by Amir Abrams
I take her in.
Allow my gaze to soak in as much of her as I can stand.
Clad in a pink halter top with the words BOSS B*TCH stretched across her breasts in glittery silver lettering, with a pair of white skimpy short-shorts, her hips stretching the material to maximum capacity—and a pair of strappy sandals.
Her hair, I mean weave, is dyed pink. Hot pink. And it sweeps down past her waist.
She slings it over her shoulder.
Forgive me for saying this, but she looks circus ready.
No, no, like she’s about to audition for a low-budget rap/porn video.
What a sight.
I blink away the image of her wearing a big pink nose juggling four bowling pins, while booty-popping to a Lil Boosie rap song.
“I’m writing,” I say, shielding my eyes from the blaring sun with a hand.
“Mmph. Don’t you have anything better to do?”
Um, apparently not. “I like writing.”
She twists her lips. “Seems like a waste, but whatever, boo-boo. Do you.”
I force a smile.
Blink my eyes several times, hoping she’d disappear; that I am hallucinating.
“What you be writin’ about in that thing, anyway?”
Oh, well. So much for wishful thinking.
I shrug. “Stuff.”
She smacks her lips together. “Stuff like what? ’Cause I know you ain’t writin’ no juicy tales up in that diary-thing, anyway.”
Click-clack.
Click-clack.
“It’s a journal,” I correct, closing it.
She blows another bubble, lets it pop against her shiny lips when she blows it too big, then sucks the gum back into her mouth.
She narrows her eyes and grunts. “Mmph. Same difference.”
I think to say something more, but decide against it. I don’t have the energy, or the desire, to explain to her the difference. Because, contrary to popular belief, there is a difference. But I don’t think she’d get it even if I explained it a hundred different ways, in several languages, that diary writing and journaling are very different. Period.
“Actually, it’s not,” I offer clumsily, clutching it to my chest.
She snorts. “Oh, so you a Miss Know-it-all now, huh?”
Click-clack.
Click-clack.
No. You are. “Not at all. I was simply stating a fact.”
“No, hon, what you doin’ is tryna come for me, when I didn’t call for you. But I’ma let it slide.”
I force a tight-lipped smile.
But, as I’m looking at her, I’m slowly starting to think—no, believe—that she might have been dropped on her head as a baby.
Forgive me.
I know that’s not nice.
Still...
I wish she’d go away.
I blink a few more times.
No such luck.
She’s still standing here.
I take a deep breath, then glance down the street. There’s a group of young girls who look much younger than me, despite their overdeveloped bodies, jumping rope.
And at this very second, I wish I could run over and join in.
It is hot out.
Ninety-four degrees.
And the humidity makes it worse.
It’s almost stifling.
But those girls are jumping rope and laughing and having fun, as if there’s a summer breeze blowing, keeping them cool, without a care in the world.
And here I am.
Full of trepidation.
Full of worry.
Staring at this Sha’Quita girl who is so full of—
“So, you just gonna sit out here alllllll day, Cali Girl?”
I swallow.
Well, it beats sitting up in that nasty apartment alllllll day. I look at her. “Please don’t call me that. My name is Nia.” I give her a look that says, Should I spell it for you?
Her eyes pop open all dramatic and whatnot. “Bye, Felicia. I’ll call you what I want.”
Felicia?
My name is Nia!
“It’s Nia. My name. Is. Nia. How would you like it if someone started calling you Shaniqua?”
She gives me a blank look.
And pops her bubblegum, hard.
Click-clack.
Click-clack.
Clickety-click-clack.
“Sweetie, I don’t care what some basic broad calls me. I’m still that bish.”
I cringe inwardly.
I don’t know why girls think it’s cute or cool to refer to themselves or each other as the B-word. I’ll never understand the logic in it.
Of course you won’t.
It’s coming from a bunch of wayward girls with illogical thinking.
“Well, I do care,” I say unapologetically.
