by Amir Abrams
“Yeah, you can help me get to know you.”
I stop dead in my tracks. Tilt my head. “And who are you again?”
He laughs. “Hahaha, you mad funny, yo. Don’t front like you don’t know who I am. I know you’ve heard who I am. And I know you’ve seen who I am.”
“Uhhhh . . . not to bust ya bubble, boy. But . . . not!”
I try not to breathe in his cologne as he walks alongside of me. He smells... delicious! I’m tempted to ask him the name of the fragrance he’s wearing. But I don’t. I won’t. He’s conceited enough. And I’m definitely not about to let this boy think I’m checking for him. “Yo stop frontin’ like you ain’t checkin’ me on the low. I see you lookin’ at me outta the corner of ya eye.”
Busted!
But before I can open my mouth to deny, to tell him some kinda fabulous lie, I spot Trouble storming across the parking lot. He spots her, too.
“Mmph,” I grunt, raising my eyebrows. She’s walking mad hard and has her face all frozen up into an ugly scowl, like she’s ready to bring it. I already know if she comes at me swinging that I’ma have to put the drop on her. But I’m really not tryna fight this chick. I don’t like the ho, true. But that’s doesn’t mean I wanna fight ’er either. I just want the trick to stay outta my face. Wishful thinking...
“Trick, I thought I told you to stay away from my man.”
“Yo, Quanda, go ’head wit’ that dumb shit, yo. I ain’t ya man. So don’t—”
I add, “You storming up over here like you tryna get it crackin’. I don’t want your so-called man, boo-boo.... Now smack that, trick.”
“I ain’t her man,” he snaps. “Yo, Quanda, bounce. For real yo. ’Fore I snap on ya dumb-azz.”
“I’m not bouncing nowhere, boy! I told you what I’ma do every time I see you all up in some ho’s face, so get used to it. Stay outta these”—she shoots a look over at me—“tricks’ faces and you won’t have to—”
“Listen, girlie. I don’t know what kinda beef you think you got with me, but I’m not it. Now run along before you get ya feelings hurt. I don’t want this boy, so have at ’im. But don’t drag me into whatever problems y’all got going on.”
“Ho, I’ll drag you into whatever I want....” I take a deep breath. In five, four, three, two, one . . . this ghetto-bird is about to catch it Brooklyn-style real fast. “You better go bobble some other chick’s man.”
“Yo, Quanda, word up. You need to get the eff up outta here wit’ that rah-rah; for real, yo,” Antonio says.
I stop in my tracks. “Trick,” I snap, dropping my book bag and purse down to the ground. “If you wanna fight, then let’s bang it out and be done with it. But know this, I’m not gonna fight you over some boy that I don’t even know or want. I already told you, you can have him.” This crazy chick tries to lunge at me, but Tone steps in front of her and grabs her by the arm. She pushes him off of her, yelling and cursing. And of course there’s an audience in the parking lot now.
I am straight disgusted with this whole scene. I feel like punching a hole in her forehead for being so dang stupid, but I’m determined not to hook off on her first.
As three dudes pull her away, I laugh, waving at her. “Bye, bye, sweetie. That’s right, y’all, drag her ugly, clown azz on with her raggedy, nappy-azz weave.”
“Don’t let me catch you in the halls. I’ma beat your face in when I do,” she hollers back.
“Catch me, boo.” I walk off toward my car, deciding that Monday I’m coming to school rocking jeans and sneakers and wearing my hair in a tight ponytail pinned up and tucked under a hat ’cause the minute I see her coming in my direction, I’ma lay her out. Screw waiting for her to hook off first. That ghetto-trash trick gotta get stomped down real good—quick, fast, and in a hurry! I’m sick of her!
