Chasing Butterflies

by Amir Abrams

  I blink.

  Ohmygod!

  He’s talking about that kind of snake.

  I crease my eyebrows and politely say, “Um. No, thank you.”

  “Nah, baby. I’m only effen with you. Who you here with?”

  Before I can open my mouth, Omar is at my side and says, “Yo, fam. What’s good? That’s my seed you tryna holla at. And she’s too young for you, bra.”

  Thick Waves holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Oh, my bad, fam. I ain’t know.”

  Omar grits his teeth, eyeing him. “Well, now you do. So step.”

  “It’s all love,” Thick Waves says before he walk-staggers over to his next victim, with his muscled-neck shadow in tow.

  “Yo, word is bond. I already see I’ma have ta take somebody’s face off out here,” Omar says, putting his thick arm over my shoulder. He introduces me to everyone in the circle.

  “Yo, this is ya seed, fam? Word?”

  “True indeed,” Omar says proudly.

  I am expressionless. But inside I am frowning at all of this seed talk.

  Anyway, they all look at me smiling and head nodding, then looking over at Omar. Trying to figure out how and from where, I’m sure.

  “Say word?” someone says. “When ya ugly-azz have to time to plant a seed?”

  More laughter.

  “Yeah, word is bond, fam. She mine.”

  I brace myself for what’s to come next.

  Who’s her mother?

  But Omar keeps it generic. And, despite the questioning eyes, I’m relieved.

  “Damn, yo. She fine as fu—”

  “Yo, fall back, my Gee,” Omar warns sternly. “She’s off limits.”

  “How old is she, fam?” someone else in the now semicircle wants to know. I’m not sure which one of these faceless guys asks this since I’m just here physically.

  Mentally, I’m sort of checking out from it all, so their faces start becoming blurs to me.

  “Not old enough for you, muhfuggah,” Omar says.

  The rest of the group laughs.

  Omar doesn’t.

  “Yo, God,” some guy says. “I’m just effen wit’ you. You know I ain’t no cradle robber. But, uh, check it. As soon as she hit eighteen, I’ma be checkin’ for ’er.”

  “And I’ma be breakin’ ya jaw,” Omar says. And although he’s laughing with him, the look in his eye tells me he’s very, very serious.

  “I’ll holla at you cats later,” Omar says. And then his attention is on me. “You hungry?”

  Then, as if on cue my stomach growls, and I nod. “Yes.”

  “A’ight. Let’s go see what’s poppin’ over on the grill.”

  Someone with really big arms covered in tattoos walks up and greets Omar, embracing him in a big hug, then steps back.

  “Yo, who dis pretty young thing?” he says, practically leering at me with his tongue wagging out of his mouth.

  “Nah, nucca, fall back,” Omar says protectively, pushing the guy backward in the chest. “She’s my seed, yo.”

  “Oh, damn, big homie,” he says, seemingly shocked. He looks at me. Narrows his stare, his eyes glinting recognition of some sort. He looks back at Omar. Then points over at me. “Wait. She looks like . . .” He shakes his head. “Nah. Hol’ up.” He points at me, then at Omar. “Monica’s ya BM?”

  BM?

  What in the world is a BM?

  I don’t have time to decipher the acronym since my heart jumps at the sound of hearing my mom’s name.

  He knows my mother?

  “Word is bond,” Omar says. “She me ’n’ Monica’s.”

  “Girl, c’mere ’n’ give me a hug,” he says, wrapping his big arms around me. “Ya moms was my heart. Word is bond. I was tryna bag that, but this ugly mofo is all she had eyes for.”

  Omar laughs. “Yo, don’t hate, nucca.”

  Big Arms frees me from his embrace and eyes me, smiling. “Damn, Monica spit you out lookin’ just like her.”

  I smile nervously. “Thanks.”

  “Man, I’ll get up,” Omar says, giving the guy another brotherly handshake and one-armed hug before ushering me off by the elbow.

  “How does he know my mom?” I ask as we walk toward the long rows of tables where the food is.

  “He was my mans back in the day. He was wit’ me the day I met ya moms.”

  Oh.

  “How old was she again?”

  “Fourteen,” he says. “But she had a body like an eighteen-year-old. E’ery cat from around the way was tryna get at her; word is bond.”

  “For real? Why?”

