The Girl of His Dreams

by Amir Abrams

  She tilts her head, puts a hand up on her hip, then kinda stares at me like she’s tryna decide if she should turn ’round ’n’ run out the door, or get wit’ the program. I flash ’er one’a my smiles. Tell ’er all we gonna do is talk. And even though she knows it’s a lie, she finally comes over and sits next to me.

  “See. Was that hard? I’m not gonna bite you, yo. Not unless you want me to.”

  She laughs. “Boy, you stupid. Where’s ya lil crazy girlfriend at?”

  I frown. Tell ’er I don’t have one of them. “Yeah, right. Tell that to Quanda. That chick goin’ up to all the girls at school telling them they better stay away from you.”

  “What? Man, she buggin’ for real, yo. That girl needs to get over it. But, yo, I ain’t tryna ruin my night talkin’ ’bout her. What’s good wit’ you, yo? You lookin’ mad sexy.” She grins. Thanks me. I sit up, then lean into her. “You smellin’ all good. Damn. You got me feelin’ some kinda way, yo.”

  “Oh, boy, please. When I was all fat, you wasn’t even checkin’ for me. But now that I done dropped all them pounds, I got you feeling some kinda way.”

  I tell ’er when she was over two-hunnid pounds she was too much woman for me. That I couldn’t handle ’er. She was a heavyweight. That I was scared she’d break my back. But now that she’s dropped down to the lightweight division, it’s all good. I can rock wit’ ’er.

  She laughs, shakin’ her head. “You a mess, Tone. But I’ve always liked you.”

  “Oh, word?” I stroke the side of her face. “You mad pretty, yo.” She blushes. I can tell she diggin’ the attention. “You got on a thong?” She grins. Nods her head. I ask her what color it is. She tells me it’s red. I lick my lips. Lean in ’n’ start whisperin’ that freaky ish in ’er ear. She squirms a bit, but I got ’er blushin’ hard. She gobbles up the rest of ’er drink. To relax ’er nerves, I bet. “Can I see it?”

  “Can you see what?” I tell her I wanna see her in that lil thing-thing she got on. She giggles, shakin’ her head. “Ununh. I’m not lettin’ you see me in my thong, boy.” She eyes me, then grins. “You probably couldn’t handle seein’ me in my thong, anyway, boy.”

  “Oh, word? It’s like that?”

  “Maybe,” she says, battin’ her eyes. She’s a cutie, yo.

  I glance at my watch. It’s close to midnight and we been up in Luke’s room for almost ten minutes. I wanna get wit’ ’er, bad. And I can tell she wanna give it to me, too. But she ain’t comin’ outta them jeans, yet. I lean in closer ’n’ sniff ’er neck again. Tell ’er she smells good enough to eat. Let ’er know I’m ready to eat ’er up. She giggles. I lick her neck.

  “Oooh, boy, don’t do that. My neck is my spot. You’ll mess around and have me outta my clothes.”

  I grin. “That’s the plan, yo. Stop playin’, ma . . . you already know what it is. . . .” I go back to lickin’ ’n’ kissin’ her neck ’til she leans back ’n’ lets my hands roam ’er body. She keeps tryna kiss me ’n’ I keep movin’ my head, givin’ her my cheek, my neck. She wants to know why I won’t kiss ’er. I frown. Is this effen broad serious? I wanna spaz on ’er. Tell ’er I don’t know where her mouth’s been, but I’m mad excited ’n’ wanna rock the springs so I don’t snap on ’er. Instead, I hit ’er wit’ some BS that I only kiss my girl. She kinda looks at me like I’m crazy for a minute, but I can tell the booze and the way my hands are all over ’er body got ’er hot ’n’ bothered and she wanna get it in too, so she lets it go.

  She lies back on the bed, lifts her hips up and lets me remove her skirt, then her thong. “I’ve always wanted to get with you, Tone,” she whispers, starin’ me in the eyes.

  “Then tonight’s ya lucky night, ma.” And in a matter of moments, her moanin’ starts to sound like music to my ears as I strap up ’n’ give it to ’er just how she want it.

