by Amir Abrams
“Look at her. That stuck-up ho thinks she cute.”
“Oooh, who died? She’s dressed like she’s goin’ to a funeral.”
“I don’t like that trick.”
“Video ho on deck!”
“Hooker heels in school? Where they do that at?”
“Where she from?”
“I bet those aren’t even her real eyes.”
“Her weave’s cute though.”
“All I know, that skank better not even think about lookin’ at my man!” And then Drama—with a capital D—steps right in front of me, wearing some imitation Catholic schoolgirl getup and a long weave that hangs down to her butt.
All I’m tryna do is go out to my car, FaceTime it up with my girls back in Brooklyn, eat my Caesar salad, then get to my next class—World History, I think. No, Afro History—in peace. But noooo, here stands this ghetto ho blocking my way, tryna set it off. First day of school, no less. She steps up in my face, and says, “Listen, boo. I don’t know who you are. But hoes aren’t welcome here. So you need to go back to wherever you came from.”
I flat-out laugh in her face.
She blinks, clearly taken aback. But she quickly regroups. “Oh, you think this is funny? Well, let’s see how funny it is when I punch you in your mouth.”
“Oh, really?”
Now I don’t know why chicks stay testing me. I swear I think it’s something in the air. Oh wait. Maybe it’s this pretty face. Or these light brown eyes that almost look hazel when the sun hits them. Oh, no. That’s not it. It’s gotta be the silky hair that stays fly—thanks to the Dominican spot I go to over on One Hundred and Forty-ninth and Amsterdam Avenue in New York. Uh, maybe, it’s this small waist that has ’em all gaggin’ on hater juice. Whatever! All I know is, where I’m from, you don’t step up in a chick’s face and pop noise. You got beef, you swing and take her face off. Period, point blank. I’ma feel real sorry for her if she’s dumb enough to let these nondescript chicks gas her into gettin’ a beatdown. She’s real lucky. ’Cause if this was last year, I swear she wouldn’t still be standing. She’d be dropped to the ground and I’d be standing up over her body stomping her lights out. But I’m tryna change. Tryna be the better person. New school, new beginnings . . . whatever!
Point is, I miss Brooklyn!
I miss Flatbush Avenue.
I miss Fulton Street.
I miss Fort Greene Park.
I miss my old high school.
I miss my girls, Stacy, Jalanda, and Tre.
I miss the hustle ’n’ bustle of the streets. Brooklyn at night is live ’n’ poppin’.
At my old school, I was that hot chick on deck. I still am. But these hookers and hoes here don’t know that, yet. They too busy hatin’ and throwin’ shade. But trust. They’ll get the memo. And when they do, they’ll know, like they did at Fashion High, that I’m that mad sexy chick—the fly girl who stays dipped in all the fly wears. The one who keeps all the boys following behind her like lost puppies, eating outta the palm of her hands. Yeah, that chick.
At my old school, chicks wanted to be me!
And all the dudes wanted to have me!
And I had ’em all running around in circles.
Now look at me. My life is ruined.
Over!
I’m so pissed. Why my mom felt the need to move across the river will never, ever, make sense to me. If she wanted to get away from my father, she coulda moved uptown somewhere. Heck, she coulda even moved waaaay out to Queens, or out on Long Island. She had a choice of five boroughs. And all she had to do is pick one. Then I’d still be in New York. But, nooooo. She wanted out. Out of her life with my father. Out of New York. And she just had to drag me across the bridge—well, through the tunnel—with her. Just had to disrupt my whole life . . . scratch that, my whole world, and move to corny Jersey.
Now here I am . . . !
First day of school with chicks slick talking when I walk by. Guys either tryna holla or eyeballing me all reckless and whatnot. And now I gotta deal with this chick standing here practically begging for these hands upside her head. I look her up and down, then dead in her face, letting her know ain’t no punk standing here. Still, I’m not gonna toss shade and say she’s ugly ’cause she’s not. I mean, she’s not as fine or as fly as me, but she’s still kinda cute. I guess. And I’m not gonna hate on her shape ’cause she’s definitely holding her own. But her body isn’t bangin’ like mine. And her hair . . . mmmph. Well, mine is real. Hers, a straight-up nightmare! Horrid!
