by Amir Abrams
Formed a string of profanity that shocked, and excited, me.
I punched and pounded the bleacher.
Cursed and screamed. I think I might have even made up a few words.
I don’t know. I don’t remember all I said. But I know what I felt.
What I’m still feeling.
Omar seemed confused. Still, he tried to console me best he could. But he clearly wasn’t used to seeing—or having to deal with—an uncontrollably sobbing teenager, spewing out obscene language, almost sounding like she’s speaking in tongues.
I didn’t expect him to, anyway.
He wasn’t Daddy.
He could never be Daddy.
So he wouldn’t understand.
He couldn’t understand.
Ever.
Daddy had bought me that book.
So the sentimental value of that leather book was irreplaceable.
I’d read some of my best poems out of it.
And now, and now—
What am I going to do?
I can’t recapture any of those words written.
I fought that girl—that—that scallywag, to get my journal back from her, and I still don’t have it. It’s really missing. Gone! All I can think is, it’s somewhere, in someone’s hands, being read. All of my personal thoughts on display for prying eyes.
I’m not crying anymore.
But I’m still angry.
And I feel sick.
“I want to go home,” I say the minute Omar slides back behind the wheel and shuts the door to this raggedy piece of car he’s picked me up in. The outside of the car is sparkling, with glossy black paint and red shiny rims.
But the inside is . . . is . . . a hot smelly mess.
I was too distraught when I first got in to really notice.
But now . . .
Now I see it for what it is.
It’s an old four-door black Honda, with cloth seats—cloth seats, for God’s sake!—that reeks of marijuana and cigarette smoke.
Not that I’m an expert on marijuana smells, but I’ve smelled enough of it being around Quita’s stank butt to know what it is.
I look up, frowning. The cloth from the roof is torn.
And hanging.
I sweep my gaze around the interior.
There’s a pair of red dice dangling from the rearview mirror.
For a split second, I think, gang.
I eye Omar and wonder whose car we’re in. But I am too agitated to care. My hands are shaking—and are itching to finish smacking up Quita’s face. That stank girl had no business snatching my journal from me! And now it’s gone! Lost!
I clasp my hands in my lap to keep from hitting the dashboard. I’ve never been arrested. Never been inside of a cop car. Never, ever, been in trouble a day in my life.
I’ve never even had a fight!
Until now!
Thanks to that, that, ghetto-girl!
“We’ll be home in minute,” Omar says, slicing into my thoughts as he starts the engine.
Omar pulls off. Surprisingly, it purrs like a kitten.
I hadn’t noticed that, either, until now.
The ride is smooth, as the engine hums along.
And like my life, this pretty, ugly car is one big elusive illusion.
An oxymoron.
He glances over at me. “You hungry?”
Am I hungry? Is he kidding me?
My brain is pounding. I just want to grow wings and fly as far away from all of this drama as I possibly can, like three thousands miles away.
Back to palm trees, golden sunshine, and crystal blue waters.
Back to Long Beach, my home.
I shift in my seat. Lean my body up against the door. “No. I want to go home.”
“We’ll—”
I shoot him a look, cutting him off. He catches my stare, and, suddenly, realization takes root. He understands. I want. To. Go. Home. Back to California, back to the life I was forced to abandon.
I do not fit in here.
Do not feel comfortable here.
Do not feel wanted here.
This is not my life.
It’s his.
And I want no part of it, him, or any of this ghetto-ness that I’ve been dragged into.
I tell him this. Well, not the ghetto part. But I tell him everything else. Tell him I don’t like it here. I’m not nasty or disrespectful when I tell him this. I’m simply being direct. And he tells me that I have to give it some time. That he knows it’s an adjustment for me, for the both of us.
I stare at him blankly.
Time is not my friend. There’s nothing to adjust to. I want out. Now.
I take a deep breath. Open and close my hands. Make two tight fists. Then open them again. All I see is Quita’s face. All I see are my fists connecting to her eye, then her nose, then her mouth.