  16

  Miesha

  Iglance at my mom as I eat my cereal. She has a coffee cup in one hand and the latest issue of Essence in the other. We’re sitting across from each other at the kitchen table. Alone. Every so often I eye her over the rim of my bowl as I bring it to my lips and sip down almond milk. She’s acting like she’s all wrapped up in whatever article she’s reading. But I know better. She’s crazy pissed at me for hanging out all weekend with my girls, instead of spending time with my dad, like they both assumed I would. Womp, womp, womp . . . epic fail!

  I did it up with my girls in Brooklyn over the weekend and I’m good. So she can be pissed all she wants. I already knew I was gonna be in trouble when I decided to stay out Saturday night and part of Sunday. Oh, well. The fact is, I’ma do what I wanna do. And there’s nothing she can say or do that’s gonna stop me. She does her. So I’ma do me.

  I try to hurry up and eat the rest of my breakfast, knowing she’s going to try to bring it to me. But I’m too late. She shuts her magazine, then looks up at me. “I’m still waiting for you to tell me what you were doing all weekend. And until you do, you’re going to be grounded.”

  I tilt my head, looking at her like she’s extra crazy. Because she has to be if she thinks I’m gonna be on anybody’s punishment. Oh, noooo. I don’t do punishments. And since she’s never grounded me in the past, there’s no need for her to try to get brand new now. “Grounded? Who me? Hahahaha. Real funny, Ma.”

  “Yes, you! And I don’t see anything funny about it.”

  “Well, I do. Since when you start tryna ground me?”

  “Since you lied to me, and your father. That’s when.”

  I huff. “I didn’t lie. To you or Daddy. He wanted me to come to Brooklyn. . . .”

  “Yeah, so the two of you could spend time together.”

  “And we did spend time together. He took me shopping. And bought me mad stuff. Then I went to lunch with him yesterday before he put me on the train.” I roll my eyes up in my head at the memory of him standing there waiting for me to catch the PATH train back to Jersey. How tired is that? I’m seventeen years old and he still treats me like I’m some little girl he has to protect. Give me a break! I still can’t understand why I can’t drive my car into the city. I know what they tell me. That they don’t feel comfortable with me driving the streets of New York by myself, yet, since I just got my license over the summer. Whatever.

  “And you were supposed to stay with him—all weekend. Not be gallivanting all over Brooklyn doing God knows what.”

  “Uh, nooooo. That was his plan. And yours. Not mine. And I wasn’t wandering all over Brooklyn. I was at Tre’s house.” Well, uh, most of the time. There’s no need for me to tell her about the party we went to over in Crown Heights—packed to the seams wit’ mad cuties, drinks, and weed—Saturday night. And she definitely doesn’t need to know that we didn’t get back up into Tre’s house until almost four in the morning, twisted outta our minds. Oh, noooo. Those details I gotta keep tucked on the low. All she needs to know is that I was chilling with my girls.

  “Yeah,” she snaps, slicing into the memory of my weekend as she gets up from her seat, “without my permission.”

  I frown. “Ma, stop. I didn’t need your permission.”

  “Girl, you most certainly did.”

  “And how’s that if I was staying with Daddy?”

  “But you weren’t with your father, so don’t go there.”

  “Well, I don’t know what the big deal is if Daddy said it was okay.”

  She slams a hand up on her hip. “Oh, please, Miesha. You left outta here with me thinking you were going to be staying with your father. Of course he was going to tell you you could stay out. He hates saying no to you. But that didn’t mean you could stay out for almost two days.”

  “I wasn’t out for two days.”

  “Miesha, shut it. Up. You left your father Friday night at ten o’clock and didn’t walk back up into that house until two o’clock Sunday afternoon.”

  I roll my eyes. “I don’t know why you hate seeing me have any fun.”

  “Miesha, don’t try
it, girl. You can have all the fun you want as long as I give you permission. And I approve of it.” I pull in my bottom lip. “And you’re not gonna sit there and tell me you sat up in Tre’s house all weekend, either.”

  “Okay, I wasn’t. Big deal. I’m stuck in Jersey effen miserable, okay?”

  “Don’t you use that language with me, young lady! Who in the hell do you think you’re talking to?”

  I roll my eyes. “I didn’t curse at you. The point is, I miss my friends. As long as Daddy was cool with it, why you care? I came back, didn’t I? And don’t think for one moment I wanted to. I hate it here.”