“Yes, really,” she snaps, narrowing her eyes. “You’d better buy a vowel and get a clue, sweetie.”
I tilt my head. “Excuse you? Have we met?”
She twists her lips up. “No, we haven’t met, trick. I’m the Welcome Committee. Here to warn you that if you even think about going after my man, I’m gonna welcome you to a beatdown, boo.”
Two of the girls in her fan club start laughing. I cut my eyes over at them, then back at Miss Ghetto. “Okay, so I’ve been warned. You done?”
She gets real up close and personal, ramming her face close to mine. I can smell the watermelon Jolly Rancher she’s eaten on her breath.
“No I ain’t done, trick. Do I look done to you? You’ll know I’m done when I say I’m done.”
Now trust me. I already told you that I ain’t scared to fight. And I have no problems taking it to a chick’s face when it’s warranted. But, the truth is, I’d fight a boy quicker than I would another female ’cause all most of ’em ever wanna do is scratch and pull you hair instead of bringing it to you knuckle up. I mean, really. Who has time to be all clawed up? I know I don’t. Punch me, boo. Slap me, even. But don’t go digging your nails in my face or tryna yank my hair outta my scalp. If we gonna fight, then let’s fight. Fist to fist, toe to toe. But that ain’t how most chicks tryna bring it. So I really try to avoid confrontations with ’em whenever possible, like right now. This ghetto trash is really, really pushing her luck with me. But I’m still tryna keep my cool.
I back up a bit, just in case I gotta hook off on her. Count to ten in my head. Then politely say, “Look, don’t let the pretty face and silky hair fool you, sweetie. Step outta my face. You don’t know me. And I really don’t think you want it with me.”
“No, you don’t want it with me. But you’ll get it if you don’t watch yourself. So consider yourself on notice.”
I take a deep breath. Assess the situation. Truth is, I’m really not dressed for the occasion. I’m not tryna drop my handbag and have her little sea creatures scooping it up. But I will step outta these heels and rock her to sleep if I have to. Still, I have to ask myself: Do I beat this chick down and get suspended on the first day of school? Do I slam her face into the wall and then, have to fight her little pep squad? Or do I bow out gracefully and let her think she’s played me?
I hear my mom’s voice in my head telling me to ignore this girl, warning me not to get into any trouble here, threatening to take my car from me. Telling me that this chick really isn’t worth it. And maybe she’s right. But I already know if this ho puts her hands on me, I’m gonna mop the floor up with her face.
I smirk. “Sweetie, boom! You’re a real clown. Save your notices. Say what you gotta say, then step.”
“Trick,” she snaps, pointing a finger in my face. Strike one! “I already said it. We don’t do hoes here. So if you even think about tryna ho it up with any of our boyfriends, be ready to fight.”
I shift my handbag from one hand to the other, then sweep my bang across my forehead. I fake a yawn, then flick imaginary dirt from my fingernail. “The name’s Miesha, hun. And trust me. I stay ready for a good fight, so back—”
“Okay, ladies,” a tall, brown-skinned woman says, walking over to us. “Shouldn’t you young ladies be in the cafeteria or outside in the commons area?” She eyes Drama. “Quandaleesha, you know we don’t allow loitering in the halls. Is there a problem over here?”
Quandaleesha? I keep from laughing in her f
ace. “It’s Quanda,” she snaps. “And, no, there’s no problem, Mrs. Dean. It’s bein’ solved.”
She narrows her eyes. “Then let’s break this party up, Quanda.” She turns to Drama’s fan club. “Same thing with you, young ladies.”
“We’re going now, Mrs. Dean,” they say in unison.
“Good,” she says, locking her stare back on Drama. “And, Quanda, I want you to go have a seat in my office.”
“Whaaat?! Why? What I do?”
“Nothing that I’m aware of, which is why I think we should have a chat, now.”
“But this is my lunch period.”
“Well, since you’re standing out here in the hall that says to me that you’ve either already eaten or you’re not hungry. So go have a seat in my office. I’ll be there in a few. I’ll only take a minute of your time. I’ll write you a pass when I’m done.”
“Can’t this wait until after classes?”
Mrs. Dean narrows her eyes. “Quandaleesha, this is not up for debate. My office. Now.”
