A few minutes later Jimmy walked over, his chest poked out. “What's wrong, Roxanne?”
“You better get fat ass,” she cried, “and tell him something.”
“Tell him what?” Jimmy looked Red up and down.
“I went to get a beer, and he gon' practically cuss me out talkin' about I'm one of Nadine's people and that me and my kids is the wild and retarded bunch.”
“I ain't say nothin' about yo' kids,” Red insisted.
“Yes you did.” She pointed to the rowdy group that Red thought had come with Nadine. “Those is my kids and we ain't no slow group.”
“Oh, Jimmy,” Red said apologetically, “I didn't know. I just thought she had escaped from someplace…I thought…you know … that maybe she was a part of Nadine's group.”
“Nadine didn't bring no people with her this year, Red.” Jimmy looked him up and down. “So what exactly are you trying to say?”
“I'ma kick his ass,” Roxanne said.
“Naw, baby, calm down.” Jimmy said to Roxanne. “Ya man got this.”
“Oh hell no,” Imani said. “You on ya own with this one, Red. I'm going to check on my mother.”
Before Red could respond he heard his name being yelled across the yard. “Redtonio! Redtonio! Come mere, Redtonio!”
Red looked around and saw that his aunt Sistah was calling him. “Redtonio! Redtonio! Come mere, right now.”
“I'll be back,” he said to Jimmy and Roxanne. “What's going on, Aunt Sistah?”
“This fool,” she pointed to the white-gloved butler who'd been serving the guests cheese puffs and shrimp kebabs, “said I can't serve my fatback with pickle dip or fried chitlins on a stick.”
“And do you know he stopped her,” Red's cousin Lula-Baby said, “from setting up her food because he said her collard greens were dripping green water. I have you to know,” Lula-Baby said to the butler, rolling her eyes, “that that's collard green juice. You get you some fried corn bread and you got a meal.”
“It won't just the collard greens either, Red,” Aunt Sistah said. “He also said that I couldn't serve my lima beans and neck bones. Will you tell this fool that I put my foot in my neck bones.”
“What's the problem?” Red said to the butler. “Why can't they serve the food?”
“Sir, we were hired to serve the guests. I offered them the option of allowing us to take the food into the kitchen so it can be served properly with the other entrées.”
“Y'all wanna do that?” Red asked his aunt and cousin. “My man here will hook it up with a li'l class. People'll be talkin' about how the butler was servin' chitlins on a stick.”
“Now, what the hell wrong with you?” Aunt Sistah frowned at Red. “You know we don't let nobody go in our pots, now you know better than that.”
“Anybody seen my porta-potty?” Mama Byrd yelled. “I'm warnin' y'all I need it.”
“Oh Lawd,” Aunt Sistah said, “let me go help my sister. Straighten this out, Redtonio. I expects that my food will be served.”
Lula-Baby stood and watched Red and the butler. “Lima beans make you fart when they get cold, Redtonio.”
Red looked at the butler. “Let them serve the food.”
(Monica)
MONICA LAY HER head on Chauncey's shoulder as they swayed to Chaka Khan's “Through the Fire.” For a moment her eyes connected with Sharief and she saw the hurt and anguish in his face, which only caused her to grip Chauncey tighter. Although she loved Sharief, Chauncey would do as a safe substitute.
Sharief sat at the makeshift bar, shaking the ice in his 7UP, wanting desperately to order a beer, or a rum and Coke, or anything that would calm his nerves and stop him from snapping on Chauncey as he rubbed his hands across Monica's ass.
“I've missed you, Monica,” Chauncey whispered, stroking her back.
“Yeah right.”
“I have. I've missed you a lot…and I've been wanting to talk to you for a while.”
“Why didn't you call and tell me? I would've made time, or you should've come over.”
“I didn't want to come over, because whenever I did your brother-in-law shot me nasty looks or did things like walk around with the butt of his gun showing. And I wasn't quite comfortable with that, so I stayed home.”
“Is that why you haven't been calling me?”
“I've called you. You just never called back.”
Monica placed her hands around Chauncey's neck. “I'm sorry.”
“Don't be.” “Come again?” Monica stopped dancing.