19
Antonio
The school is buzzin’ ’bout what popped off in the parkin’ lot Friday. And e’eryone’s on alert ’pectin’ somethin’ to pop off between Miesha ’n’ Quanda. I had’a try’n go into damage control mode ’n’ try to get this chick to chill. And you wanna know what this broad effen said, yo? She hit me wit’, “Come over and do it to me and I might let that ho live.” I’ve had a buncha Facebook alerts from heads who are friends wit’ Quanda ’n’ me on the Book. Supposedly she was poppin’ mad ish all last night ’bout how she’s gonna take it to Miesha’s face in school. How I ain’t wanna hit it ’cause I’m switchin’ teams. E’ery-time someone hit me up wit’ the dumbness I told ’em I ain’t wanna hear it. But, real rap. I don’t care what kinda ish she pops about me ’cause it ain’t true. But I wanted to get at Miesha to let ’er know to watch her back. A’ight, a’ight . . . I also wanted to holla at ’er so I could see what’s really good wit’ ’er. But since she’s not cool wit’ any heads from school, and I don’t even know where she rests at, I didn’t know how to get at ’er. So I’ma slide past her locker on my way to homeroom ’n’ hopefully I can catch ’er before Quanda cranks it up. So far, I haven’t seen or heard Quanda’s loud mouth. And I didn’t peep her whip in the lot when I came in so I’m hopin’ she isn’t in school today.
I pull out my cellie and start scrollin’ through my newsfeed. I have a message in my inbox from this chick Allison I used to rock wit’ who goes to Lincoln High School wit’ Tiffany. She says Tiffany’s poppin’ her gums ’round the school that she’s carryin’ my seed. Like I really need this BS, too! I shake my head, glad I got her off of my Facebook page when I did. And even more relieved her triflin’ butt doesn’t go to school here. Otherwise her lies would be spreadin’ like a wildfire for real for real. I hit Allison back real quick ’n’ tell her that that broad’s lyin’. That she’s on some real grimy type ish. I tell her what she told me she did. She hits me back wit’: GTFOH! That tramps mad nasty! you want me to beat her up for you?
I respond back, telling her nah. But that don’t mean I’m not feelin’ the idea of Allison rockin’ her sockets for tryna do me dirty. That broad ain’t carryin’ my baby, period, point blank. And I ain’t gonna entertain any of her lies or dumbness. I go back to scrollin’ through the newsfeed, comment on a few posts, then post up on my wall.
YO, WATS GOODY MY NIGS. ’BOUT TO GET THIS EDUMACATION REAL QUICK. HOLLA!
As I’m walkin’ to my locker, I’m so caught up in my thoughts and what’s poppin’ on Facebook that I’m not payin’ attention to where I’m goin’ ’til I practically bump smack-dead into my future wifey.
“ ’Sup?” I say as she glides her fine self right by me. She doesn’t speak. This stuck-up broad doesn’t open her mouth, or even look my way. Just sucks her teeth and frowns at me. She straight-up tries to play me like I’m some crab-type dude. And real ish, I’m not feelin’ that. Man, stop trippin’. She prolly didn’t even hear you. Yeah, that had to be it.
Nah, yo . . . she looked right at me and rolled her eyes!
She fumbles wit’ the lock, then swings her locker door open, almost hittin’ me wit’ it. I lean up against the lockers and fold my arms, starin’ at this cutie as she snatches books outta her locker and stuffs them into her bag. She sighs. “What, so you just gonna stand there staring at me like some psycho?”
I grin. “If that’s what it takes.”
She slams her locker shut. “I’m not interested.”
“Well, I am,” I tell ’er. “So keep it gee, ma. You stay checkin’ me on the low, don’t you?”
She stops in her tracks. Frowns. “Checkin’ you? Boy, please. You’re delusional. You could never get this, hun. But what you better do is check ya girl . . .”
“She’s not my girl, yo.”
“Well, I don’t care who or what she is. But you had better put a muzzle on her, before I yank her leash for you. And trust, it ain’t gonna be cute. I don’t know how these Jersey hoes do it, but I’m not with all the ying-yang. That chick’s been tryna bring it to me from the gate, and I’m done. Today, I’m takin’ it to her skull. And if her corny-azz groupies want it, they
can get it, too.”