She blows another bubble, then pops it. “Well, I guess you’ll have to get over it, boo-boo.”
There’s simply no winning with this girl.
Ignorance is at an all-time high.
It’s so sad.
I give her a pitiful stare. There are no words for her. Click-clack.
Click-clack.
Clickety-click-clack.
Her jaws chomp a mile a minute on that poor piece of gum.
I reopen my journal and glance down at the page where I’d left off, then look up at Sha’Quita before finishing the line in my entry.
As I hold my pen over the page to write another line, Sha’Quita grunts. “Mmph. Annnnyway. Are you gonna tell me what you be writin’ about or nah?”
Right now about you, but that’s really none of your business. “Mostly poems,” I say, deciding to be cordial, placing the cap on my pen and closing the book again. It’s obvious she doesn’t plan on going anywhere anytime soon.
I take a deep breath.
“Poems?”
“Yeah.”
She laughs. “Ooh, let me find out you tryna be the next Harriet Tubman, tryna free ya’self from ya demons.”
Blank stare.
“Or the next Erykah Badu.”
Say what?
I give her a confused look.
She sucks her teeth. “Ohmygod, Cali Girl! Please don’t tell me you don’t even know who Eryka Badu is. She’s the poet who sings all of her poetry, like Floetry does. You do know who they are, right?” She raises a brow and waits for my response.
Um. Okay.
Keep waiting.
Doesn’t she know Erykah Badu is a songwriter and neo-soul singer, not a poet?
Well, apparently not.
Heck, she probably doesn’t even know who Harriet Tubman is.
I leave her stuck in her ignorance.
“Mmph. No wonder you stay draggin’ ’round that raggedy backpack. You one of them Bohemian wannabes. You probably got a hairy bush, too.”
I frown.
How vulgar.
I clutch my journal to my chest, wondering if she even knows how to spell Bohemian. I think to ask, but there’s no way to without it escalating.
I don’t need the added drama.
Sweat rolls down the center of my back. And all I can think about it is how badly I want to be in my backyard under a palm tree, sipping one of my favorite lattes.
“So what are your plans for the rest of the day?” I decide to ask; not that I care.
Click-clack.
Click-clack.
She pats the top of her head, her jaws working overtime, chomping away. “Who knows, the day is still young. Me ’n’ my girls might go out to the park ’n’ smoke a li’l later. Why, you tryna hang?”
Wait.
Did she just ask me if I want to go somewhere with her?
It must be bad dope—or whatever it is she smokes—that has her asking me to go anywhere with her.
I shift my body on the step, thankful I’m sitting on one of Daddy’s UCLA sweatshirts.
“No. That’s okay.”
“Mmph. Fine with me. I ain’t really want you to come, anyway.”
&
nbsp; Like I care.
I shrug, looking back up the street at the girls jumping rope. They’re still going at it. There are now a few boys on bikes intently watching each girl alternate jumping in and out of the rope. I imagine their eyeballs bouncing up and down like mini basketballs as they eye each girl’s bouncy boobs and jiggling butts.
One of the boys hops off his bike and walks over toward a fire hydrant, holding something in his hand. From here, it looks like some kind of tool. But I can’t be sure.
He calls another one of the boys over, and—
“So why you be actin’ all uppity?”
I blink. “Excuse me? Uppity?”
“Yeah, like you better than somebody.”
I’m offended.
But I know she’s entitled to her opinion.
Still, being called uppity feels like a slap in the face.
“I’m not uppity. And I definitely don’t think I’m better than anyone.”
“Mmph. I can’t tell. You walk ’round here wit’ ya head all up in the air, like you some Queen of Sheba . . .”
I almost want to laugh at her absurdity. She says that as if being referred to as the Queen of Sheba is supposed to be an insult. Sheba was the seeker of truth and wisdom, something we all should strive for. And she was a woman of great beauty, wealth, and power.