“Don't stop dancing. Dancing will make this easier for me.” “Okay,” Monica said as they started to slow-dance again, this time to Babyface's “Whip Appeal.”
“Monica, I've been thinking about our relationship and how long we've been seeing each other. And it seems like the relationship isn't going anywhere.”
“I thought we were past this.” She took a deep breath. “We've already talked about that. I don't want a relationship right now.”
“But I do. That's the problem,” Chauncey said.
“But I don't. And I won't compromise my life to settle. I'm twenty-nine years old, and I'm happy. Don't try and take that from me.”
“I don't want to take anything from you. And I didn't ask you to live with me or for your hand in marriage so take it down.”
“Oh…”
“Listen.” Chauncey stopped dancing and looked at Monica. “I'm seeing somebody else and I want to see her exclusively. You're not sure of what you want, you're always distracted and un-focused. I can't deal with that and neither do I want that. You seem to think that you'll be twenty-nine forever. Well I know better. So now I've said it. I hope we can be mature enough to be friends.”
“Friends?”
“Yes, I like you as a person. I just can't be in a relationship with you.”
“Oh.” Monica swallowed hard. She absolutely couldn't believe this shit. “Well if that's how you feel, Chauncey, then I wish you the best.” She kissed him on the cheek. “You can go home now.”
“So now you're putting me out.” He frowned.
“No, I just figured that you would wanna step, being that you just dumped me.”
“I didn't dump you.” He grabbed Monica by the waist. “I was just following your lead and you didn't want to be with me.”
“I care about you, Chauncey.”
“And I care about you.” As Monica went to hug Chauncey his cell phone vibrated. He grabbed it and looked at the caller ID. His eyes lit up. “Excuse me, Monica, I need to take this.” And he left her standing there.
“This bastard.” Monica chuckled. “Just dumped me, ain't that some shit?” She walked over and sat at the bar by Sharief.
“You know I'm not speaking to you, right?” she said, bumping Sharief on the shoulder. “I'll have a glass of water,” she told the bartender.
“Listen.” Sharief stared at Monica with a serious look on his face. “I love you, I'm in love with you, and as fucked up as it may be, I would leave my wife to be with you. But don't ever in your fuckin' life play me by throwing a niggah in my face.”
“You were fuckin' kissing your wife.”
“She kissed me. It was nothing. Absolutely nothing.” “If you say so.”
Sharief and Monica sat silent for a minute. The bartender handed Monica her drink. “Let me tell you.” She pointed to Chauncey, who was still on the phone. “The square dumped me.”
“What?” Sharief raised his eyebrows. “He did what?”
“The niggah left me.”
“Oh, you were a couple?”
“No.”
“Well, how did he leave you?”
“He said that he wanted to see someone else, because I didn't want to commit to him and shit like that. And…”
Sharief cracked up laughing. “And what…”
“The bitch called him while we were dancing and he stopped dancing with me to talk to her.”
“Poor baby.” He grinned. “You just got played?”
“Oh
, you think the shit is funny?” She mushed him in the head. “Now that your competition has removed himself.”
“I had competition?” Sharief asked seriously.
“No, baby, none at all.” “What competition?” Celeste asked, sitting down on the other side of Sharief. “What are you talking about? And why are y'all always holding li'l side bar conversations?”
“Don't start, Celeste,” Sharief said sternly, “I'm not in the mood.”
“Excuse me.” The videographer stood in front of them. “Would you all like to say something to the bride and groom?”
“Sure, why not?” Sharief said.
“Thank you, sir. Let me get you and your wife first,” he pointed to Monica, “and then this young lady.” He pointed to Celeste.
“Excuse you?” Celeste frowned. “I'm his wife.”
“Oh I'm sorry,” the videographer said. “I didn't know …I tell you what, I'll come back.” He turned and walked away.
“Everybody's your fuckin' wife but me, Sharief.” She pointed to the bandage on his hand. “That's the root of our problems.”
“You know what, Celeste,” Monica snapped, “something's not quite right here. How did you go from confiding in me to accusing me?”
“I never accused you! It's not every day you wake up and your sister's in bed with your husband.”
