by Erica Hilton
Chanel laughed. “I know, right?”
Pyro patted his stomach.
“You want some more?” she asked him.
“Yo, you trying to fatten me up or something? You gonna have me wobbling instead of walking.”
“Maybe you need to gain some weight.”
“Okay, I see your plan—feed me and feed me and make me unattractive so that you can have me all to yourself.” He laughed.
She swatted him away. “You wish.”
Their joking and merry conversation continued into the living room. They played cards and Pyro’s favorite, backgammon, and grubbed on some munchies.
In the middle of a game of rummy, Chanel said, “You’re right, Pyro.”
“About what?”
“About me getting out there more and maybe applying to some colleges.”
He smiled. “Now that’s what I like to hear. Mateo would be proud.”
“Yeah. He would.”
Nights with Pyro were fun. When he was home, it seemed like time flew by for Chanel. He was good company and she appreciated that he was taking the time out to make sure she was okay.
“You’re a nice guy, Pyro. So when are you gonna find you a really nice girl to hold you down?” she said.
“It’s crazy out there. It’s hard to find a shorty with a good head on her shoulders.”
“They’re out there.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Maybe she’ll come along unexpectedly,” he replied.
“She will.”
***
Pyro came strolling into Mateo’s room just after 2pm the next day carrying a small leather duffel bag. Mateo was watching college basketball—Duke versus North Carolina—and Pyro immediately felt nostalgic. His missed his best friend. As soon as Mateo saw him, his eyes lit up as they gave each other dap.
“What’s up? You lookin’ better,” Pyro cheerily announced.
Mateo struggled to sit up straight. Unassisted, he gripped the handrails on his twin bed and propped himself up. Both knew that Pyro was forbidden to help per the instructions from Kyle, the physical therapist.
Finally, Mateo replied, “I’m good. I’m stronger.”
“I see that,” Pyro agreed. “But you lookin’ a little rough. You scarin’ all the women.”
Mateo grinned, and his hand slowly went up and touched his facial hair. Since the incident, his short hair had grown into a small man bun, and he was sporting a full beard and mustache. Pyro opened his duffel, where he kept his clippers. He wanted to cut off Mateo’s locks and remove all his facial hair.
Mateo watched Pyro like a hawk and quickly noticed that he didn’t add a comb to his clippers.
“I’ma give you a quick buzz cut, and when you get outta here Bolo gonna hook you—”
Pyro couldn’t finish his sentence before Mateo was shaking his head. “No, leave it.”
Pyro stood with the trimmers in his hand looking perplexed. “Bruh, why I’m here then?”
Mateo didn’t answer right away. Sometimes it took longer than usual to reply to questions as his brain searched to form his sentences. He knew what he wanted to say, but it was like he had to line his words up and then spit them out. Eventually, he replied, “Just hit my edges and sideburns and shave this beard off.”
“Have you seen ya hair?” Pyro pulled out a hand mirror and handed it to Mateo. “You lookin’ a little metro wit’ that girl bun.”
Mateo heard Pyro loud and clear, but he was too busy checking out his reflection. “Chanel likes it.”
Pyro chuckled. “Whatever, man.”
As Pyro tightened up Mateo’s hairline, he was stopped every few minutes. Mateo kept taking mirror breaks to make sure he wasn’t fucking it up.
“C’mon, Miss America!” Pyro joked. “I got this.”
The two conversed about their business, the stock market, and how Chanel was progressing while Pyro’s sharp razor and steady hands shaved off Mateo’s beard. When he was done, he felt like he had surpassed his own expectations. He handed Mateo the mirror and then stood back to admire his handiwork. The man bun, sideburns, and mustache worked for him. His soft, jet-black hair, chiseled jaw line, and thick eyebrows made him look like a different dude, Pyro thought. Still thuggish, but not street.
“Damn, you pretty,” he admonished. “You might be onto something wit’ this hair shit.”
“They all gonna want me, Pyro,” Mateo bragged. “But my heart belongs to one woman.”