I am mad at myself for letting that girl get to me, for taking me out of character.
For making me become someone I am not used to. Turning me into someone that I’m frightened of.
This is not who I am.
Or who I want to be.
But she asked for it.
And you beat her up real good!
Served her right!
So why do I feel so bad?
I touch the side of my face. It’s bruised and swollen where she punched me.
“I don’t mean no harm,” I finally say. I take a deep breath and clasp my hands together in my lap, “but I’m not ever going to adjust to this, this . . . environment,” I say for a lack of a nicer word.
He makes a left turn, then a sharp right before I feel his stare on me. I look straight ahead. Stare at the road ahead of me. And pretend I don’t see him. But even in the dark cabin of the car, I see him. See him searching for . . . something, anything.
“I know it’s not the life you’re used to, but . . .” He pauses as if he’s trying to find the right words to make me a believer. “It’ll get better,” he offers, trying to reassure me.
It doesn’t.
I feel myself shaking from the inside out.
And then I am bursting into tears.
Angry.
No, enraged.
How dare that girl!
The car swerves over. Then it abruptly stops at a curb.
Omar tries to console me, but I push away his attempt.
I want my daddy.
Want the man who raised and loved me.
I miss him.
“Yo, c’mon, baby girl, don’t cry. I ain’t know shit was goin’ down like this, for real for real. I ain’t know.”
I huff, wiping my face with the back of my hand. He hands me a napkin from some takeout place, I think. In the midst of my tearful frenzy, I am still cognizant enough to glance at it, to make sure it’s clean.
I wipe my eyes, then blow my nose. It’s hard. The napkin, that is. “Of course you didn’t know what was going on,” I say, blowing my nose again. “You’re never there.”
“Word is bond, yo . . .”
I struggle not to roll my eyes up in my head.
How can I be related to this man? What did my mother ever see in him? Why would she have a baby with someone like him? The mother I knew was polished and articulate. She was well spoken. She was into art shows, dance recitals, and opera houses. Not . . . not . . . riffraff. Not ruffians. Not street thugs.
Not this kind of man.
Or was she?
No. This has to be some kind of mistake, some type of sick, twisted prank. This man cannot be my father. He just can’t be.
I’m still waiting for someone to walk up and say—in their Maury Povich voice—that he is not the father.
“The minute they release her,” Omar says, cutting into my thoughts as he pulls away from the curb, then speeds up the street, “I’ma check ’er, for real for real. I promise you, on everything.” He makes a sharp right turn. “She’ll fall back once I get at ’er.”
I say nothing. Simply turn toward the window a
nd look out at everything, and nothing at all, staring into the darkness.
I miss you so much, Daddy.
Why’d you have to leave me?
I feel myself ready to burst into tears again.
This is all just too much for me.
I bury my face in my hands and sob.
53
“Ohmygod!” Crystal shrieks, looking into the phone screen, mortified. “I can’t believe she scratched your face and neck up.”
I remove the ice pack from my hand. The swelling is starting to go down some, but it still hurts.
It throbs.
“Yeah, but you should see her,” I say, not that I’m proud of the fact that she has two black eyes, a swollen lip, and possibly a broken nose.
That’s what Omar said.
“Well, if you ask me, she got what she deserved,” Crystal says. “She had no business bullying you.”
I purse my lips and nod slightly. “You’re right. Still . . .” I look up at the ceiling as if I know Daddy is looking down at me shaking his head. I groan inwardly. “It doesn’t make it right what I did to her.”
“Nia, stop. It doesn’t make it wrong, either. I know you. You don’t have a mean bone in your body. But obviously she does. She should have given you your journal back when you asked for it.”
I agree. “And I gave her ample time to.”
“Exactly. Where is she now?”
My breath comes out in a frustrated huff. “She’s still locked up, I guess.”
