by Amir Abrams
“Hahahaha. You’re comical, Crystal.”
“I’m serious, Nia. But, annnnyway. Let’s get back to you. I asked you how last night was, and you still have yet to give me details.”
“Well, that’s because your mouth has been going nonstop since we’ve been on the phone. You haven’t stopped talking long enough for me to get a word in.”
She sucks her teeth. “That’s beside the point, Nia. I need details. Starting with the cutie alerts. Were there any cute boys there? I’m dying over here.”
I swear I love her.
But the older she gets, the more boy crazy she gets.
When we were like ten, Nana would say every time Crystal came over, “Somebody better watch that one. She’s gonna be hotter than a firecracker.”
I used to beg Nana to not say that. But she’d say it every time. Truthfully, I don’t think Crystal’s going all the way with boys, yet. Well, wait. I know she isn’t. Well, I hope not.
She would have told me.
Wouldn’t she?
I mean. We tell each other everything.
Crystal and I have been friends since kindergarten.
Thick as thieves.
The dynamic duo.
That’s what we are.
We’ve shared every milestone together.
Shed tears together.
Laughed together.
And explored the world together.
Like sisters, we share a very special bond.
She’s traveled with me on vacation with Daddy. And I’ve gone places with her and her parents as well. Two summers ago I spent a month in Paris with her and her parents.
It was amazing!
And this summer, she’ll be going to Vienna, Austria, and Hamburg, Germany, with Daddy and me.
Why those places?
Because Daddy let me choose where I wanted to vacation this year. And I chose those countries because I love, love Europe and they are both musical capitals—considered home to classical music, and I want to experience everything each country has to offer from classical concerts and opera houses to the ballet.
I love the arts.
And so does Daddy.
Unlike most kids my age, I’ve been listening to classical music for as long as I can remember. Thanks to Daddy.
And, when my mom was alive, the sounds of Motown could also be heard playing through the house on any given day.
She’d sing to me.
And when I was old enough to learn the songs, I’d sing along.
Then when Nana moved in to help Daddy raise me, she’d play nothing but jazz. The sounds of Nina Simone and Billie Holiday and Etta James caressed my ears religiously.
So music has been all around me.
Good music, that is.
Music that makes the spirit come alive.
Umm, I guess you can say I kind of have an old soul.
I don’t think like most kids my age.
Nor do I see the world like most of them, either.
I do not think I am better than them. I’ve simply been exposed to more cultural experiences than most that have broadened my perspective on life and the world around me.
Still, I am the first to admit my own truths.
That I am spoiled.
That I am well traveled.
That I am very much sheltered from the harsh realities of many kids my age.
The disenfranchised.
The impoverished.
The misunderstood.
The underserved.
The trapped.
The less fortunate.
And no matter how many times I volunteer at shelters and soup kitchens, there’s still a disconnect. No matter how many bags of clothes or toys I donate to homeless centers, I am still standing on the outside looking in. No matter how much empathy I have, or compassion I feel, I can and will never truly understand their struggle until I’ve slipped into their shoes and walked in their footsteps.
Shoes I’m too ill prepared to step into.
I know that.
And I also know how blessed I am. How very grateful I am.
“I soooo wish I could have been there,” Crystal says, slicing into my thoughts before I can answer her question. She does that sometimes.
Okay. Most times.
“It was incredible,” I am finally able to say. My smile widens as flashes of last night replay in my head. Daddy was so moved by my poem to him that he was practically in tears by the time I returned to my seat, although he smiled the rest of the night—and beamed with pride—every time someone came to our table to wish him happy birthday, or tell me how much they enjoyed the piece.
I tell Crystal all about it.
“Ooh, it sounds so beautiful,” she says excitedly. “Did you do that piece on fatherhood?”
My forehead creases. Was she not listening to a word I said? I could swear I told her I wrote a birthday poem specifically for Daddy last night.
I blink.
“Umm, why are you Facebook stalking, instead of listening to me?” I say, feigning annoyance.
“See. There you go assuming. I’m not even on Facebook. Now apologize.”
“Then stop Twitter stalking.”
She laughs. “Oops, busted. I’m sorry. Wait. Didn’t you zone out on me just a few moments ago? You were probably on social media yourself, which is how you probably knew I was.”
I laugh. “Nope, I wasn’t. Try again.”
“Mmhmm. Anyway. Go ’head tell me again.”
“Nope. It’s obvious I’m not that important to you. Twitter is.”
“Ohhh, Nia-pooh,” she whines, “don’t be like that. You know you’re my bestie for life.”
I suck my teeth. “I can’t tell. So you might as well tell me who tweeted what.”
“Oooh, I thought you’d never ask . . .”
3
“Ohmygod, I still can’t believe what you told me last night,” I stage whisper to Crystal as she swings open the glass door, and we step through the school’s entrance. She’d told me last night that some boy she’s following on Twitter tweeted that Naomi Pitts, one of the varsity cheerleaders here, gave him and two of his friends an STD.
Chlamydia.
Yuck!
In Twitter news, from what Crystal told me, the three friends shared in a game of naughty tag-team, passing a very naked Naomi around like a football.