  “’Cause she wasn’t a hood chick,” he says, stepping in back of the line. “Ya moms was mad classy.”

  I take him in.

  White tank top. True Religion jeans. White Jordans. Neck draped in gold. A body covered in tattoos.

  And still . . . she fell for a boy/man like him.

  36

  “Heeeeeeeey, boooooo,” Sha’Quita says in her annoying singsong voice.

  I glance over to see whom she’s talking about.

  It’s a boy.

  Figures.

  He’s tall, real tall.

  Maybe like six-four or more.

  Lean.

  Muscled.

  Smooth, dark chocolate skin.

  Dreads.

  Half-sleeve tattoos on both arms.

  He walks up and scoops her in his arms. He’s wearing designer jeans, designer T-shirt, designer sneakers, and a NY Nets fitted cap pulled down over his eyes. “Yo, what’s good, babe? How you?” He glances over at me and stares. Then he grins crookedly.

  I shift in my seat on the hard step.

  In the same spot I always sit.

  At the bottom of the stairs.

  I shift my gaze from his.

  The heat index all of sudden seems to rise.

  Hotter.

  “Ooooh, I’m good now, boo,” Sha’Quita coos, brushing up on him. “And I’ll be even better when you stop playin’ ’n’ let me get a taste of that meat juice.”

  I frown.

  He laughs. “Yo, Quita, you wild as fawwk, yo.”

  “Uh-huh. But I’m real, boo.”

  He steps back, still looking over at me. “Yeah, a’ight, man. You stay talkin’ that ish. Yo, who’s the li’l cutie over there?”

  Sha’Quita sucks her teeth. “Boy, bye. That ain’t nobody.”

  I blink.

  How dare she dismiss me, like I’m insignificant!

  “Oh, word?” Dark Chocolate says, scanning me with his eyes. “Well, she looks like a whole lotta something to me. Yo, what’s good, cutie?”

  I swallow. “Hi,” I say softly, giving him a half wave.

  “Yo, you ain’t gotta be shy, ma. I don’t bite.” He grins. “Unless you tryna get bitten.”

  Sweat starts rolling down the center of my back. I shift my eyes from his. Take in his white Gucci belt, the waistband of his Ralph Lauren underwear; the intricate design of his tattoos; anything except his blazing gaze on me.

  What is going on here?

  Stop, Nia! Stop!

  This is so not like you.

  “No, she ain’t tryna get bitten, boy,” Sha’Quita huffs, grabbing him by the arm, stopping him from walking over toward the steps.

  And, unbeknownst to her, freeing me from further uneasiness.

  “She ain’t even ya flava, boo. She ain’t ’bout that life.”

  What flavor is that?

  And what life am I not supposed to be about, I wonder, eyeing Sha’Quita.

  But she’s too busy ogling Dark Chocolate to see that I’m staring her down.

  I struggle to keep from rolling my eyes at her.

  I take a deep breath instead, catching the eyes of Dark Chocolate.

  He grins at me. “I can’t tell,” he says, licking his lips. “Word is bond, yo. From here she lookin’ real right. I don’t know what you talkin’ about, man. But give me a day wit’ cutie ’n’ I’ll make her all ’bout this life, st
raight like that, real talk.”

  He’ll make me about what life?

  “Boy, bye. Since when you start checkin’ for cornball hoes?” I frown. “Cali Girl, ain’t ready.”

  “Oh, you from Cali, huh, cutie?”

  My mouth goes instantly dry.

  I forcefully swallow back the sawdust that has somehow formed and gathered in the back of my throat.

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, word? What part?”

  “Long Beach,” I tell him.

  Sha’Quita laughs. “Yeah, wit’ them uppity white-actin’ blacks. Can’t you tell she an Oreo?”

  I raise a brow. Open my mouth to say something but—

  “You wildin’ for real, yo,” he says. “E’erybody ain’t gotta act all hood to be black. You ignorant as hell for lettin’ that come outta ya mouth, yo.”

  “Nucca, don’t even try’n play me. I ain’t ig’nant ’bout nothin’. And I ain’t actin’ hood, boo.”

  “Nah, yo, you are hood.”

  “Exaaaaactly.”

  She says this as if being hood is something to celebrate and be proud of. Well, um. Then again, I guess it is if you don’t have anything else going for yourself.