“It's not every day that your sister asks if her husband can live with you,” Monica snapped.
“I never asked for him to live with you.”
“Well hell, I can't tell; he's at my house every day!”
“Wooo, wait a minute—” Sharief held up his hand for Monica and Celeste to come to a halt.
“You know what? This is soooo for the birds, fuck both of y'all,” Monica snapped.
Without thinking twice, Sharief snatched Monica by the arm. “Sit yo' ass down and stop running all over the place. Now, if y'all can't get along then fine, but this is about your mother and Red, not the two of you.”
“This is about a buncha bullshit! I'm outta here!” Monica screamed.
Sharief squinted. “Sit yo' ass down and have a drink. What you want, a beer or what's that new drink you like? A Perfect Ten? Celeste, what you want? White wine?” Sharief took his fist and tapped on the bar to get the bartender's attention. “The ladies will have a Perfect Ten, a glass of Chardonnay, and I'll have a rum and Coke.”
Celeste looked at Sharief. “You'll have a what?”
“A rum and Coke. I just need to breathe for once. That's it.”
“I don't think that's a good decision.”
“Damn, Celeste,” Monica complained, “he's not your son, shit. Loosen up.”
“You need to mind your business.”
“This is my business.”
(Imani)
“COME ON, MA, talk to me.”
Imani leaned back in the butter-soft gray leather front seat in Kree's Excursion. The Proud to Be Puerto Rican decorative CD that hung from the rearview mirror spiraled as Kree drove, reflecting streaks of light as he passed cars by. Imani stared at the side of Kree's face. He licked his lips and took a sip of his leftover Heineken. “You sleepy?” He put his beer back down and peeked quickly to the side.
“No, not really.” She flipped the visor's mirror down and saw that Jamal had fallen asleep in the backseat. She pushed the visor back up and sighed. “I was just thinking.”
“About what?” Kree asked, pushing his truck to almost ninety-five miles per hour up the dark turnpike. He had at least another hour left to drive from Celeste's house back to Brooklyn. Imani had been surprised when he'd asked if he could take her home. She'd agreed because it was right up her alley considering she wasn't speaking to Monica, couldn't stand to hear her girls' opinions about Walik, and everybody else was spending the night. And as far as Imani was concerned, spending the night was out of the question. Especially since she didn't know where Walik was and who he was with. Spending the night would've only made her restless, miserable, and sick to her stomach. All Imani really wanted was one phone call from Walik. Whether it was filled with lies or not, she needed it to at least sound legit. All she wanted to hear was, I was sleep, ma, I didn't hear my phone ring, and I been at your crib this whole time. Was that too much to ask? Her stomach was doing flips because she knew she'd been gone too long and didn't know what mood Walik would be in when she called him early in the morning. Or how he would feel about hanging out with her all day, since he had more than enough time to make up an excuse why he couldn't fuck with her too tough. For once Imani wanted to feel safe: as if all was well with the world and that Walik going to prison and coming home had somewhat changed him. After all, she'd stayed by his side the entire time, playing in her pussy and the whole nine, never fucking another niggah. In fact she'd only been with one other man, besides Walik, and that was when she was twelve and lost her virginity, but now that she was twenty-three she no longer wanted that to count. Besides, she'd lied to Walik and told him that he'd been her first and only one.
“So that's really ya man, huh?” Kree asked Imani. “What's up with that?”
“Why are you asking me all of these questions? I got one for you.”
“What?”
“I ain't never met a Puerto Rican named Kree. What the hell happened to Rico Suave?”
“Oh no, you didn't say some stupid shit like that to me.” Kree frowned.
“How is that stupid?”
“Why can't I be Puerto Rican and be named Kree? Now, if I flipped that shit and said something dumb to you like why is your name Imani and not Shanay-nay or Bey-Bey you would have an attitude. For your information my name is Kree Fernando Rodriquez. And I'm a full-blooded bronze-colored Puerto Rican. Don't be confused.”
Imani felt stupid. “I didn't mean any harm. I'm sorry, I didn't expect you to get offended.”