“Shit, give ’em to me then.”
Pyro stayed well past ten that night. He got them dinner and came back, but the staff had to insist that he leave once they realized that he had sneaked in a bottle of Hennessy, even though Mateo didn’t partake in the brown juice.
Pyro promised Mateo he would come back in a couple of days. Leaving was always bittersweet.
Chapter Twelve
Charlie was feeling like her old self again—getting that money and not giving a fuck. She took the initiative to get her shit together. One week at the hotel was a full month’s rent in some neighborhoods. So, early one morning she went out apartment hunting. What Charlie wanted was a place that would rival Melanie’s and Chanel’s. She wanted something to show off. It didn’t take her long to find something in Clinton Hill not too far from Melanie’s place, which was a bold move. It was a one-bedroom within her price range. After Charlie provided her with fraudulent information and a sizable cash down payment, the landlord was happy to hand over the keys to the place.
“Enjoy it,” said the landlord.
Charlie smiled. “Believe me, I will.”
Right away, Charlie started decorating the place with a woman’s touch, wanting so badly to emulate Melanie.
***
Claire was dumbfounded that Charlie had gotten them an apartment, and in the same neighborhood where Melanie lived—or used to live. Whatever she believed.
“Are you serious, Charlie? Here?”
“Why not? I like the area. Besides, we ain’t got shit to hide, right?”
Claire stared at her sister with that continued bewilderment. It looked like she was hesitant to walk into their new apartment.
Charlie was in no mood to deal with her sister’s strange and crazy behavior. “Claire, this is something new for us, so don’t be bringing that crazy shit up in here. Okay? The past is the past, so let it be. I found us this place so we can live in peace. If you not wit’ that, then you ain’t gotta move in wit’ me. Go be on your own.”
Charlie gave her a tour. The apartment would have been perfect except Claire was expected to sleep on the pullout sofa.
“Where’s my room?”
Charlie sucked her teeth. “Claire, don’t start ya shit.”
“How am I starting? You got a room, right? Shouldn’t I have one too? I’m grown, Charlie. I need my personal space.”
“I got what I could afford. Your selfish ass should be happy I’m puttin’ a roof over your head.”
In almost a whisper, Claire said, “I want my own room, Charlie.”
“We all want things, Claire. You get what I give you! And right now I could only afford one bedroom.”
“But I work. I can pay my share.”
“Ugggggh, I can’t anymore. You’re so selfish. I’ve been sacrificing for you, Chanel, Bacardi, and Butch all my life making sure the bills were paid, and this is how you thank me? You whine about something so fuckin’ petty!”
“You actin’ like you raised me! And let’s not pretend that you’d have any of that money if it weren’t for me. I brought you to Melanie. That was me!” Claire hit her own chest with force and had a deranged look in her eyes, which were quickly darting left to right. The murder of her schoolmate was weighing heavily on her. Charlie got spooked for a moment. Her sister seemed like a nut, able to snap at any second. But Charlie knew she couldn’t show fear to loony people.
“Okay, listen. I’m already locked into this lease for a year. When the lease is up we can get a two-bedroom, and if you ever want to sleep in my room that’s cool.”
Having nowhere else to go, Claire acquiesced to her sister’s compromise.
***
Charlie didn’t give Claire any of the money that she had killed for, and Claire went back to her life of school and work to keep herself busy. She needed to keep herself from going insane. But at school, her classmates were broken up about what had happened to Melanie; the news of her gruesome death had spread like wildfire. While students and staff were heartbroken, Claire remained quiet and aloof.
While Claire was dealing with the grief at her school, Charlie grew angrier each day about her parents not calling her to apologize and to give her back her expensive shit. Bacardi had no right to keep any of her things. And then she heard from an unlikely person.
“Who the fuck is this?”
“Hi, Charlie. This is Landy.”
Charlie smirked. “Landy? What the fuck you want?”
“I was trying to get in contact with Wanda.”
“Wanda? Then why the fuck you hittin’ my jack? You know I don’t fuck wit’ that bitch.”
