Chasing Butterflies

by Amir Abrams

  She eyes Omar, clearly interested in him, judging by the way her gaze glides over him. He grins at her. And she smiles back. Then swishes her hips a few shakes harder than she had before coming over here.

  He waits until she’s out of earshot, then says, “She’s gonna knock a few dollars off the bill; word is bond.”

  I give him a puzzled look. “Why would she do that?”

  His grin widens. “’Cause I still got it, baby girl.”

  I stare at him.

  Not knowing what it is he thinks he still has.

  I hear Aunt Terri’s voice in my ear, “Try to get to know him . . . give it a few weeks... I’ll send for you in a couple of weeks . . .”

  Yeah, okay.

  I glance at my watch.

  Time is so not on my side right now.

  Oh, how I wish I could click my heels three times and find my way home.

  I’m so, so homesick.

  “What you wanna do now? You wanna go check out a flick?” Omar asks, reaching for his drink.

  Do we have to? I shrug. “I guess.”

  The waitress comes back, wanting to know if there’s anything else she can get us.

  “Coffee?”

  “Tea?”

  “Or me?”

  I imagine her saying this.

  “Nah, we good, pretty,” Omar says, licking his lips.

  She giggles like a love-struck schoolgirl. “Okay. I’ll bring you your bill in just a sec.”

  “Cool,” he says eyeing her as she walks—no, shakes, off, before he turns his gaze back on me. “What you into? Action flicks? Comedy?”

  Poetry. “Thrillers, mostly,” I say.

  “Oh, word? Cool, cool. You wanna catch the new Morgan Freeman flick then?”

  No. Not really. “If you want.”

  He smiles.

  And something tugs at me.

  I’m not sure what it is.

  It makes me uncomfortable.

  But not in a creepy, perverted kind of way.

  It’s strange.

  That’s the only way to describe it.

  This feeling.

  “So how you enjoyin’ ya’self so far?”

  I shrug, reaching for my drink. I take a slow sip. Then I wipe my mouth and take another long sip. Yes. Stalling. “It’s okay. I guess. Different.” No. Horrible.

  He eyes me as if he’s hoping for more.

  I have nothing more to give him.

  I hate it here.

  The word hate is such a harsh word.

  Detestation.

  Abhorrence.

  Loathing.

  Okay, I have strong dislike.

  Yeah, that’s it. I strongly dislike it here.

  But I despise that Sha’Quita girl even more.

  Detest her.

  And, yet, I still attempt to take the high road every chance I get to keep some level of peace between us.

  “Just okay, huh?” Omar says, slicing into my thoughts.

  I swallow. “It’s nothing personal,” I say diplomatically. “I’m just homesick.”

  “Oh, a’ight. But you think you might wanna live out here?”

  I keep from frowning. Which part of I’m homesick didn’t he understand?

  The I’m?

  Or the homesick?

  “Heck no! Never!” I hear myself shouting. But what comes out of my mouth is, “I really don’t think so.”

  “Oh, nah?” he says, a tinge of disappointment resonating in his voice.

  I shake my head. “It’s too fast here.” And dirty.

  “Yeah,” he agrees, nodding, “it’s definitely fast-paced; you gotta know how’ta keep up. But you’ll get the hang of it if you stay.”

  I sigh, feeling a wave of melancholy rush over me. The fact that I am here and not back home saddens me.

  I shudder at my reality.

  Omar eyes me, catching the movement. He seems to notice everything. “I know you miss ya home, baby girl. But this can be home for you, too. If you’d let it be.”

  And then, just like that, I feel it coming. Tears. Hot and salty on my lower lids.

  Oh, this is so not the place for a meltdown.

  But my tears were threatening to spill over in any moment.

  I bite into my quivering lip. Then I reach for a napkin and touch it to my eyes, hoping to cut my tears off before they pour out.

  Omar stares at me, alarmed, reaching over and touching my hand. “Yo, I know this is hard for you. But you ain’t gotta go through it alone; a’ight? I got you.”

  But I want Daddy.

  Not him.