I blink. Blink again. Damn, I knew somethin’ looked different wit’ her. She’s not rockin’ heels or some lil slinky jump-off. There are no big-hooped earrings hangin’ from her ears. Her hair’s pulled back. And she’s laced up in a pair of white Nikes ’n’ wearin’ a pink Baby Phat sweat suit that hugs her hips real right. She looks like a straight-up ’round-the-way chick who came to put in some serious fist work. A part of me hopes Quanda isn’t here today ’cause the way this cutie’s goin’ in, I can already tell she plans on rockin’ Quanda’s snotbox. No matter how much Quanda runs her mouth—and deserves a smackdown—I don’t really wanna see this hottie snap her trap.
“Yo, dig. . . don’t pay that broad no mind. She’s just talkin’, yo.”
“Well, she’s been talking to the wrong one because I’m not having it. So you can stand here and take up for her if you want. Stand by your girl, boo-boo. But don’t beat me in the head about it.”
“Yo, I ain’t standin’ . . .” My voice drifts off as Justin walks up on us. He’s ice-grillin’ me. “Yo, what’s good?” I say, steppin’ toward him to give him dap.
He steps back. Eyes me up ’n’ down, then frowns like I’m a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of his crispy kicks. “Yo, you tell me, fam. What’s good?” He looks over at Miesha. “Wassup, ma? You a’ight?”
She shifts her book bag from one shoulder to the other. “Yeah, I’m good. I’m tryna get to homeroom, though.”
“I’ll walk you,” he says, bumpin’ into me as he brushes by. He grabs her book bag, then shoots me a look over his shoulder.
I blink.
WTF?
This mofo’s really gonna let a chick come between us.
“Oh, it’s like that, yo?” I say, spreadin’ my arms open. “That’s how you doin’ it, fam?” He keeps walkin’, leavin’ me standin’ in the middle of the hallway, feelin’ some type’a way.
“Okay, class,” Mrs. Sheldon says, turnin’ from the chalkboard, “let’s . . . Uh, Miss Wilson. You’re late, again.”
“And I have a note, again,” she snaps back as she walks up toward the front of the class. It’s mad obvious that they ain’t feelin’ each other. Mrs. Sheldon been hatin’ on her from the rip. And that ish is crazy. I grin as she hands Mrs. Sheldon a note. Mrs. Sheldon glances at the slip of paper, then eyes her. Tells her to take a seat. I watch as Miesha drops her bag onto the floor, then slides onto the seat two rows to the left of me, six chairs up. Now I wish I was sittin’ up in the front, right next to ’er. Nah, sittin’ in back of ’er, I get a better view of that booty ’n’ them hips.
Mrs. Sheldon shuffles through a stack of papers. “Okay, where was I before I was sidetracked? Yes. I was getting ready to pass out last week’s essay. Then discuss your next reading assignment.” She walks around the class, handin’ out e’eryone’s papers. We had to write an essay summary on Go Tell It on the Mountain. “Your next reading assignment will be a novel by Ishmael Beah titled A Long Way Gone. Everyone . . . Mr. Lopez,” she says as she slides me my essay, “is expected to read it.” I glance at my grade. C+. “It is a true story of Mr. Beah’s life as a boy soldier in a civil war in Sierra Leone. Why are we reading it? Because it is a riveting and extremely compelling story worthy of discussion.”
When she finishes handin’ everyone’s papers, she returns to the front of the class. “Mr. Lopez, please tell the class the name of the storefront church the Grimes family attended in Go Tell It on the Mountain.”
I shift in my seat. “Uhh, umm”—I hit the center of my forehead with the palm of my hand—“it’s on the tip of my tongue.” I snap my fingers. “The Temple of Fire and Brimstone.”