  She narrows her eyes at me. I can tell she’s trying not to go off in Aunt Linda’s house, but she’s so ready to blow her wig. And I’m soooo not in the mood to get into it with her. She’s staring me down so hard I feel like she’s tryna burn a hole in me. I look up.

  “What? Why are you standing there looking at me all hard and whatnot, like you ready to bring it?”

  She huffs. “Miesha, you’re testing my patience, girl. And I’m trying real hard not to jump on you. Now I wanna know what you were doing in Brooklyn all weekend. And I’m only gonna ask you one more time.”

  “Or what?” I say, setting my spoon down. “Mom, you need to chill. I wanted to chill with my friends. Not be all up under Daddy. You’ve been doing enough of that for the both of us, don’t you think?”

  She blinks. Slams her coffee mug down on the counter. “And what exactly is that slick comment you just made supposed to mean?”

  I get up from the table and walk over to the sink to rinse out my dishes. I brush by her, deciding to ig her. But she grabs me by the arm.

  I yank my arm away from her, then step back so that there’s enough space between us in case she tries to lay hands on me. “It means I know you’ve been sneaking over to Brooklyn to be with Daddy, lying about having to stay in the city for work. So spare me about lies.”

  “Whaaat?! Miesha, you are really trying me, girl. I’ve been letting you get away with that slick mouth because I know this whole move thing has been hard, but now you’re crossing the line and seem to be forgetting who the mother is around here. I don’t answer to you. So you’d better get back in your lane real quick before you find yourself on the floor.”

  “No, you don’t answer to me. But you don’t get to pick and choose when you wanna play mother, and when you wanna be friends. It doesn’t work like that. So if you want me to stay in my lane and be the child, then you need to stay in yours and stop . . .”

  Aunt Linda comes stepping in, dressed for work, carrying a pile of newspapers. She frowns. “What’s going on in here?”

  “Nothing,” I say, relieved she walked in when she did. I walk over and give her a kiss on the cheek.

  She eyes me. “Uh-huh. Sounded like more than nothing to me.”

  I shrug. “I don’t know what to tell you. Ask her. I gotta get to school before I’m late again.” I walk outta the kitchen with my mom shooting me daggers. I hear her saying, “Linda, I swear. I’m two seconds from beating the snot outta that fresh-mouthed girl . . .”

  What. Ever!

  “Okay, class,” Mrs. Sheldon says as she turns from the chalkboard and faces the class. As much as I like English and reading, I don’t like this class. And I don’t like this chick. I think she’s a rude teacher and her attitude stinks! “Who can tell me the name of the main character in James Baldwin’s Go Tell It on the Mountain, along with the location and year it is set in? Mr. Lopez?”

  “Yo, what’s good, Mrs. Sheldon?” he says. “You a’ight up there? You know you my peoples, right?”

  Mrs. Sheldon eyes him, raising a brow. But I can tell she’s tryna keep from getting all grins and giggles. If you ask me, her old butt acts like she has a crush on him or something. Ugh, how gross is that?

  “A’ight, a’ight. My bad, Mrs. Sheldon. I got you. Dude’s name was James Grimes.”

  “Wrong answer, Mr. Lopez. Let me guess. You haven’t opened the book yet.” He opens his mouth to say something else and she shuts him down. “I don’t want to hear it. Starting tomorrow, I expect to see you sitting”—she points to the front row—“in one of these seats right here. And if you are not, I will toss you up out of here. Do I make myself clear?”

  Someone says, “Yo, man, she’s tryna play you, yo. Don’t let ’er clown you, fam.”

  “No, Mr. Benson. What I’m trying to do is keep Mr. Lopez from flunking his first marking period. But since you seem to know what’s good for him, how about you answer the question for him?”

  “Nah, I’m good,” he says. “I ain’t study that part yet.”

  “Well, I don’t know why not. You had a week to read this book cover to cover.”

  “Nah, my bad, Mrs. Sheldon. I’m only messin’ wit’ you. You know I’ve read it. But that part slipped my mind, for real for real.”

  I sigh. Like c’mon already. Answer the dang question and let’s keep it moving. Geesh! “His name is John Grimes,” I blurt out. “The story takes place in Harlem in nineteen thirty-five.”

  She eyes me. Tilts her head. “That is correct, Miss Wilson. However, in the future I ask that you raise your hand, and wait to be called on before blurting out answers.”

