rhyme.” I frowned.
“Shut up, Seven,” Courtney barked. “It did rhyme and here you profess to write poetry.” He turned to Khya, and said as if he was highly impressed, “You really think I could be a rapper?” He stared into space. “That would be so hot. I’ve always wanted to be MC Rainbow.” He stood silently in his spot, and then suddenly he started doing the running man. “I’m MC Rainbow in the place to be and if you catch me on Thursdays my name is Court-ta-nee….”
What’da … I looked at Shae and we laughed so hard that we each held our stomachs, opened our mouths, and nothing came out. Tears slid from our eyes, and I thought for sure I was going to pass out.
“Oh, y’all thought that was funny?” Courtney said, his feelings obviously hurt. “Would you like it if I laughed at you?” He pointed to me and Shae. “You better be lucky my mother taught me not to attack Jerry’s kids.”
“Okay … okay …” Shae did her best to stop laughing. “Courtney,” Shae stammered as she wiped her eyes, “we’re sorry.”
“Yeah,” I sniffed as I collected myself together. “Yeah, we are. Now let’s get back on track—” I wiped my eyes. “Back to Devin. Khya, it’s just something about him. I don’t know if he’s the cutie for you. When we were on second line he was too busy staring at your hips and D cups.”
“And if he’s staring at your breasts longer than your face,” Shae said, “then he’s clearly saying to himself, ‘I’m ‘bout to hit that.'”
“Hmm, Shae.” Khya rubbed her hand across her chin. “You went real deep with that one. Is that where you think I went wrong with Jamil?”
"Stop the recording right there.” Courtney wagged his finger. “We are not going there. Follow me here: Jamil ran off and married Precious; we have to let that go.”
“Nobody asked you, Courtney,” Khya snapped. “And why would you say something like that to me, when I’m the only one who didn’t laugh at you being some running-man played MC Rainbow? Did I tell you that your rhyme was like 1995, they don’t spit bubble gum anymore? Noooooo, I was considerate. I let you have your moment, and what you do for me? Take out your gun and blow away my dreams. You wrong for that, Rainbow.”
“Running man?” Courtney said in disbelief. “Played? And bubble gum? I don’t believe you said that, Khya. And you know I’m sensitive—”
“Umm hmm, whatever, and for your information Jamil didn’t marry Shaka-Locka.” She paused. “But wait a minute—” She stared off into space. “I did see he’d changed his relationship status the other day to ‘it’s complicated.’ What da hell does that mean? Oh hell nawl.” She pulled out her cell phone. “Let me call this mofo right now—”
“Put that phone away!” Shae screamed. “It don’t matter. Let it go, girl. Puhlease let it go.”
“You’re right.” Khya took deep breaths and threw one-two jabs in the air. “It don’ madder. I ain’t fidda let Jamil bother me. Do I look bothered, yat?” She asked and answered her own question. “Not. Ya heardz me? I got this.”
“Khya,” Shae said, “what you need is a man like my baby. Big Country is a real gentleman.” She blushed.
“Yeah, right.” I twisted my lips. “A gentleman who whispers to you about how he wants to sop you up like gravy and suck you off the ends of his cornbread.”
"Dead,” Courtney spat. “That visual just killed Courtney.”
Khya batted her lashes. “Ignore them, Shae, because that is sooooo romantic.”
“Ill.” I gagged. “Both of y’all are sick.”
“Don’t hate, Seven,” Khya said. “And anyway, Devin is different from most guys.”
I paused and thought back over the last few weeks. “You say that every time. Everyone you meet is different. The dude you met the first night on campus was different—”
“And he was,” Khya said. “A different kind of jerk. Did I tell you he told me I reminded him of his third baby mama—? Third …” she said slowly, “ … baby … mama!”
“Third?” Shae said in disbelief.
“Third,” Khya confirmed. “Not first, not second, but third baby mama.”
“Oh damn,” Shae said. “But what about the one you met the first day of classes—you said he was different too.”
“He was.” Khya nodded. “A different kinda broke. Did I tell you I saw him the other night rocking the corner with a tore-up collection cup? He wasn’t playing an instrument, he wasn’t singing. Nothing. Just straight-up begging.”
“What did you do?” I asked in disbelief.
“I gave him a job application and told him he needed to go and hook that up.”
“Oh … kay.” Courtney chimed in. “Well … ummm … what about the cutie you met last week on Thursday?”
“Say this with me: cra’ay’zee. Like Jay-Z, but cra’ay’zee.”
“Oh that’s a mess,” I said as I spotted our long-lost trolley creeping up the block. We stepped out from under the awning as the trolley headed up the street toward us. I took my fare from my purse and said, “So, Khya, what makes Devin so different?”
“He has one out of three chances to be picked as a first-round draft pick if he were to enter this year; he just signed with an agent … Oh yeah, and umm, he’s cute. Yeah,” she said as if she were agreeing with herself. “And he’s, umm, nice. He said good morning to me. And, ummm, yeah, I just like him.”