  I sigh, deciding not to entertain her ridiculousness. I’m learning she is always looking for a reason to attack me, so I’m not giving her the satisfaction.

  Not today.

  And not in front of her boo.

  Or whoever he is to her.

  “Annnnnywaaaay,” she says, swinging her hair. “Where you been at, bae? You been MIA mad long. Oooh, I missed you, boo.”

  He laughs. “Yo, that’s wassup. Yeah, I was ghost for a minute. Mom dukes dragged me down to Georgia for a family reunion.”

  Georgia?

  Did he say Georgia?

  Yes.

  He did.

  My ears perk up. Aunt Terri comes to mind, and it dawns on me that she still hasn’t gotten back to me. I let it go—for now. I reach into my bag, pulling out my cell, and checking my phone. There’s still nothing from her. No missed call. No text message. Nothing.

  I drop my phone back in my bag.

  Still, I want to jump up and ask him what part of Georgia, but my nerves won’t let me.

  So I keep my mouth shut.

  “Ooh, you were out there wit’ them ashy-lipped, dusty-foot, biscuit-heel bumpkins,” Sha’Quita says, laughing.

  Dark Chocolate shakes his head, laughing. “You stoopid, yo. But yeah, some of ’em were mad dusty; word is bond. But it was all good. We had that loud on deck. So I stayed smoked out the whole time, feel me?”

  “Oooh, I know that’s right,” Sha’Quita says, giving him a high-five. “Put ya lighters up, yassss, yasssss!”

  “No doubt. You already know.”

  “Yasss, boo, yassss. And them Fireballs on ice.”

  He laughs.

  I’m lost as to what it is they’re talking about.

  Loud?

  Fireballs?

  I am clueless.

  I open my journal and write.

  “Yo, what’s good cutie? What you over there writin’?”

  I look up from my journal. Dark Chocolate is staring at me.

  “You write songs?”

  I shake my head. “No. I—”

  “Boy, bye. Cali Girl ain’t writin’ no songs.”

  She lets out an annoying cackle, sounding like a wounded hen.

  I don’t see the joke.

  But she can hahaha all she wants.

  “Cali Girl over there drawin’ imaginary friends.” She keeps laughing.

  My frown deepens.

  I’m so sick of her.

  I take another deep breath.

  Remind myself that this girl is . . .

  Trifling.

  Troublesome.

  And I would go on if—

  “Man, you dead wrong, yo,” her friend says. “That’s that dumbness, for real for real.”

  Sha’Quita punches him. “Boy, I know you ain’t even tryna call me dumb.”

  He just did.

  Didn’t he?

  “You are dumb, yo,” he says, plucking her in the head. “Wit’ ya bald-headed azz.”

  “Owww, boy! You play too much. Don’t even try it wit’ ya pumpkin-head. I know you ain’t even tryna come for me wit’ that oversized globe up on ya shoulders.”

  He laughs. “Yo, I know you ain’t even talkin’ about nobody’s head wit’ them Nefertiti edges you got. You mad ugly tryna slick them shits down. What you usin’, Crisco outta the can?”

  I chuckle to myself.

  She is always in the mirror with that dirty toothbrush, trying to brush down those edges and slicking them down with gel, like she has baby hair.

  “Oh, I know you ain’t even tryna call my hair nappy, boo-boo.”

  He laughs. “I just did. Straight-up steel wool, yo. Word is bond, fam. You look like you stepped off the set of Roots, lookin’ like Kunta in drag.”

  Oh, noo! Not Roots!

  Not Kunta!

  Daddy made me watch Roots with him on DVD two summers ago.

  And I fell in love with that seventies miniseries.

  Even if it is old, I think everyone should watch it, especially kids my age. It was so, so good.

  Sha’Quita sucks her teeth. “Ooh, you tried it, boo-boo. Wit’ ya ugly-azz moms.”

  I look at her and hear Shug Avery’s voice from The Color Purple as she says, “You sho’ is ugly . . .”

  Oh, how I love that movie.

  Daddy took me to see the play, too.

  But the book is soooo much better.

  It was one of my selected readings in my AP English class last year.

  And that part is still one of the funniest lines to me.

  I have to bite my tongue to keep from falling out in laughter.

  At Sha’Quita.