  I hear a few, “Ooohs” in back of me. But I ig ’em. I raise my eyebrow. Tilt my head. And eye her right back. This chick’s been giving me her funky butt to kiss since I got here. I bite down on my bottom lip to keep from lighting this hag’s fire.

  “Okay, class. At the heart of the story, there are three main conflicts. Who can tell me what they are? Mr. Lopez?”

  Mmmph. . . this trick must have a thing for him or something since that’s who she keeps calling on. To my surprise, he actually does know. He tells her that the main conflicts are a coming-of-age struggle, a crisis around religion, and the conflict between the main character and his father. Now she wants to know what the conflict is/was between the father and son. “Real rap, dude doesn’t understand why his pops hates ’im and favors his brother over ’im.”

  “That is correct, Mr. Lopez,” she says, smiling at him like he’s won the door prize or something. Give me a break! She continues, “John is torn between his desire to win his father’s love and his hatred toward him.” She writes this all down on the board, then turns back to the class. “Who can tell me where the title Go Tell It on the Mountain originates from?” Again, no one seems to know the answer. This time I turn in my seat and cross my legs, folding my arms across my chest. I’ll be damned if I’ma raise my hand in this stupid class. And of course she calls on her pet, again. Mr. Lopez.

  “From the Bible,” he says.

  I shake my head and grunt. “Mmmph.”

  “Umm, Miss Wilson is there something you’d like to say?”

  I frown. “Oh, no, boo. Do what you do. It’s obvious that the only person you seem to see in this room is your precious Mr. Lopez and he didn’t get the answer right. Then you got the nerve to look over at me, and call on someone else. Like really? Who does that?” She puts a hand up on her hip. Tells me I’m outta line. Then threatens to throw me outta her class. I laugh. “Bit . . . chick, throw me out. I don’t wanna be up in here anyway. Ever since I walked up in this classroom you’ve been shooting daggers at me, like you want it with me or something. And guess what, boo-boo? I’m not the one.”

  I snatch up my bags, and head for the door. I swing it open, then turn back to face her, pointing a finger at her. “And for the record, the title comes from a Negro spiritual.” I walk out and slam the door behind me.

  17

  Antonio

  “Yo, so wassup wit’ you ’n’ shorty?” I ask Justin the minute she shakes her stuck-up azz away from us. I ain’t gonna front; I eyed her as she popped her booty down the hall. Real rap; she gotta real phatty and I swear she was swingin’ that thing-thing extra hard for me. I couldn’t help but lick my lips. But dig. I peeped how she tried to play me like she didn’t know we were in the same English class. She’s mad f
unny, for that—for real for real. “Y’all kickin’ it now?” I ask, shiftin’ my attention to him as we walk down the hall in the opposite direction. They been kinda chummy over the last few weeks so I’m tryna see what’s really good before I go in and try to get at ’er.

  “Yeah, somethin’ like that,” he says, cuttin’ his eyes at me.

  “Oh, a’ight.”

  “Why? You checkin’ for her? Don’t think I didn’t peep how you were eyeballin’ her walkin’ down the hall.”

  I frown. “Nah, yo. Yeah, I was def checkin’ that shake out. But I def ain’t checkin’ for her. Not like that, yo. So you good.”

  “I’m good?” he laughs as we climb the stairs to the third floor. “Yo, you mad funny, dawg. I was gonna be good regardless, fam. You know how I do. But you sayin’ that like there’d be some kinda comp if you were tryna check for her.”

  “Nah, fam,” I say. “Handle ya handle, bruh. Ain’t no comp. Not over here. ”

  “Oh, a’ight. That’s what it is. Just checkin’, yo.” We pound fists, then head to our classes wit’ plans to meet up at lunch. At lunch, I make plans to hit the court to shoot some hoops wit’ the fellas right after school, flirt wit’ a few chicks, then, drum roll please . . . argue wit’ Quanda. And now I have a bangin’ headache.

  “Yo, son,” Cease says, drapin’ an arm over my shoulder, “effen wit’ her is like havin’ baby mama drama, just wit’ out the baby, for real for real.”

  I shake my head. “Tell me ’bout it, yo.” I sigh. “She stay goin’ at it. For nothin’, yo. Man, I’m ’bout ready to split her wig back. She’s lucky she’s a chick ’cause, real rap, yo, she woulda had these knuckles down her throat by now.”