“It's good, ma, I checked you. Now we can move forward.” He smiled. “But if you say something crazy again, then I'ma be convinced that that's a description of who you are.”
“Are you calling me crazy?”
“I'm calling you tomorrow if you can act like you have some sense.”
Imani couldn't help but laugh. “Ai'ight, Kree, you got that. So what's with you? You gotta girl?”
“I got some jump-offs that hang around, but I'm single.”
For some reason Imani looked at his left hand.
“So how long have you been with ole boy?” he asked her.
“Since I was thirteen.”
“Damn, that's a long time. So what's up with him? Why you play him the other night at the club?”
“It's a long story but we made up. Anyway do you hang out at NV a lot?”
“I DJ there on Saturdays.”
“Oh, I didn't know that,” she said, smiling.
“That's wassup.”
“Wait a minute…Kree? Kree from Hot 97, rap, reggae, club and soca mix, that's you? I love to listen to that! Oh, you da bomb, boo. Aww shit, let me find out you Fat Joe on the low.”
Kree laughed. “There go that mouth again.”
“I'm just playing, big head.”
“I know, baby.” He blushed. “I guess I'm just not on my DJing shit like that. I do it because I love it.”
“Damn, sweetie. I'm proud of you.”
“You don't even know me to be proud of me.”
“But you feel like my brother.”
“Oh hell no.” Kree smirked. “Don't even start that brother shit, 'cause I will commit incest. So stop it. Stop it right now. I'm too fine to be your brother.”
Imani mushed him playfully in the head. “Punk.”
“Don't you see me driving, girl?” Kree took a sip of his beer.
“I also see you sipping a beer, so hush.”
“Ai'ight, ai'ight,” Kree said, putting his beer down. “Yo, do you watch Being Bobby Brown?”
“Do I? That shit is off the hook. It's cracked-out love at its finest.”
“Look, boo.” Kree snickered. “Remember this?” He s
tarted singing, making fun of a line from the show: “These work for me? These work for you? These work for me? These work for you?”
“Hell yeah.” Imani hunched her shoulders like she was doing the Cabbage Patch and started singing along, but instead she said, “Crack work for me, crack work for you, crack work for me, crack work for you…”
Kree looked at her. “Whitney gon' bust yo' ass, sayin' some shit like that.”
“Well hell, it's my prerogative.”
“You funny as hell, girl.” Kree laughed.
By the time they finished singing, talking, and laughing they were pulling in front of Imani's apartment building. Kree double-parked his Excursion. “You know, you're a decent broad.”
Imani playfully balled up her fist. “Oh no, you didn't call me a decent broad.”
“What do want me to say, that you're not decent?”
“Just hush.” Imani smiled. “I had a lot of fun with you. Thanks for making me feel better.” She opened the truck's door.
“Well damn, it's a wrap? No kiss, no I'll see you tomorrow, no nothing?”
“I wanna kiss you. I do.” She slid her hands down his cheeks, her palms meeting at his goatee. “But I have a man.”
“Ai'ight, ma. You got that.”
“Let me see your phone,” Imani said to him, closing the door. Kree handed her his phone. “Now”—she smiled—“my number is programmed. Call me.”
“Later, baby. Let me help you with Jamal.” Kree jumped out of his truck and opened Imani's door, then walked to the back door and woke up Jamal. “Come on, li'l man.”
Jamal was groggy.“Where's my Imani?” He stretched.
“Right here,” Imani said, helping him out of the backseat.
“We home?” Jamal asked.
“Yeah.”
“Okay, I wanna get in the bed.”
“Ai'ight li'l man and li'l mama.” Kree hopped back in his truck.“I'll catch y'all another time.”
“Bye, Kree.” They waved.
Imani practically dragged Jamal upstairs. He was holding her leg as tight as he could. They rode the elevator to their twelfth-floor apartment.“Come on, boy,” Imani said.
As she approached the apartment door, she heard the television playing. She breathed a sigh of relief. Walik's here. Now I'ma go off because where the fuck has he been. Before putting her key in the door Imani became pissed: she knew Walik was smoking a blunt because she could smell the weed floating underneath the door. I'ma cuss his ass out! He knows I don't like that shit around Jamal.
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