by Amir Abrams
Why didn’t she get rid of me?
Maybe she should have.
My mother’s not here to ask. So I have to, however I can, sift through every piece of this sordid puzzle, and try to fit each piece into its proper place until I have a full picture. I need to understand this craziness, because from where I’m sitting, I simply do not see any logic in any of this. It just doesn’t make any sense to me.
I study him for a second, then ask, “How did you and my mother meet?” I shift in my seat, then stretch my legs.
He rubs his chin. Pulls at his goatee. Then he says, “I peeped her at the mall. Menlo Park.” He smiled. “She had on this li’l short yellow sundress that showed her pretty legs, walkin’ up outta Macy’s. She was bad as fu . . . she was mad sexy. Word is bond. I stepped up ’n’ tried to holla at ’er real quick, but she looked me up ’n’ down, then turned her head, like she wasn’t beat.” He chuckles. “But I was a cool muhf . . . I looked good ’n’ had mad swag, so baggin’ chicks was never a problem for me. And the fact that she dissed me had me wantin’ to bag ’er.”
He grins. “I followed ya moms ’round the whole mall. I was determined to break her down ’til she gave in. Whatever store she went in, I went in. When she went into the bathroom, I waited outside for ’er. When she grabbed somethin’ to eat at the food court, I stepped up ’n’ paid for it.”
He shakes his head, smiling. “She finally gave in ’n’ let me holla at ’er. I asked for the digits ’n’ just when I thought I was all in, her moms came from outta nowhere ’n’ shut it down . . .”
Go Nana!
“She was not havin’ it.” He chuckles. “She snatched ya moms up ’n’ dragged her away from me. I was like, damn. My boys clowned me for weeks after that ’cause they peeped the whole thing.”
“So then how’d you end up hooking up with her?” I ask, twisting my whole body in my chair so I can face him.
“At the rink.”
The rink?
He must notice the quizzical look on my face.
“The skatin’ rink. She ’n’ two of her girls was at this party some cat from around the way was havin’.”
“Oh.”
He laughs. Then he tells me how he walked over and tried to have a conversation with her, but she skated off with her friends in tow, giggling. A few minutes later, she skated her way back over and told him if he wanted to talk to her, he’d better put on a pair of skates.
So he did.
“I bust my azz mad times, tryna impress her.” He laughs, shaking his head. “I knew then. She was the one. It took me almost three months to finally bag her.”
Bag her?
I frown in confusion.
“My bad. I mean before she finally gave me the time of day.”
“And my grandparents let her date you?” I say, shocked.
He shakes his head. “Nah. We had to sneak; feel me? They hated me.”
Hmm. You don’t say.
The conversation finally shifts to his family. He tells me he has one sister and a niece and his mom. But his mother is in Florida for the summer, visiting her three sisters. She goes every year from May to September.
“But she’s hoping to see you when she gets back,” he says.
“Oh. That’s nice,” I say, forcing myself to sound interested. I ask him her name.
“Pearline. But e’eryone calls her Pearlie-May.”
I smile with my lips closed, but my smile doesn’t reach my eyes. I am only smiling out of courtesy because I have nothing else to say to that.
After a few excruciating moments of silence between us, I finally say, “You never really said where I’d be staying. Do you have your own place?”
He rubs his chin, slowly shaking his head. “Nah, not yet. I’m still tryna get on my feet, feel me?”
Okay, so he’s homeless, too...
Now what?
“I’m crashin’ at my moms’ crib while she’s gone. But it’s all good. She has a three-bedroom. You gonna share a room wit’ ya cousin, Sha’Quita . . .”
Sha what?
I bite my lip and then look down at my hands.
I’m instantly haunted by an image of a loudmouthed girl with a gold tooth and multicolored braids swinging down to her butt, popping chewing gum and twirling a razor between her heavily jeweled fingers, sneering at me.
“But we call her Quita,” he rattles on, saving me from the rest of the imagery. “She’s a li’l knucklehead sometimes, but she’s a’ight; feel me . . . ?”
I cut my eye at him.
No, I don’t feel you.