“And for all the right reasons too—” I stopped midsentence, I had to. Really … I did … because suddenly and without warning the world came to an end. And we’d been drowned, from our freshly done dos to our manicured feet with a heavy wave of rainwater, courtesy of an onyx and kitted-up F-150 pickup that skirted around the trolley, splashed water from the street to the sidewalk, and rocked our world.
It was like … like … a hurricane breeze had come over us. Scratch that, how about a tornado—yeah, that was it, a tornado had just hog spit on us and now we were buried in the drippings.
WTF?!
Instantly every … last … one of my curls melted. My hair slicked over my forehead and stuck to the sides of my face like black glue. Khya’s bob had gone flat, Shae’s natural waves had transformed into an afro. And Courtney, well, his finger waves made a loud crunch sound, and as if his hair were breaking free it shot straight up in the air, causing him to fall to the ground and scream, “Dead! Courtney’s dead!”
The plastic bags that had only moments ago protected our hair were blown into the street. My clothes were stuck to me and I felt like I’d just bumped—and yes, I mean bumped—into the ocean.
Oh hell to da no!
And just when I thought we’d made
it through the worst of things the trolley we’d been waiting on for over an hour closed its doors and rode past us.
I only have one word to say: stunned.
The kitted-up culprit reversed its way down the street and made a screeching sound as it halted in front of us and splashed even more water onto the sidewalk. “Yo,” the driver said as he got out of his truck and slammed the door, “my fault, Lovely.”
The driver looked me over and his eyes smiled, at least until he peeped Khya and Shae, who were clearly in space, and Courtney who laid on the ground screaming about his roots. “I didn’t have the money for a touch-up!” he cried.
“Damn, lil mas,”—he paused and looked at Courtney—“And you, I’m really sorry about this. I promise you I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
I placed my hands on my soaking wet hips, crooked my neck to the left, and just when I was prepared to spaz, he boldly swept my hair from my forehead. “Seriously, beautiful”—he gazed into my eyes—“my fault. I shouldn’t have cut in front of the bus like that.”
For-real, for-real, I had every intention on being a pissed, raving lunatic, but instead I found myself spent … all because he was well … fine—hmm, let’s make that beautiful—nah, that’s not doing him justice either.
Let’s try pretty—but then again … I wasn’t sure what label to place on whoever he was; and though I tried to keep my eyes still, so that I could focus on being swollen, I couldn’t and my eyes roamed all over lil daddy like an oil spill.
His looks were so sweet that he put Reggie Bush to sleep. He was a grown-man-type fine. NFL player, Terrell Owens, but younger and with smoother almond-butter skin, deeper plunging dimples, a sexier cleft chin, marble brown eyes, and a smile that demanded your attention. Yeah, trust me, it was like that.
He wore a fitted and white V-neck tee that clung to his defined muscles and showcased a few of his tattoos; dirty-wash True Religion jeans; a G-Shock wristwatch; and a pair of Louis Vuitton sneakers on his feet.
And honey, his sexy New Orleans accent made me feel privileged to be south of the Mason-Dixon line. Hollah!
“Yo, Love, for real,” he said, “I didn’t realize how fast I was going.”
“Oh, it’s okay, lil tender,” Khya said, snapping out of one daze and into another. “I happen to like the wet and slick-down look.”
“Well, I don’t!” I spat as my wet hair slung water all over the place. “Do you understand what I had to go through to get my hair done? And did you see my clothes?”
“My roots!” Courtney yelled before I could go on. “My roots!”
“I’ll pay for your hair to get redone. All of you.” The cutie pulled out his wallet as his sexy voice radiated with apologies.
But at this moment I could care less. I was so heated there was no way I could process anything he had to say. “No, what you need to pay for are driving lessons! ‘Cause what you just did to our hair is straight out of control. If I was Tiger Woods’s wife, trust me, it would be on!”
"I sooo sorry, ma. I got you.” He gave me a sexy half-a grin. “Forgive me.”
“Forgive you? I have a date tonight and you have ruined it!”
“Skip it then—we can go chill somewhere else.”
I blinked. “You think this is a game? You out here using your car like a weapon—”
“It’s okay,” Khya said. “I like a lil violence.”
“My roots!” Courtney screamed. “My roots!”
“I really don’t believe this.” I shook my head.
“Look,” cutie said, “I’ve said I was sorry like a thousand times. And I am. Let me at least offer y’all a ride back to Stiles U. I don’t mind. It’s the least I could do.”
“Ride back to Stiles U? I don’t know you!”
“There’s only one way to get to know somebody, Seven,” Khya said, tight-lipped.
“Be quiet.” I looked at ole boy suspiciously and said, “And how did you know where we were going?”
“I saw you in the bookstore the other day,” he said.
I stood, shocked. “What? So you running all over town stalking me and when you couldn’t get my attention you douse us with water? Is that your pick-up line?”