“Oh. When is she getting out?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Hopefully never.”
“Wouldn’t that be nice, then you wouldn’t have to ever see her again.”
“Exactly.”
“I still can’t believe you were arrested.”
I shudder at the memory. “Unfortunately.”
“I can’t believe you were in handcuffs. And they placed you in the back of a cop car? And read you your rights?”
“Yeah.”
“Ohmygod! That’s so crazy.”
“I was scared out of my mind,” I confess.
“I bet. I’m horrified for you. Did your, uh, . . .”
“Omar?”
“Yeah, him. Did he bail you out?”
I tell her there’s no bail in New Jersey for teens. God. It’s a good thing I had his number in my cell; otherwise I don’t know whom I would have been able to call. I guess I would have been stuck in there.
“You’re a statistic now.”
I roll my eyes. “Really, Crystal? Is that your best attempt at consoling me?” I shake my head. “Some friend you are.”
She laughs. “I’m sorry. I’m only playing. But did they put you in a uniform?”
“Crystal!”
“Sorry. You know my heart is aching for you. But that is sooo Orange Is the New Black.”
I suck my teeth. “Bye, Crystal. I’m hanging up on you.”
“And I’ll call right back,” she says, suppressing a smile. “You know I will.”
“Bye.”
“No, don’t you dare. You’re my best friend.”
I can’t help but smile. “I can’t tell,” I say teasingly. I feign a pout. “If you were really my friend, you’d help me escape this modern-day Alcatraz.”
She shakes her head. “I still can’t believe you lost your journal, though.”
“Me either. I’m so sick over it.”
“I would be, too. I can’t believe that girl. What’s her name, again? Rita?”
“No. Sha’Quita.”
Ghetto Girl.
“Yeah, that. She’s so . . .”
“Ratchet,” I finish for her, pacing the cheap carpet in the bedroom.
“Well, that’s not quite exactly the word I was going for. But I’ll take it, for a lack of a better one.”
“Well, that’s what she is. I have to get out of here, Crystal.” I lower my voice. “I can’t stay another minute around any of these crazy people. They’re a bunch of alcoholics. And weed smokers. And sex addicts. I—”
I step on something, and practically jump out of my skin.
I look down. Ohmygod! Ewww! I’ve just stepped on Sha’Quita’s leopard-print panties.
I kick them across the room. Then I start pacing the floor again. “I’m afraid I’m going to lose it if I stay here another night. I am so out of my element here. I feel like a leper. I don’t fit in here, Crystal. I swear I don’t. I’ve tried but I can’t do this. These last two weeks have been awful.”
I feel the tears coming.
I fight them back.
“I can’t believe you beat her up, though,” Crystal says, clearly not hearing a word I’m saying to her. “Did you pull her weave out of her head?”
“Crystal, stop!” I hiss. “Are you listening to anything I’m saying? I just told you I have to get out of here. Do you see this place?” I hold my iPhone up and slowly turn it around the room so that she can see the bedroom in its entirety, particularly Sha’Quita’s side of the room.
She gasps. “Oh no.”
“Oh, yes. And all you can think to ask is if I pulled that girl’s weave out of her scalp. As you can see from the look of this nasty room, I have more pressing issues to deal with other than that girl’s weave-less head.”
She giggles. “Sooooo you did pull her nasty horsehair out. Good! I hope her scalp is raw.”
“Crystal!” I plead. “Focus here. Please. I need you to stay with me. Geez! I’m in a crisis.”
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. I feel awful for you.”
“Well, you should. I feel awful for me.”
“Wait. Did you say they smoke crack?”
I shake my head. “No. Marijuana.” I whisper into the phone. “Lots of it, especially Sha’Quita and her mother.”
“Ohmygod! They smoke it together?”
“Sometimes, I guess. I don’t know. I only walked in on them once passing it back and forth. She even offered me some.”
I don’t know why I tell her this, but I do.