Right now, all I want to do is stare out the window. No, no. I want to climb out of the window and jump. Get lost in the puffy white clouds beneath us. And if I’m lucky enough, Daddy might catch me in his arms.
“Hopefully the two of you will click,” he continues, snatching any hope of an escape away from me. “But, uh, anyway, you’ll crash in the room wit’ her.”
My stomach quakes.
I don’t like this business of sharing a room with some girl I don’t know. Oh, no. I’ve never had to share a room with anyone, not even a bathroom.
So how is this going to work, even if for only a short while?
It’s not.
I swallow. But I say nothing. What’s there to say? He seems to already have it all figured out.
“It’ll be tight for a minute, know what I’m sayin’ . . .”
No, I don’t know what you’re saying.
But I know what I’m hearing.
And I do not like any of it one bit.
I swallow. I’m almost afraid to ask, but I have to know. “Does she have a house?”
He chuckles. “Nah, nah. We live in the projects.”
My stomach drops.
* * *
When the plane finally lands at Newark International Airport, everything inside of me starts to shake. I feel as if I’m about to throw up. I’m having second thoughts.
No, I never stopped having second thoughts.
This is really happening.
I’m really here, in New Jersey.
Omar pulls out his phone and powers it on before the seat belt warning sign stops illuminating.
He speaks into his phone. “Yo, what’s good, man? I need you to come scoop me. Nah, nah . . . I just touched down. You got me? Oh, word? Damn. A’ight. It’s all love, bruh. Yeah, yeah, baby girl wit’ me . . .”
I cringe.
“No doubt. A’ight. Later.”
He tells me we’re catching the AirTrain to Penn Station, then catching another train to some town, and then a taxi to our final destination. He says the name of the town, but I am not listening.
When the taxi finally pulls up to our destination, the cab driver pulls over to the curb, then waits for Omar to pay him. He fishes out a handful of money from out his front pocket, then hands the driver a hundred-dollar bill. He tells the driver to keep the change, then opens the door and climbs out.
He reaches a hand in and helps me out next. The cab driver pops the trunk. Omar pulls my bags out, then slams the trunk shut. I glance up at the apartments and almost faint. My mouth drops open. I can’t believe my eyes. It’s a run-down looking building. The building next door to his apartment building looks dirtier and more torn down than this one. Dilapidated. Some of the windows are boarded up.
Please, God, help me!
30
Omar slings one of my bags over his shoulder and grips the other in his hand as we trek up eight flights of stairs. He curses under his breath because neither of the two elevators is working. It’s hot and musty in the stairwell.
When we get to the eighth floor, I follow him down a long hall; there’s lots of loud music blasting and loud talking from behind red-colored doors. Yelling and screaming pours out of one of the apartments as we make our way down the piss-stained hallway. Finally, he stops and I’m standing behind him. He sets one of my bags down—as I cringe—on the nasty floor, then pulls out a set of keys.
He slides his key, then turns the knob. The door to apartment 8E pushes open.
And we step in.
The door shuts behind us.
“C’mon,” he says, heading down a hallway. “I’ma take you to ya room.”
I try to take in everything as I follow behind him. But the thing that sticks out the most is the carpet.
It’s filthy. It’s not pissy-smelling like the floor out in the hall, it just has a stench.
“Yo, Sha’Quita,” Omar says, half knocking while turning the doorknob to her bedroom. Music blasts from the other side of the door. I don’t know the name of the female artist singing, but the guy’s hook is asking if she loves the way he loves her body, or something like that.
Omar swings open the door, and we are greeted by an odor that almost takes my breath away.
The room reeks of... smoke and hot, musty funk.
My stomach flips.
“Yo, what the fu—”
I gasp.
The room is filthy.
Clothes are strewn everywhere.
There are candy wrappers and empty potato chip bags and empty pizza boxes and empty soda cans covering an already stained beige carpet.
I’ve never seen such nastiness.
There are dirty dishes and half-empty glasses left up on the dresser.
And—and—and . . . one window has a—what I assume used to be white—bed sheet nailed over it, while beige dirty blinds hang from the other window.