I know, scandalous, right?
No, more like gross.
“I know, right,” Crystal says, frowning. “She’s so, so nasty for—”
“Who’s nasty?” Cameron cuts in, sliding in between Crystal and me, startling both of us. Cameron is one of my best male friends here at Colgate High, the private high school we attend. And he’s, um, well—for a lack of a better description, he’s the thorn in Crystal’s ultra-toned side.
She punches him in the arm. “Dang, boy. Stop doing that.”
He feigns ignorance. “Doing what?”
She punches him again. “Scaring us with that ugly face.”
Cameron laughs, rubbing his arm. “That tickled.”
She hits him again, this time a little harder, in the shoulder.
He brushes it off. “You hit like a girl.”
Crystal sucks her teeth. “I am a girl, stupid.” She pushes him. “Now get out the way.”
He glances over at me. “Nia’s a girl, too, but she hits like a guy.”
Crystal huffs. “Well, I’d hit like a boy, too, if I knew how to fight like one.”
“Umm, hello?” I say, waving a finger to stop them. “The two of you, leave me out of your little sparring match. It’s way too early to play referee.”
“Yeah, Crystal,” Cameron says, pinching her cheek, “play nice.”
“Oww, boy! I can’t stand you.”
Cameron grins. “Okay. You should work on your lying.”
“And you should work on your face,” Crystal shoots back.
I roll my eyes.
She knows his face is just fine.
Cameron dismisses her. “Sooo, who wants to tell me who’s being nasty? I like nasty talk.”
Crystal huffs. “Boy, stay your nasty butt out of adult conversations. This has nothing to do with you.”
I shake my head, maneuvering through the crowded hallway. I don’t know why Crystal just won’t admit that she has a thing for him. Cameron is a really, really nice guy. And he’s cute, too.
No, really super cute.
He has these light brown, slanted eyes—courtesy of his Japanese mom—and thick curly hair. He looks exotic thanks to his mixed heritage. His dad is black—excuse me, I mean African-American. Both of his parents are in medicine.
His mom is the head of neurosurgery at UCLA Medical Center.
And his dad is an OB/GYN doctor at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center.
So, as my nana would say, Cameron comes from “good stock.”
And at almost six feet, he’s not only athletic, but he has a quirky sense of humor and he’s really easy to talk to, which makes the girls at school like him even more—including Crystal.
But she’s too stubborn to admit it.
He laughs. “I’m a grown man, little girl. Respect your elders before I put you over my knee and spank you.” He snaps his finger. “Oh, wait. You might like it.”
Crystal gags and fakes choking. “Ugh, ugh. Eww, gross. You’re such a pig.”
Cameron chuckles. “The only thing gross is your breath.” He waves a hand over his nose then pulls his Morehouse T-shirt up over his nose, exposing a sliver of his flat, hard stomach.
Even I notice little things like that.
I mean, c’mon. He might be my best friend, but he’s still nice to look at.
Eye candy, that’s what they call it.
Right?
“So what—or should I say, who—were you two gossiping about?” He keeps his mouth and nose covered for effect. “You need to brush your tongue,” he says to Crystal.
She sucks her teeth, ignoring him.
“Nothing,” I say, still reeling from the thought of one of the school’s most popular girls having sex with not one, not two, but three boys—friends, no less, spreading around a sexually transmitted disease.
“And for the record,” Crystal corrects, “we don’t gossip. We share news.”
Cameron snorts, then slings an arm around her shoulders. “Yeah, okay. It sounded like a whole lot of newsy gossip to me. And I want in.”
“Well, too bad.” Crystal shrugs his arm off and shoves him away. “Your big mouth won’t ever find out.”
He pretends to be insulted. “Dang. Low blow. I didn’t know you really felt that way.”
She smirks. “Whatever.”
“Well forget you then, pickle head,” Cameron says. I shift my backpack to my other shoulder as he comes around to walk on the other side of me. He sidles up closer to me and puts his arm around my shoulder. “We should just run off and elope,” he says with a grin, “and leave this”—he gestures with his head—“stank-mouth gremlin over there to fend for herself.”
I just laugh.
Cameron’s such a big tease.
4
By the time the bell rings to end third period, everyone in the school is talking about Naomi Pitts. And the rumors are swirling around the halls like a bad case of the bird flu. No one seems immune to getting sucked feverishly into the gossip.
Crazy thing is, she has a boyfriend.
Super jock Connor Greene, who plays on the varsity wrestling and football teams.
Annnnd . . .
Drum roll, please.
Is rumored to have given the disease to Naomi first, which she supposedly passed on to three other boys.
Yuck.
How disgusting is that?
And they’re supposedly still together.
They cheat—excuse me, allegedly—on each other, then act like they can’t be without the other.
Makes no sense to me.
However, I’m smart enough not to engage in any dialogue with anyone—except Crystal, about Naomi—or anyone else, for that matter.
Nia Daniels’s middle name is Switzerland.
I stay neutral.