Drama huffs, shooting me a dirty look. I shake my head as she stomps off, holding in my laugh. Quandaleesha. Hahahaha! What a ghetto joke!
“Hi. I’m Mrs. Dean. The vice principal.” She extends her hand. “And you are?”
“Hi,” I say, shaking her hand. “I’m Miesha. Miesha Wilson.”
“Oh, yes. The transfer from Fashion High.” She takes me in. “And I see you dress the part. But as you can see, it’s a little more relaxed here at McPherson. And some of the kids here might not be, um...” She pauses, then smiles. “Let’s say they might not be ready for you.”
I shrug. “Yeah, I see. Well, they had better get ready ’cause I’m not changing who I am to fit in.”
Her smile widens. “And so you shouldn’t. Always be you. It’ll take some getting used to, but I’m sure you’ll fit right in just fine here. Don’t let those girls get to you.”
I run my hand through my hair. “Oh, trust. They’re lightweights compared to what I’m used to.”
“I’m sure.” She glances down at her watch, then at the lunch in my hand and says, “Well, I’d better let you go have your lunch. Welcome to McPherson High.” She smiles again.
“Yeah, thanks.”
She starts to walk off, then turns back around. “Oh. One more thing. We have a zero-tolerance bullying policy here. If you have any problems with anyone, come see me. And it will be addressed immediately. I have an open door, no matter what the issue is.”
Sweetie boom! I have my own policy for bullies. Beat. Them. Down! “Okay, thanks,” I say. “I’ll keep that in mind.” I head toward the door that leads out into the parking lot. Pissed that I have only ten minutes left before the bell rings for my next class.
I hate this school!
5
Antonio
Sixth period, I’m sittin’ in my Advanced French class. Mrs. Duvet is my teacher for the second year in a row. She’s mad strict, but I like her. And I actually dig French. But I ain’t ’bout to tell my boys this. Still I enjoy it. It’s a mad sexy language; real rap. And, between you and me, anytime I’m in class or I hear it bein’ spoken, it always reminds me of my French teacher from freshman year, Miss Singleton. Whew! I get mad excited e’erytime I think ‘bout her. She was . . . uh, the one who got me interested in wantin’ to speak the language. She made e’erything about the language sexy. I’m not gonna front. At first I wasn’t really beat for takin’ French or any other language, but it’s required that e’eryone takes at least two years of a language so I chose French ’cause I already know Spanish and I wasn’t beat for Italian or Latin. Plus, the French teacher at the time, Miss Singleton, was, like twenty-eight, mad sexy, and always gave her male students and even some of the chicks somethin’ nice to look at in class whenever she wore short skirts and too-tight blouses. So I figured I could kill two birds wit’ one stone. Handle my requirements and check out the hot new teacher e’ery day. For me, it was a straight-up win-win situation.
All I did in class was daydream about seein’ her wit’ out clothes on, then go home and fantasize about gettin’ it in wit’ her. Then, finally, I got my wish. At first, it was just her bendin’ over and lettin’ me get sneak peeks of her kitty anytime she thought no one else was lookin’. Then it went to me stayin’ after school for extra credit and her always insistin’ I sit up in the front row while she sat up on the edge of her desk wit’ her skirt hiked up and her legs opened. Sometimes she would touch herself; other times, she would let me touch her. But most times she just wanted me to look at it. It was torture. Real talk, she was playin’ head games and it was killin’ me. I had to have her. I wanted her, bad! And, after almost three months of torture, ish escalated to me finally knockin’ it down. We was goin’ at it hard. I’d either sneak over to her crib and we’d get it in. Or she’d scoop me up on the corner somewhere, drive to one of the parks in the area, and we’d rock it out in the backseat of her whip.
We was sexin’ it up almost e’ery night for months before some hater found out ’bout us and reported it. Two weeks before the end of the school year and it was lights out—for the both of us. Even though I denied gettin it in wit’ her to the police and school officials, she was still arrested and charged wit’ sex abuse—and eventually fired—’cause two other dudes ratted her out and admitted that she had let them smash too. So basically, I wasn’t her first. Still, by that time, I had already started diggin’ the language and wanted to learn more.