Oh. My. God!
The walls are covered in chipped powder blue paint and posters of Tamar Braxton and Keyshia Cole and K. Michelle.
I wince.
But that’s not what has me standing here, looking around in disbelief, my eyes practically popping out of their sockets.
No.
There’s a naked girl on her knees between some long-legged boy’s thighs, her head bobbing up and down in his lap. He’s stretched out on the queen-size mattress that’s on the floor under one of the windows, the one with the nasty bed sheet hanging from it.
Mouth slightly parted, eyes closed, the guy seems to be enjoying himself.
Omar drops my bags and charges toward them.
The boy’s eyes flutter open. “Oh, sheeeeeeit!” he snaps, trying to push the girl off of him. But he’s not fast enough. Omar is on her, snatching her up off her knees by the back of her neck.
“Yo, Quita! What the hell you think you doin’, yo?!” Omar snaps. He tosses her across the room. “You wildin’ for real, yo!”
She doesn’t even seem bothered by me standing here. “I’m doin’ me,” she says, crossing her arms over her large breasts. My eyes bounce from her to Omar to her naked friend to the walls to the windows, then down at the floor.
“Yo, shut ya dumb-azz up,” Omar snaps. “Yeah, you doin’ you all right. Playin’ ya’self like a real bird, for real for real.”
The naked boy hops up from the floored mattress, trying to cover himself. Omar scowls at him. “Yo, Money, git yo’ clothes on ’n’ step ’fore I crack ya jaw.” Omar snatches up the boy’s clothes and throws them at him. He scurries and catches them, quickly slipping into his underwear. I try not to look. Try not to notice his deflated excitement. But it’s hard not to see it.
I stare over at a Tamar poster.
But out of the corner of my eye, I still see him. He’s stuffing himself into his jeans, before rushing out the room, brushing by me.
Omar glares at the Sha’Quita girl. “Yo, I thought I tol’ you to have this effen room cleaned, yo. You knew I was comin’ back today.”
She sucks her teeth, pulling a white T-shirt on. “Well, I forgot,” she says nastily. She shoots me a dirty look. “What the hell you lookin’ at? And who are you, anyway?”
“I’m—”
“She’s ya cousin,” Omar answers for me. “Nia.”
“Mmph. Good for her.”
I swallow.
She snatches open a dresser drawer, then pulls out a teeny pair of jean shorts and shimmies them up over her wide naked hips. “I ain’t invite her here.”
“Well, I did. She’s my seed . . .”
Seed?
“And she’s your family.”
She frowns. “She ain’t none of my family. She looks like an Oreo. Ole Wonder Bread lookin’ azz. And she prolly ain’t even ya daughter, anyway. Who pops up after all these years tryna claim someone as they daddy?”
Blank stare.
I can’t believe she is standing here saying all this as if I’m here to claim some long-lost fortune. I keep from rolling my eyes at the absurdity of what I’m hearing.
“You just gettin’ outta prison,” she continues, “an’ all of sudden you somebody’s daddy. Mmph. Yeah, okay. Let me know how it all works out for you.”
“Yo, Quita, I’m warnin’ you, yo. Watch ya’self.”
“I’m just sayin’. Where they doin’ that at?”
I blink.
Omar grits his teeth. “Word is bond, Quita. Ya mouth too slick, yo. Don’t have me yoke you up.”
She flicks him a dismissive wave. “Boy, bye. Put ya hands on me if you want ’n’ I’ma call ya parole officer.”
“Yo, you sound stupid as hell, li’l girl. I ain’t on parole.”
“Oh. Well, then don’t shoot the messenger. I’m just sayin’.”
I eye Omar.
His nose flares.
He shakes his head. “I’m tellin’ you, yo. Keep talkin’ slick, a’ight.”
“It’s my mouth,” she argues. “I can say whatever I want. It’s called freedom of speech.”
Omar sighs. He sees there’s no winning with her. “Whatever, man. Just don’t let me find out you comin’ at my daughter crazy, or I’ma bust yo head open, you know what I’m sayin’.”