“All you had to do was ask me for my number,” Khya said. “I’m not that hard to please. You didn’t have to mess up my hair.”
He chuckled. “It wasn’t like that.”
“I don’t care what it was,” I snapped. “I still don’t know you.”
“Zaire.” He smiled and I was pissed off even more that his smile made him even cuter.
“Look,” Shae said, “bump all that. Yeah you cute and all, but I got a man, so impress me with my forty-five dollars.” She held her hand out. “Twenty-five for the style and fifteen for the inconvenience.”
Zaire pulled the money from his wallet and handed it to Shae. He looked at Khya. “What do I owe you?”
“Dinner, Red Fish Grill—”
“I wish you would go to a Red Fish Grill with him.” I squinted. “You know what?” I said as another trolley pulled up and I held my hand out for it to stop. “You can skip yo lil bootleg behind on, driving like you’re drunk or something. Don’t think you being sexy compensates for you ruining my hair. Oh hell no. And you can keep your money, your phone number, and whatever else is behind that smile, ‘cause Seven McKnight is not beat!”
“All that you saying”—Zaire leaned against his car as the rain washed over his body—“you don’t even believe.”
“Whatever.” I looked at my girls and said, “Let’s go!” That’s when I realized that Courtney was still stretched on the ground. I turned around while standing in the trolley’s aisle and yelled out the window, “MC Rainbow, get yo behind up and come on!”
A few minutes later Courtney stumbled on board.
Once we took our seats, I looked out the window and Zaire hit me with a soft wink. I leaned back, closed my eyes, and did all I could to erase his face from my thoughts.
12
Picture us married …
—NAS, “K-I-S-S-I-N-G”
True story, this is how I was supposed to be: teenage Sex and the City. Super-duper fly, in my black and fitted Bebe mini dress, equipped with all the right trimmings: four-inch pencil heels and sexy curls. Deliciously sick. But I wasn’t.
The reflection that stared back at me from the bathroom’s full-length mirror was ummm … ummm … yeah, you got it—one hot … mess! Let me say that again: hot … mess.
To say I was pissed would be an understatement.
I’d been standing here for the last hour trying to fix my hair and style it in every way imaginable. One side was braided because I thought a Mohawk, with natural curls flowing down the center, would’ve been hot. Not. It looked stoop’pid. The other side was gelled down—and quickly faded to a flaky wreck a few seconds after I slapped a handful of Ampro on it.
I couldn’t wash my hair because I had no shampoo and the dryer that I had, had been had, and no longer worked.
Honey, let me put it to you like this, I was a wretched mess and the only thing that worked for me was this sexy black dress that I’d slipped into. That’s when it clicked. I wasn’t going … period. There was no way I could let Josiah see me looking busted. And yeah, I know he was supposed to love me flaws and all … yada-yada-yada. Whatever. There was no way I was about to step in Josiah’s crib looking like queen of the misfits.
I took my cell phone and dialed Josiah’s number. “Yeah,” he said sarcastically while answering the phone, “you’re only an hour late.”
“I’m not coming,” I said, getting directly to the point. There was no way I could sugarcoat it.
“What?” he said, shocked. “What do you mean you’re not coming?”
“My hair is a mess.” I recounted for him the story of how my curls went from sugar to well, you know…. The only thing I left out was how the perpetrator made my heart beat a little too fast.
“Seven, we’ve been together for how long?” he sai
d in disbelief.
“And you’ve never seen me like this.”
“Remember that time you broke up with me and I came to see you—and your brother said you’d been lying in the bed crying for six months—”
“What about it? And it wasn’t six months—it had only been two days.”
“It was a week, but still—you were hit. Hair a mess, cold in your eyes.”
"Whatever.” I laughed. “And you didn’t look too hot yourself, but anywho, I still didn’t look as bad as I do now.”
Josiah continued, “Remember last summer you were sick for a week and I came over to take care of you?”
“Yeah,” I whined, remembering how sweet that was.
“Well, I hate to break this to you, but you looked so bad that a few times I had to remember how much I loved you.”
Why was I smiling? This was not supposed to be a funny moment. “Whatever, let’s not forget how I was practically your servant when you hurt your foot playing ball, and when you had the flu I made chicken noodle soup for you. Oh, what about when you had a stomach virus—? Should I go on.”
My baby laughed. “So then you get my point,” he said.
“I guess … but …”
“But what? You think your hair being messed up is going to turn me off or something?”
“It might.” I looked in the mirror at my callaloo of hairdos.
“Seven, don’t you get it by now? I’m seriously crushing on you. I don’t care about your hair. I just want you over here. I have something special planned; Devin’s gone out for the night—”
“Speaking of Devin, since when did he start liking Khya? He better treat her right.”
“Time out. You know I don’t believe in being in any of my boys’ business. If Devin’s kicking it to your girl, that’s between them, and dinner over here is between us. Now come on.”
"All right.” I paused, looked myself over in the mirror once more, and said, “And you better not …”