The only person I kept it a hunnid wit’ was my pops. One night, I came home and told him e’erything. He rubbed his chin the whole time I was tellin’ him, noddin’ as he took it all in. When I finished, he just stared at me, long ’n’ hard for a few seconds, broke out in a wide grin, and said, “You’re becomin’ a Casanova like your pops.” Then he wanted to know if I had handled my business in the sheets right.
“No doubt, Pops,” I said, puffin’ my chest out wit’ a buncha pride ’cause I was livin’ out e’ery guy’s ultimate fantasy. “I destroyed it.”
His grin widened as he patted me on the back. “You’ve done me proud, son.”
“Okay, class,” Mrs. Duvet says, clappin’ her hands and gettin’ up from her seat. E’eryone stops talkin’ or whatever else they mighta been doin’ and brings their attention to the front of the class where she stands. “Let’s get started. Shall we? Welcome to French Five. I trust everyone has had a great summer. If you are in this class, it is because you have mastered the first four levels of the language and are now ready for more advanced study. With that being said, Vous lirez, écrire et parler le francais seulement.”
She tells us we will read, write, and speak in French only.
I pull my phone out on the sly and hit Chantel up real quick. You still comin thru, right?
It doesn’t take her long to hit me back wit’ her reply. yes
I grin, slidin’ my phone back into my pocket. I’ma tear that up!
By the end of the day, I say wassup to a few peeps, shoot the breeze wit’ a few cuties, then grab my things from outta my locker, and dip. I hit up one of my standbys just in case Chantel decides to front and not come through.
“Hey, boo,” Shania coos into the phone the minute she answers. She’s this thick-hipped seventeen-year-old hottie from Brick City—Newark, that is—who I been kickin’ it wit’ off ’n’ on for a minute. Pops says a man should always have some backup booty on hand, and on call. And she happens to be one of many I keep tucked on the low for those late-night emergencies.
“What’s good, ma? How you?”
“Missin’ you, boy. But other than that, I’m good. Just walkin’ up outta school. I’m so glad this day is over. I can’t wait to get home and chill. Wassup with you, boy? I haven’t heard from you in a minute. And why haven’t you hit me back on the Book, yet? I don’t know why you gotta play me.”
I suck my teeth. “Girl, ain’t nobody tryna play you. You already know what it is wit’ us.” I lower my voice. “Who you got beatin’ tha
t up?”
She sucks her teeth. “Nobody. That’s the problem. You stay frontin’ on all’a this goodness.”
I laugh. “Nah, never that. But, I’m sayin’, yo. Don’t let me find out you lettin’ some other mofo tap that out. It’s gonna be some major consequences ’n’ repercussions.”
“Whatever, boy. All I know is I haven’t seen you in weeks. You could be gettin’ this goody on the regular. But you wanna front. And I know you got that message I sent in your inbox.”
“Nah, I ain’t get it,” I tell ’er, walkin’ up outta the buildin’ toward the parkin’ lot. Truth is, I have over thirty-five hundred friends and most of ’em are broads who stay floodin’ my Facebook inbox wit’ all kinda messages ’n’ half-naked flicks and sometimes I just ain’t beat to respond back. “Well, maybe I did, but I haven’t gone through all my messages, yet.”
She grunts. “Mmmph. Well, that was like three weeks ago anyway. So whatever.”
I blink. WTH?! Quanda’s sittin’ up on the hood of my whip. My pops hit me wit’ his ’07 Acura when he copped him that new Benz over the summer. I got it piped out, sittin’ on twenty-twos wit’ the knockin’ beats. I shake my head, ice-grillin’ her.
“Yo, check it,” I say to Shania when I step up to my whip. “Let me hit you back in a few.”
“Don’t front, boy,” she says, soundin’ like she’s feelin’ some kinda way ’bout me endin’ the convo. “Make sure you hit me back, today.”
“I got you, mama,” I say. “Make sure you pick up. I wanna see you.” I ain’t surprised when she says she wants to see me, too. I grin. “A’ight bet. That’s what it is.” I disconnect, scowlin’. “Yo, what is you doin’?”
Quanda folds her arms, smacks her lips. “Uhhh, what does it look like I’m doin’? I’m waitin’ for you. It took you long enough.”