I sigh, wondering if she knows exactly who the Queen of Sheba really was.
I reckon not.
Click-clack.
Clickety-click-click.
She grunts. “Mmph. Heifers like you kill me. Kee-Kee told me to let it ride, but I ain’t the one for bein’ phony; I’m real wit’ mine.”
Now I feel the need to defend myself. “Well, I’m sorry you feel that way. But that’s not who I am. I accept people for who they are.” I just don’t have to deal with them.
“Girl, bye. Lies. You stay wit’ ya nose all twisted up, like we beneath you. Don’t think I don’t peep it. Just like when you saw those few little roaches ’n’ started actin’ all scary ’n’ ish, runnin’ out ’n’ buyin’ roach spray like they were tryna attack you. Girl, bye. Them roaches weren’t even thinkin’ about you.”
Sweat starts to line the edges of my forehead. I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand.
It’s hot out here.
“I apologize if I made you feel some kind of way,” I say sincerely. “I was caught off guard, that’s all. And . . .”
They freaked me out.
“And you a stuck-up bish. But that’s beside the point. So what if we got a few roaches here ’n’ there. They ain’t gonna kill you.”
Here and there?
Is she kidding me?
That apartment is infested with them.
She rolls her eyes, popping her gum. “You be actin’ like you ain’t ever see a damn roach before.”
Well, I hadn’t.
Not until I came here.
I keep that to myself, though.
I glance down the street again. Those boys have turned the fire hydrant on. And now water is shooting out all over the place, flooding the street. One of the boys grabs one of the girls and scoops her up in his arms as he runs over toward the gushing water with her kicking and screaming and laughing as he gets her soaked.
Everyone starts laughing.
“Dumb hoes,” I hear Sha’Quita mutter. “Who got time gettin’ they weaves wet. I wish a nucca would.”
Click-clack.
Click-clack.
Clickety-click-clack.
I stare at her.
Thinking, I wish he would, too.
35
A few days later, I’m riding in the backseat of an Acura with Omar. He’s in the front passenger seat. I’m sitting directly behind him. And his friend with the long braids, Born Allah Understanding, or Born Understanding-something-or-another (I don’t know, it’s all confusing to me. Grown men calling themselves God. But okay!) is driving, his seat practically lying into the backseat.
I wonder how he can even see the road behind the steering wheel when he looks like he’s ready for bed.
But okay. Not my business.
Still, I’m praying for safe delivery to wherever we might be going. My right hand grips the seat belt strapped over my chest, and I squeeze for dear life as he drives like a maniac. Every so often I lean slightly over to eye the speedometer.
He’s going ninety!
Isn’t this considered reckless endangerment?
Doesn’t he know he’s carrying precious cargo?
Me!
Um. Apparently not!
And Omar doesn’t seem the least bit concerned by this Born guy’s aggressive driving. The only thing Omar’s been good about is not letting him smoke.
“Nah, God. Not wit’ my seed in the whip,” I overheard Omar saying when he’d put a blunt-thingy to his darkened lips and was getting ready to light it.
The car’s stereo is blasting so loud that I can actually feel my eardrums vibrating from the treble. I fear they’ll burst open by the time we get to wherever it is we’re going, and I’ll end up deaf. The bass of the music has my body literally shaking. I’m waiting to start convulsing any second now.
I bite into the side of my lip, preparing myself for a full-blown seizure.
Every so often, this Born guy eases up in his seat and I catch him stealing glances at me through his rearview mirror. At one point, I think he winks at me.
But I look away. I can’t be for certain.
Heck, I’m not sure of much of anything these days.
Everything still feels so surreal.
One minute I am in California with Daddy.
The next minute he’s being buried.
Then I’m in New Jersey—or Jerzee, as they call it—staying with a man trying to be my dad.
I am still so very sick from it all.
I stare out the window watching the world fly by as we zip by all the other cars on the freeway—at least that’s what I think we’re on. A freeway.