  But he’s all you got, I hear in my head. Even Aunt Terri has abandoned me.

  He’s all you have, Nia . . .

  Sadly, this is good enough.

  Not for me.

  48

  A week has gone by since the night out at the restaurant with Omar. And I haven’t really seen him since. He comes in and out. Usually in by the time I’m already asleep. And out by the time I awake.

  I get an occasional text asking if I’m good.

  No, I’m not good.

  I’m still here.

  “So, how is it living with the convict?” Crystal wants to know. She and I are on FaceTime, playing catch-up. As close as I am to her, I feel like I’m a million miles away from her.

  I roll my eyes. Scoot back on the bed I’ve been assigned to. Then lean back against the wall. I jerk forward, looking in back of me, up and down the wall.

  No creepy crawlers.

  But just in case, I lean forward, not letting my back touch the wall. “I’m not living with him. I’m staying with him for the summer.” If that’s what you want to call it, since he doesn’t technically have his own place. And he’s never here.

  But, okay. The semantics aren’t really all that important.

  “And he’s an ex-convict,” I add.

  “Ohhhh, okay, touchy, I see. So how’s it going so far?”

  Horrible. “It’s okay, I guess. It’s nothing like back in California. It’s . . .” I sigh. “It’s different.”

  She narrows her eyes. “Uh-huh. And how’s that MoNeefa girl?”

  MoNeefa? I stifle a laugh. “You mean Sha’Quita.”

  “Yeah, her. Is she still acting trashy?”

  “Acting?” I giggle. “It’s what she is.”

  She shakes her head. “Is she still bothering you?”

  I sigh. “Depends on what side of the bed she rolls off of.”

  She grunts. “Mmph. She sounds like she’s been raised on a cattle farm, the way you’ve described her.”

  I let out a disgusted breath, glancing over on her side of the room. “More like a pigsty.”

  “And,” she leans into the screen, her voice lowered to almost a whisper, “how’s it going with those cockroaches?”

  I shudder in disgust, feeling my skin crawl. I glance back at the wall. “I go through a can of spray a day; just to keep them away.”

  She laughs. “Hey, that rhymes. Please don’t come home writing poems about those nasty little scavengers.”

  I frown. “Ugh. Not even.” I’ll most likely write about scavengers of the human kind, or not.

  “Did you know there are about four thousand species of those little nasty buggers? And they have six legs. Two antennae. And some have wings? And they can actually live for weeks without their heads. Weeks, Nia! You could be among some headless cockroaches right now and not even know it. Be careful, Nia-pooh.”

  Ohmygod! How random.

  “No. I didn’t know that,” I say sarcastically. “Why don’t you tell me all about the plight of a headless cockroach. Please and thank you.”

  “Well, since you insist,” she says. “Wait. Are you being sarcastic right now?”

  “Um, yes,” I say, shaking my head. “You didn’t possibly think I was serious, did you?”

  “Well, yes, Nia. I did. This is not the time for sarcasm. I’ve been reading up on those critters. And it sounds like a pandemic is happening over th
ere in that apartment. And did you know that they’re filthy pests in the States, but are considered tasty treats in places like Cambodia.”

  “Ohmygod! Are you serious right now? Like are you really going to spend our FaceTime talking to me about roaches? Huh?”

  “Yes. I am. This is serous, Nia. And if you are going to be living among those disgusting little creatures, then you need to know they carry nasty bacteria on their bodies and can wreak havoc, causing all types of diseases to spread. And they can even be transported from place to—”

  “Crystal, stop it! I don’t want to hear anything else about it. You’re making my stomach turn with your newfound fascination with—”

  She cuts me off. “I’m not fascinated, Nia. I’m concerned.”

  I narrow my eyes.

  “Okay, okay. Maybe a little curious as to how my best friend is living among them.”

  I frown, wishing I’d never told her about their roach problem. Okay, maybe it’s not a problem for them, since they seem okay living with them.

  But it’s a problem for me.

  Those things give me the creeps.

  And I haven’t had a good night’s rest since I’ve been here, afraid I’d wake up to them in my bed, or crawling on me in the middle of the night.