“Yeah, whatever. Just make sure”—she gives me an evil eye—“your so-called daughter stays the hell outta my stuff.”
And this is how hell begins...
Me, standing in the middle of a filthy, funky room, staring into the snarling face of a girl named Sha’Quita.
31
“Umm, Quita, where—”
“Bish,” she snaps nastily, after Omar leaves us alone. And all I keep wondering is why he closed the door, leaving me up in here with her and this rancid stench. “Don’t call me that. It’s Shaaaa’Quiiiita to you. And I don’t care who Omar says you are. You ain’t sheeeiiit to me.”
I blink.
“Oh, apologies,” I say meekly. “I meant no harm.”
Lips twisted slightly, she stares me down. “Well, I do. So let’s get a few things straight, right now. You stay”—she points over at the twin bed—“over there on ya side of my room. I ain’t ya friend. And I ain’t tryna be ya friend. Stay outta my things. Don’t touch my stereo. And don’t speak unless I speak to you first.”
My mouth opens, but no words form to come out.
This girl acts like I invited myself here.
Like being here was on my bucket list of things to do, places to see.
“Okay,” I say softly. I swallow. “But I’m not looking for any problems.”
“Well, don’t start any ’n’ there won’t be none.”
“Fair enough,” I say, exasperated. “Anything else.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Yeah, when my boo comes around, don’t even think about tryna be up in his face. He ain’t gonna be checkin’ for you like that. So don’t play ya’self. ’Cause if you even bat a lash wrong, I’ma beat ya face in.”
I recoil.
My mind quickly starts to tick off a list of adjectives to describe her.
Rude.
Aggressive.
Obnoxious.
Miserable.
Hateful.
Bully...
“No worries,” I assure her. “I’m not here for boys.”
She snorts. “Mmph. Whatever. Secondly, my boo ain’t no boy, girl. He’s a grown-azz man. Get it right, Cali Girl.”
“My name is Nia. Not Cali Girl,” I correct, keeping my v
oice even.
If looks could kill, I’d be dead.
In my mind’s eye, I see her pulling out a knife and pressing it up to my neck, nicking the skin, drawing blood.
I swallow the knot forming in the back of my throat.
“Mmph. Girl, bye.”
She starts snatching open dresser drawers as if she’s looking for something, then slamming them shut. I feel myself getting woozy from the smell and the heat. Yet she’s fluttering around here like she’s in heaven.
She shoots me a nasty scowl. “So you just gonna stand there, holdin’ ya bags like you scared to put them down?”
Um. Yes. That’s exactly what’s going on here. “No. I was trying to ask you what I should do with them.”
She frowns. “Do I look like a dang bellhop to you? Geesh. You’re dumber than you look.”
I cringe.
This fight is not yours, Nia, I hear in my head.
“I’m not sure where to put them.” Where the roaches won’t get into them.
“Girl, bye. You holdin’ them bags like somebody gonna jack you for ya junk. Ain’t nobody gonna steal that late mess you got up in them bags.” She looks me up and down. “You don’t have nothin’ I want, boo-boo. So you might as well toss them bags down on the bed, or put ’em on the side of—”
“Ooooh, heeeeeeey,” someone says, bursting into the room. The first thing (no, no: the first two things) I notice when she steps into the room is that she’s braless under her red tank top. And that she reeks of something strong, almost like a skunk smell. I try to keep from frowning.
The Quita girl sucks her teeth. “Dang, Kee-Kee! Why can’t you knock? You so effen rude!”
They must be sisters, I think.
They both have the same mahogany-colored skin tone and round brown eyes with long, fake lashes.
She scowls. “Quita, you better watch ya mouf ’fore I put my fist in it. You don’t pay no bills up in here.”
The Quita girl rolls her eyes hard. “And neither do you, boo-boo.”
“Well, my EBT keeps you fed; doesn’t it? And I don’t hear you complainin’ when I’m lettin’ you cash in so you can get ya knotty, bald-headed-azz head did, do I? So as long as I’m feedin’ ’n’ financin’ you”—she stomps her foot—“don’t do me, ho.”