  “Aye, yo. Fall back on the moms jokes, yo. You know you don’t want it, man.”

  “No,” she snaps, “you don’t want it! You know how I do, boo-boo. It’s whatever.”

  Dark Chocolate laughs. “Oh, so you really wanna play the moms game, huh? A’ight, I got you, yo. Least my moms ain’t runnin’ ’round lookin’ like one of the Hobbits.”

  “Oh no. Try again, boo-boo. At least my moms doesn’t look like a gorilla. Tell her to get up off her knees ’n’ stop takin’ back shots in alleyways.”

  “Womp, womp, womp. You mad corny for that, yo. But, uh, when’s the last time ya moms changed her drawz, yo? Or brushed that one wooden tooth?”

  “’Round the same time yours changed hers,” Sha’Quita snaps.

  “You a lie. Ya moms smells like spoiled clam juice, yo. She a walkin’ fish market. She got flies and gnats all up in that funk-box. That booty rotten, yo. She straight garbage truck trash.”

  “Oooooh, I hate you!” Sha’Quita screams, laughing. “I wanna fight you, punk!” She tries to hit him, but he blocks her.

  I watch the exchange between them, wondering if this is the boo she’s warned me to not look at.

  He keeps laughing. “Ya mouth’s real slick, yo.”

  “And it stays wet, too, boo.” She licks her lips. “Pound these tonsils ’n’ let me show you.”

  Ohmygod!

  Is she implying what I think she is?

  Of course she is. It’s Sha’Quita.

  My frown deepens.

  He shakes his head. “Yeah, a’ight. I’ll take ya word for it, yo.”

  “Oh, don’t be scurrred now, boo. This neck work will make you drop to ya knees.”

  Stuffing my journal in my bag, I stand.

  Brush the back of my shorts.

  I decide I’ve heard enough.

  “Yo, you rollin’ out, cutie?”

  I nod. “Yeah.”

  “Oh, a’ight. Keep it sexy, ma.”

  Ohmygod!

  Did he just call me sexy?

  No, silly. He said keep it sexy.

  Same difference, isn’t it?

  No.

  I swall
ow. “I will. Thanks.”

  He grins. “No doubt, ma. You need to come down to the courts ’n’ chill one day. Tell ’er, Quita.”

  Sha’Quita grunts. “Not.”

  He gives her a look, shaking his head. “Yo, Quita; word is bond, yo. Stop frontin’. Bring her down to the courts wit’ you.”

  She smacks her lips. “Boy, bye. Don’t be tryna plan my life. You know I travel light.”

  I keep from rolling my eyes.

  Well, travel light, then. I don’t want to go anywhere with you, anyway. BoomQuita!

  I open my mouth to speak, then close it.

  It’s so not worth it.

  I climb the steps up to the apartment building, swinging open the door.

  The last thing I hear before the glass door shuts behind me is, “I can’t stand that corny ho.”

  37

  Let it go, Nia . . .

  I can’t let it go.

  I won’t let it go.

  Ho?

  She called me a ho!

  I’ve never in my life been called that.

  Does that girl not know what a ho is?

  Clearly not!

  I’ll show you what a ho is.

  It’s her!

  She is the walking definition of it. I’m not the one dressing all skanky-like, and practically advertising for a good time.

  She is.

  She’s a billboard for an easy lay; yet she has the audacity to call me some fricking ho. In my head, I hear Daddy telling me to just ignore her. That I shouldn’t care what she thinks or says about me.

  And I don’t.

  It’s the principle.

  I’m not a ho.

  And I don’t wish to be called one, or be referred to as one.

  Period.

  I’m so dang annoyed.

  Very.

  And then she tried to humiliate me in front of her, her... friend.

  What if I would have told him just how nasty she is, and embarrassed her the way she tried to embarrass me?

  How she just steps out of her panties and leaves them in the middle of the floor, most times, stained.

  How she likes sleeping and living in filth.

  I bet she wouldn’t like it one bit.

  Ugh.

  Then, again . . . trashy girls like her don’t care.

  He probably knows how nasty she is.

  And likes it anyway.

  I walk over to the window and peer out, narrowing my gaze.

  Mmph.

  I don’t see her.

  Or him.

  She’s probably somewhere on the side of a building or in some raggedy bush with her boo doing what nasty girls like her do.