“Really? That’s odd.”
“Odd? Bitch, what the fuck do you want!” Charlie roared
“Well I don’t have much money, but my parents gave me a hundred dollars to buy the red bottom sneakers you’re letting Wanda and Bacardi sell for you.”
“Bacardi got Wanda selling my shit?”
“You didn’t know?”
“Bye, girl.”
So Bacardi was selling her good shit. Her mother had disrespected her, and Charlie couldn’t swallow that kind of disrespect. She was ready to confront her mother and pop off.
***
The next day, Charlie got out of the cab in her old neighborhood and marched into her old building with a heavy scowl like she was a soldier ready for war. She left Claire at home. Charlie didn’t need her sister holding her back or trying to give her a conscience. She wanted to handle their mother on her own. She stepped into the pissy elevator and pushed for the fourth floor. She rode it silence, bubbling like a volcano. She was ready to spread her destruction like hot molten lava.
She rushed toward her mother’s apartment door with her hands clenched into tight fists. She was on a mission to get her shit back, even if it meant beating her mother down.
“This disrespectful bitch,” she growled to herself.
She banged on the apartment door like she was the police, knowing it would get her mother’s attention and piss her off. Moments later, the door flung open with Bacardi looming into Charlie’s view.
“Bitch, what the fuck is wrong wit’ you banging on my got-damn door like that!” Bacardi shouted.
“Where my fuckin’ shit?! I want all my shit back, you triflin’-ass bitch!” Charlie retorted.
“I know you ain’t come here for my shit, bitch. You better leave from this fuckin’ door ’fore I beat yo ass down again,” Bacardi shouted.
Bacardi’s eyes shot around the hallway, and she saw that her oldest daughter had come alone. Of course, Claire didn’t have the balls to handle another confrontation with her.
“I ain’t goin’ no-fuckin’-where until I get all my shit back,” Charlie shouted. “You out here tryin’ to sell my shit.”
“Yo shit? Once it’s in my place, it becomes my shit!”
“Fuck you! Ain’t shit belong to you,” Charlie screamed.
Charlie was seeing red. In her eyes, it wasn’t her mother that she was arguing with; it was a foul, disrespectful bitch. Their argument echoed through the apartment and the hallway. It was looking like round two between mother and daughter was about to start. They both were ready for the conflict—ready to tear each other apart.
“You dumb bitch, get the fuck away from my door!”
“I ain’t goin’ any-fuckin’-where until I get my shit back!”
While they argued in the doorway, Charlie glanced past her belligerent mother and noticed something odd. There was some pretty, young bitch walking back and forth like she lived there. She was wearing a long, white T-shirt and leggings, and she stood in the middle of the living room staring with bafflement as Charlie argued with her mother like they were strangers on the street.
Unbeknownst to Charlie, Bacardi had gone online and listed the two bedrooms for rent. It was against the housing authority’s rules, but everyone was doing it. Bacardi was surprised by how quickly she started receiving messages from potential tenants. So many people were looking for a cheap and reasonable place to stay. Bacardi could have rented both rooms, but she was selective, or prejudiced, or both and then some. She only wanted pretty girls—black women, no whites allowed. She told Butch this, and he agreed.
The women had to be fly like her daughters and represent. Once Bacardi got the second room rented, she and Butch could live like retirees, and they were both just in their forties.
But Bacardi’s plan didn’t sit too well with Charlie.
“Who the fuck is that bitch?” Charlie growled.
“She’s none of ya fuckin’ business,” Bacardi shouted back.
Charlie was about to lose it. “I know you ain’t got that bitch up in here sleeping in my fuckin’ bed, the same bed that God and I paid for!”
They cursed each other some more, and then the elevator chimed. Charlie couldn’t believe who stepped out of it. She stood there in shock, feeling like she was outnumbered.
Chapter Thirteen
Chanel and Pyro sat in his Benz outside the project building on another beautiful autumn day. Chanel felt antsy about being back in her old neighborhood. It had been a long while since she had been back to the projects. There were so many memories she wanted to forget.