Still, Naomi is a straight-A honor student and member of the National Honor Society, so you’d think she’d be smarter than that to let a bunch of boys have their way with her without using protection.
I guess not.
Apparently, intellect has no bearing on one’s level of common sense and overactive hormones.
But, if the rumors are in fact true, why wouldn’t she get treated?
Aren’t there symptoms for chlamydia, as with any other STD?
There have to be, right?
And why the heck would she purposefully give it to someone else?
None of it makes any sense.
Oh, well.
Anyway, thank God for Daddy, and his openness and his relentless conversations with me about safe sex and making healthy decisions.
He always says, “I’d hope that you’d wait until you’re married to have sex. But I know I can’t stop you from having it if that’s what you choose to do—when you’re ready. But I can arm you with a box of condoms and information. And, hopefully, instill in you that your body is your temple. If you don’t respect it, no one else will.”
That, my body being my temple, is stamped in my head.
Forever.
And ever.
Amen.
That, along with having common sense, keeps me focused on more important things than sex, let alone having unprotected sex.
No, thank you.
No boy is worth risking my life, or my health.
Ever.
Sorry.
I blink when I see Naomi and Connor coming out of class across the hall together, hugged up. He has his arm draped around her shoulders, kissing her on the neck.
“Hey, Nia,” she says, waving a hand at me; her signature oversize handbag is hanging in the crook of her right arm.
The three of us pause in the hallway as students scurry past in all directions.
She’s wearing a short, expensive-looking crimson red dress—designer, of course—and a pair of multicolored Christian Louboutin sandals. And, um, for the record, the red soles of her heels are the only reason why I know which designer shoe she has on. Otherwise, I never have a clue.
Naomi has an incredibly vast wardrobe of extremely expensive clothing. She’s always a little too flashy and overdressed for me, but that’s her.
Always stylishly dressed, and runway ready.
For some odd reason, seeing her in all this red makes me think of that book, The Scarlet Letter. I so loved reading that classic tale. Like the character Hester who was publicly shunned for her infidelity, I suspect Naomi will be ostracized for her own sin.
They are both guilty of infidelity.
The only difference is, Hester had a baby by her lover.
Naomi has chlamydia from hers.
I zero in on the big LV logo on the front clasp of her red bag, then flutter my gaze up to meet hers.
“Oh, hey, Naomi,” I say, doing my best to sound casual, as if I hadn’t just heard all the scandalous little details of her behind-closed-doors proclivities.
I hear Nana saying, “Just look at her. Poor child. She’s hotter than a bowl of habañero chili peppers. Letting all them boys plow through her field. She should be ashamed of herself. Ole nasty heifer.”
I stifle a giggle. Get out of my head, Nana.
Connor gives me a head nod. “What’s up, Nia.”
“Hey, Connor.”
“Girl, cute boots,” Naomi says, tilting her head as she speaks. “You always look so cute in pink.”
I do? That’s news to me.
Subconsciously, I glance down at my feet. My Ugg boots. Then back up at her. “Um. Thanks.”
Connor pulls her in closer to him. “C’mon, bae. We’re gonna be late.”
She gives me a two-finger wave. “See you, Nia.”
“Bye,” I say as t
he two lovebirds stroll off down the hall. Truthfully, I’ve always liked Naomi. She and I were in a few accelerated classes together sophomore year. And she always seemed nice. She still does, although everyone says she’s stuck up and materialistic.
Not my problem.
But, um, this latest news right here has me looking at her sideways.
“Ohh. Emm. Geee,” Crystal gushes, rushing up to me breathlessly. “Did you see those two nasty horndogs, practically licking and pawing each other down the hall?”
I giggle. “Um, Crystal. I don’t think girls can be horndogs, silly.”
She snorts. “Well, then she’s a horn puss. And they’re both nasty. I need a Pepsi and a cigarette just looking at those two. And I don’t even smoke.”
I laugh. “You’re so silly.”
“No. I’m serious. I feel dizzy.”
“Come on, bestie.” I shoulder my backpack, then loop my arm through hers. “Let’s get to next period before you have a meltdown.”
5
“Why is it boys and girls can’t have platonic relationships?” Cameron wants to know, lifting two French fries from off of Crystal’s plate.
The three of us are hanging out downtown at one of the local hot spots. Today it’s Arcadia, a really neat hangout for teens that has lots of vintage, coin-operated video and pinball arcade games, like Pac-Man, Asteroids, Defender; games none of us ever knew about until coming here; well, except for Pac-Man.
Everyone knows, or has heard of that game before.
Anyway...
There are also several pool tables in the back area, along with a huge flat-screen TV and one of the latest gaming systems. And what’s really cool about this place is the thick glass floor that houses a ginormous aquarium of tropical fish and other sea life.
I really love coming here.
For selfish reasons, truthfully speaking.
Daddy’s architecture firm designed this place. So it makes it that more special to me.
Yup.
Daddy’s an architect. A well-sought-out one, I might add. Daddy designs mostly commercial buildings. But his firm has designed most of the elaborate homes in Naples, Belmont Shore, and Spinnaker Bay, all exclusive sections of Long Beach.