I lean up in my seat and tap Omar on the shoulder. He cranes his neck to look back at me. “Yo, what’s good, baby girl?” he says over the music.
I yell over the music. “What’s the name of this highway we’re driving on?”
“The Turnpike,” he says.
Oh.
I settle back in my seat, then catch this Born man gazing at me through his rearview mirror. I frown, shifting my eyes back out the window again. Suddenly, we come to a stop and wait, and then inch forward at a snail’s pace. There’s an accident over on the other side of the divider, in the opposite direction on the turnpike. A tractor-trailer has flipped over and caught fire. And there’s lots of traffic and thick, dark smoke. And flames.
“Oh, sheeeeit, God,” the Born man says, turning the volume down on the stereo and tapping Omar on the arm. “Check this out.” He points in the direction of the accident.
“Oh, sheeeeeit,” Omar exclaims, sitting up in his seat and letting his window down. He sticks his phone out of the window and starts taking pictures. “Yo, this some wild ish,” he says. “I’ma toss this up on the Gram.”
I roll my eyes up in the back of my head as the volume on the stereo raises back to an unbearable level to the sound of some gangster rap song.
My ears bleed.
My head aches.
Omar and his God friend bob their heads to the indecipherable gibberish.
And all I want to do is scream.
* * *
Twenty minutes and six-god-awful songs later, we finally arrive at our destination.
A park.
Mr. Born-something parks his car. As soon as we open our doors and spill out of the car, the mouthwatering smell hits me.
It’s a barbecue.
With lots and lots of cars, and shirtless-bodied men and half-dressed women with tattoos and piercings wearing lots of jewelry. And lots and lots of weaves.
There are clouds of smoke everywhere.
And not just from the grills.
Seems like everyon
e’s smoking something.
Drinking something.
Or smoking and drinking something.
Most of the females here—young and old—look like they’re vying for a spot on a rap video, or some sleazy amateur porn shoot.
Why in the heck would Omar bring me here?
“You a’ight?” he wants to know, looping an arm over my shoulder.
I feel myself shrinking in his embrace, nodding. “I’m okay.” But I’m not.
“Cool, cool. I wanna show you off to all my peoples,” he says, smiling.
Oh, happy day!
But I don’t tell him of my dismay. I simply force a smile. It’s the best I can offer him.
“We gonna chill here wit’ some’a my peeps for a minute, then roll out. But if any of these mofos come at you crazy, you let me know; a’ight?”
My eyes widen. Crazy how?
My anxiety-meter quickly rises.
I am so out of my element, and here he is telling me to let him know if anyone comes at me crazy.
Why would he bring me around a bunch of potential crazies?
Because he’s half crazy himself!
“Yo, peace to the Gods,” Omar calls out, arms spread out in the air, to a group of guys—young and old, standing in a circle passing one of those nasty smelling blunt-thingies around—as we walk up to them.
For some reason, I’m suddenly panic-stricken.
“Oh, sheeeeiiiit,” they say in unison.
“When you get home, nucca?” they want to know.
“Yo, I see you still got that big-azz boulder head,” someone says.
Laughter.
And then there’s lots of one-armed hugging and backslapping and hand-dapping.
I step back, feeling so out of place.
“Yo, baby, what’s good? You like snakes?”
Huh?
I look up into the eyes of a tall, brown-skinned guy with a head full of thick wavy hair.
He’s grinning at me, and I’m looking at him wondering why he’s asking me if I like snakes?
Is he about to pull one out?
My stomach drops down to my feet as I rapidly shake my head. “No. Snakes scare me.”
A short, stocky guy with a thick neck snickers.
And I don’t see what’s so funny about my fear of snakes.
Thick Waves takes a sip of his bottled beer, then says, “Baby, you ain’t gotta be scared. My anaconda won’t bite. Let me ’n’ my mans take you into the woods ’n’ show you a great time enjoyin’ ya body with it.”