  Or worse.

  Making a nest in my hair.

  “Anyway,” she says, switching gears, “when are you moving to Georgia?”

  I let out a frustrated breath. Aunt Terri still hasn’t returned any of my calls. I don’t know what is going on with her. I keep thinking that maybe something’s happened to her.

  I hope not.

  But the longer I don’t hear from her, the bleaker my future seems.

  She’s my only chance at freedom from this hell.

  “I don’t know,” I say sorrowfully. I swallow the lump in my throat. “I haven’t heard from my aunt.”

  Crystal gasps. “Ohmygod, Nia! Not even a text?”

  I sadly shake my head. “No.”

  Her eyes widen. “Nia-pooh. Do you think she might be avoiding you?”

  I close my eyes, willing back tears.

  God, I hope that isn’t the case.

  “Yes,” I say, my voice in almost a painful whisper, before the first tear falls.

  49

  “Oooooooh, I wanna get pounded out real right,” Sha’Quita loudly announces, seductively sucking her cherry Blow Pop into her mouth, then popping it from her lips. She flicks her tongue over it.

  I frown, wondering why I let Kee-Kee—I mean, Keyonna—talk, I mean badger, me into coming out to this park with Sha’Quita and her friend. Everything in my spirit told me it was a bad idea. But did I listen?

  Nooo.

  Now here I am.

  Bored out of mind, biting bullets and holding the shells between my teeth.

  “It’s been a minute since I got piped out,” I hear Sha’Quita say, pulling me out of my thoughts. I blink, glancing over at her as she’s sucking her Blow Pop back into her mouth.

  I cringe, feeling sorry for that poor lollipop as she assaults it with her nastiness.

  I’m convinced she does it for the attention, though.

  There’s a group of guys playing basketball, and some sprinkled about on the bleachers watching the game. And watching Sha’Quita.

  The featured attraction.

  She bends at the knees, then winds her hips, giving them what they want. A show.

  Her friend, Chardonnay, laughs. “Tramp, you stay tryna get piped out.”

  “Girl, bye,” Quita says dismissively. She flicks her hair over her shoulder. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong wit’ gettin’ ya back twisted every now and then.”

  Twisted?

  This girl is ridiculously crazy.

  She’s disgusting.

  All she ever talks about is sex.

  Sex.

  Sex.

  Sex.

  Any way she can get it.

  Or give it.

  She seems obsessed with it.

  I’ve never met a girl like her. No. Correction: I’ve never had to hang around a girl like her. Honestly speaking, I’d never befriend someone like her.

  Fast and easy.

  Quick to give up her most prized possession.

  Wasting herself.

  Disrespecting herself.

  Hating herself.

  Yes. She has to hate herself to keep degrading herself, to keep using her body as some boy’s playground.

  Yes. That has to be it.

  Hate.

  Pure.

  Unadulterated.

  Self-hatred.

  And, even though I know it’s none of my business what she does with her body (after all, it is her body), I can’t help but wonder how many boys she’s let gut her out—as she so distastefully put it. How many times she’s been passed around? How many of them did she not use a condom with? How many visits to the clinic has she had?

  I’m thinking this, wondering...

  I simply can’t fathom being so recklessly carefree about sex; or being sexual, for that matter. Maybe because I’m still a virgin.

  Still saving myself for the right time, with the right person, for the right reasons.

  Not for love.

  Not for acceptance.

  Not for validation.

  Not for the sake of having a boyfriend.

  No.

  I won’t be some boy’s conquest.

  Or his cause.

  Or his casualty.

  No. I’m worth more than that.

  Because I say I am.

  Because I know I am.

  And she should know, too.

  But obviously she doesn’t. I guess girls like her only know what they know by the examples they’re surrounded by. Her mother is her example.

  A closet drunk, I suspect. And marijuana—I mean, weed—head.

  And she doesn’t know her dad.

  So I understand why... I guess.

  I’m glad Daddy always told me to never let a boy or sex validate me. He told me my self-worth should never be defined by sex. I thank God he had the talk with me about sex and boys. Even though I knew it was probably one of the most uncomfortable things he had to do, he had it, because I was his baby girl. His butterfly.