Crystal gasps. “Who? Rita?”
“No. Sha’Quita. And, yes, she did. Her mother did, too. Once.”
Truthfully, it feels good to not keep so many secrets from Crystal. She groans as I fill her in on the goings on the last several weeks. But, for some reason, I don’t tell her about the time I woke up to the sounds of Sha’Quita in bed with some boy. Or the time I overheard her on the phone, making out.
I’ll save that foolery for another time.
For now, I need to get out of here.
Fast.
Before Keyonna comes home and tries to fight me, too.
“I just can’t believe any of it,” she says, shaking her head in disbelief. “It all seems like something from off of a horrible reality show.”
“Yeah,” I say, solemnly. “ ‘Raunch and Filth,’ they’d call it.”
She chuckles, then apologizes. “I don’t mean to laugh. But this is all too unreal.”
I push out an agonizing breath. “I know. Imagine how I feel. I’m seeing it with my own two eyes. I’m living it in three-D. And I still can’t believe any of it. I can’t believe people live like this. I mean, I know they do, but it’s still unbelievable to me. To not want better. To not want to do better.”
“Nia, you know you can’t do better if you don’t know better. Maybe that’s the best they have in them.”
I shrug, half believing that this is the best for anyone. “I guess.”
“I’m not saying it’s right or wrong. I’m simply saying, who are we to judge? We haven’t had to walk in any of their shoes, so we don’t know what their stories are. Everyone isn’t as fortunate as us.”
I swallow. She’s right.
Still . . .
I’m not in the mood for a moral lesson. Nor am looking to play social worker, or social scientist, or be in a social experiment to try and figure it all out.
I’m just not that invested in knowing the cause.
The only thing on my mind is an escape.
She wants to know why I didn’t tell her how miserable things really were here for me. I tell her because I wasn’t ready for her to know the whole truth, only bits and pieces of it. That I hoped things might improve. But they haven’t. And I can’t keep it in any longer.
“I’m telling you, Crystal. I’ve been living in hellfire ever since I stepped off that plane and walked through these doors. These people are unreal.”
“Poor thing,” she says sympathetically. “What are you going to do now?”
Hurl myself over a cliff.
“I don’t know. As soon as I get off the phone with you, I’m calling my aunt. She has to send for me.”
Crystal gives me a look of uncertainty. “You think she will?”
“Of course. She has to. Once I tell her everything that’s been going on, she’ll get me the heck out of here.”
“I wish you didn’t have to go to Georgia.”
I sigh. “Me either. But what other choice do I have? It’s either here, or there.”
She frowns. “That sucks. I wish there was a way you could come back here. To Long Beach.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
Sadness washes over me. I miss my home. My friends. My life. I miss Daddy.
“I can’t stay here,” I whisper into the phone, wiping tears as they fall from my eyes.
Crystal cries with me. “You don’t have to. I’m going to ask my parents if you can stay here with us. I know they’ll say yes.”
My heart leaps. “Ohmygod, Crystal! Thank you! You think they will?”
“I know they will.”
There’s hope after all.
“Ohgod, thank you! I love you, girl. I owe you big time.”
“I love you, too. And, as soon as they get back from vacation, I’ll ask them. Okay?”
Wait—
“Vacation? Your parents are away?”
“Yeah,” she tells me. “They’re in South Beach.”
“When are they coming back?”
“In two weeks,” she tells me.
My heart drops.
All hope deflates.
Oh, well... so much for an immediate rescue.
“Oh, no.” I sob. “I can’t stay here that long, Crystal. I have to get out of here now.”
“I know. Don’t cry, Nia. I promise I’ll see what I can do. Maybe you can go to your aunt’s until then.”
I nod. Sniffle. Wipe tears away. “Yeah, maybe.”
I glance at the time. It’s almost eleven. I don’t want to call Aunt Terri too late. But this is an emergency. It’s a life-and-death situation.