Pyro promised her that he had her back and wasn’t going to let anything happen to her as long as he lived. Still, Chanel looked a bit on edge.
“Look, we don’t have to go up there,” Pyro said.
“I need to a get few important things. I’ve waited too long,” she said.
“Well, I’m ready when you are.”
She nodded and smiled at Pyro. He had become her protective angel, and she didn’t know where she would be without him.
The two climbed out of the Benz and walked toward the lobby. Chanel moved with her head held up high, feeling like she could take on anything right now. She was different. She looked and walked differently. The meekness and low self-esteem that once ruled her was long gone.
Pyro allowed Chanel to step into the elevator first, and the stench of urine was something she did not miss.
“Nasty muthafuckas,” Pyro griped at the smell. “Niggas ain’t got no fuckin’ home training. Like, who the fuck takes a piss in the elevator?”
Chanel pressed for the fourth floor and they rode up in silence. Moments later, the doors opened to the commotion in the hallway. Seeing Charlie arguing with Bacardi made Chanel stop and frown. She wasn’t expecting Charlie to be there, but she wasn’t about to run from her sister. Things done changed.
Hateful glares were exchanged between the sisters. Charlie’s angry attention quickly shifted from Bacardi to Chanel. Charlie was overtaken with jealousy and embarrassment. Chanel looked good. In fact, she looked better than ever.
How? Charlie thought.
Her nigga was almost dead—or brain dead—and still, Chanel looked like she could walk the runway at a fashion show. Her outfit looked like she had money, and her hair was long and sensuous, flowing down her back. Seeing her with Pyro triggered something in Charlie.
“So, you fuckin’ him now?” Charlie spewed with contempt. “Y’all gettin’ off the elevator all boo’d up!”
Pyro stood in front of Chanel protectively with his eyes narrowed into angry slits. He was ready to slap the shit
outta Charlie.
“Leave her alone, Charlie. You fuckin’ done enough!” Bacardi yelled from the doorway.
“Apparently, I didn’t,” Charlie replied in a gloating, antagonistic manner.
Her words stung like a thousand bees. Chanel furiously fixed her eyes on her older sister and something came over her—a feeling that possessed her like a raging hell. She eased from around Pyro’s protection like a panther on the hunt and abruptly pounced on Charlie with ferocity. She punched Charlie so hard in the mouth that her head jerked back.
It was on!
Chanel viciously punched her sister again and again, but Charlie wasn’t going down without a fight. She swung back with a fierce jab, striking Chanel, but Chanel wasn’t that weak and meek little sister anymore. One hit wasn’t about to intimidate her. They fought pound for pound, cursing, yelling, and carrying on.
“You fucked up, bitch!” Charlie shouted.
Charlie thought she was going to get the best of Chanel. She believed that she had more experience and more rage, but she underestimated her baby sister. Chanel’s anger was nuclear. A right hook to the side of Charlie’s face stunned her and she started to stumble. It felt like she’d been hit by a brick. Swiftly, Chanel was on top of Charlie wailing away. While she attacked her sister with a barrage of punches, she repeatedly screamed, “He raped me! He fuckin’ raped me! You let him rape me!”
“Get this bitch off me!” Charlie hollered in near defeat.
The hallway was once again teeming with neighbors with a front-row seat to the main event. There was never a boring moment at Bacardi’s apartment. Seeing Charlie getting her ass beat, the neighbors started to yell, “Kick her ass, Chanel! Fuck her up!”
Another resident shouted, “Trifling ho!”
“Grimy bitch!”
It was obvious who they were rooting for. Folks were tired of Charlie and her deceased boyfriend God. They had terrorized people for too long, and now karma was biting back like a grizzly bear.
It nearly looked like Chanel was going to kill her sister. “He raped me!” she continued to scream.
Bacardi was about to flip out, seeing that everyone was in her family’s business, but she stood by. Charlie was getting what she deserved—a proper beatdown.