  I was eleven when we had our first talk. Then twelve. Then every birthday after that, I knew to expect the talk. “It’s my responsibility to prepare you for life as best I can,” he’d said, shifting in his seat beside me. He took my hand in his and looked me in the eyes. “I love you, Butterfly. But there are some things about life you’ll have to learn on your own. I can protect you best I can. But I can’t shield you from heartbreak. I wish I could. All I ask is that you don’t confuse sex with love. I ask that you wait. Hold out for as long as you can. With sex comes a lot of responsibility . . . What feels good to you isn’t always going to be good for you . . . Don’t ever let sex be what defines you . . .”

  And I won’t.

  Ever.

  Heck. I’ve only been kissed, and only by one boy. The last time he pried my lips open with his tongue, and I welcomed the taste of him.

  Still, I am untouched.

  And, yet, in the corners of my mind, I sometimes lie awake at night and try to imagine, sometimes wonder . . . what it’d be like to go a little further. Not that I’m ready for it, or entertaining it.

  Still...

  I flip open my notebook, pull off the cap to my pen, and scribble:

  50

  “I think I’m a nympho,” I hear Quita say as I close my journal and slide it back into my bag. I screw the cap back on my ink pen and twirl it between my fingers.

  She says this so matter-of-factly, as if she’s talking about something as simple as a new pair of jeans, or the weather.

  Chardonnay says what I’m thinking. “Oh, you think?” She laughs. “Tramp, you definitely a nymph. You know you stay with sex on the brain.”

  She waves her on. “What. Ever. Annnnwaaayz. Speaking of brain, Becky. I heard you let John-Jo
hn touch ya tonsils last night.”

  I’m not sure whom she’s talking about. And I don’t dare ask.

  Besides, I’m just not that interested in what, or who, touched her tonsils.

  “You’se a damn lie,” Chardonnay snaps, giving her the finger. Her shoulder-length braids swing back and forth. “That boy ain’t never been in the back of my throat, boo.”

  Now Quita laughs. “Girl, you the lie. Star done already spilled the tea, boo. So don’t even front. And why was he sneakin’ outta ya bedroom window, then, if you ain’t let him swab ya neck up?”

  Chardonnay sucks her teeth. “Trick, you ’n’ Star can kiss my phatty. John-John ain’t ever been inside my bedroom. And he definitely ain’t swabbed nothin’ over here.”

  They’re both talking loudly, as if they’re talking over jackhammers and blaring horns, as if they want the boys over on the court to hear how nasty they are.

  I look over at some tall, lanky guy in sagging sweats snatch the ball from another player, then take off running toward the opposite end of the basketball court. Arm in the air, and the ball sails through the air. Swish. “Nothing but net,” as Daddy would say.

  I sigh inwardly, sick of hearing these two going back and forth about who’s lying about who sexed who, when, and where.

  I pull out my journal again.

  “This broad. Psst.” Quita sucks her teeth. “Here she goes wit’ that damn corny-azz notebook again. I know you ain’t even ’bout to start writin’ out here . . . again.”

  She snaps her fingers. “Wait. I forgot, this chick thinks she’s the next Erykah Badu.”

  Chardonnay chuckles. “Don’t play, girl. I love me some Erykah Badu.”

  Quita grunts. “Mmph. Well, Erykah Badu she ain’t.”

  This girl’s really clueless.

  I give her an incredulous look. “I’m not trying to be anyone but me.”

  “Mmph. I can’t tell,” she says nastily.

  The question at the tip of my tongue, I contemplate asking it, knowing it might be received with attitude. But I’m tired of her. Tired of her mouth. Tired of her testing me. So I ask it anyway. “And what’s wrong with me writing out here, in my journal? How is what I’m doing affecting you?”

  She huffs. “Oh don’t get it twisted, bish. I’m not affected by it. But you supposed to be out here chillin’ with us, but you bein’ mad rude, pullin’ out that funky ole book. I should burn it.”