She folds her arms. “That is incorrect. Anyone else? How about you, Miss Wilson?” I shake my head, wonderin’ what shorty did to Mrs. Sheldon other than come to her class late.
Shorty sucks her teeth. “Call on someone else.”
“I called on you.”
She huffs. “The Temple of the Fire Baptized.”
“Correct. Now had Mr. Lopez and a few others read their books, all of you would have known that, wouldn’t you? Then perhaps there would have been more A’s instead of a room full of C’s and D’s. This is an advanced English class, people. You should not have to be reminded of that. If you are not going to take this class or your reading assignments seriously, then either withdraw or be prepared to fail. And we know some of you cannot afford not to graduate on time, or to have your GPAs drop. Isn’t that right, Mr. Lopez?”
I shift in my seat. “I got you, Mrs. Sheldon.” She starts to respond just as the bell rings. All I hear is her sayin’ somethin’ ’bout discussin’ the rest of James Baldwin tomorrow. No one is tryna hear her, though. I eye Miesha as she walks by.
“Yo, what’s good?”
The stuck-up broad keeps on walkin’. I follow out the door behind her.
“Oh a’ight. That’s how you doin’ it?”
“Is that how I’m doing what?” she asks, frownin’ at me like I’ma piece of doo-doo she had’a step over.
“Frontin’ like we ain’t just kick it out in the parkin’ lot yesterday. Now all of sudden you not beat to even speak. What’s up wit’ that, yo?”
She smirks. “First of all, we wasn’t kickin’ it. You talked. I half-listened. Second, I’m not interested. What part of that do you not get?”
“Yo, I ain’t tryna hear all that. I tol’ you, if I gotta wait for you after e’ery class, then that’s what I’ma do ’til you stop frontin’ on me.”
She shakes her head. “That’s on you, boo-boo. I’m still... not. Interested.”
I’m walkin’ alongside of her, eyein’ her on the sly ’n’ tryna slow down so she can walk ahead of me just enough for me to watch her booty shake ’n’ bounce as she walks.
But she ain’t havin’ it. “And stop tryna look at my butt, boy.”
I laugh. “Whatever, yo. I’ma man. That’s what men do. We butt watch. And you gotta . . .” She straight-up dips on me into the girls’ bathroom.
“So what’s good, yo? We beefin’ now?”
I eye Justin from ’cross the lunch table. He’s been shootin’ me bricks e’er since I walked up over here ’n’ took a seat. And I ain’t feelin’ it. Real rap, he’s my dawg. But I’ll chip ’im up if he tries to come at me. There’s mad chicks out here so there ain’t no need for us to be beefin’ over no broad, especially one he ain’t even get it in wit’.
He frowns, slowly shakin’ his head. “Nah, we ain’t beefin’.”
“Oh, word? Then what was that bull you pulled in the hallway, yo’? You brushed up on me like we had’a situation brewin’. If that’s what it is, let me know, dawg.”
“Yo, what kinda beef y’all talkin’ ’bout?” Cease asks, lookin’ from Justin to me.
I nod my head in Justin’s direction. “Ask ya boy over there.”
“Yo, whatever, man. You just need to fall back. Stay up outta shorty’s face, yo. And we good.”
I laugh. “Bruh, are you serious, yo? Really?”
“You know I’m tryna holla at shorty. . . .”
“And so is e’erybody else at the school, bruh. So ’til someone snatches her up, it’s open season; feel me? You should already know this.”
“And you should know to fall back if you know one’a ya boys is tryna holla at someone. Why you always gotta try’n get at e’ery chick that comes through?”
“Yo, fam, y’all need’a chill,” Cease says, “for real for real. Bros before hoes, you already know how we get down, yo.”
“Yeah, tell that to this, mofo,” I say, flickin’ my thumb over at Justin, gettin’ up from the table. “I’m out. This mofo think he can get wit’ shorty, then have at it.”
He smirks. “Think? Nah, dawg, I know. Get it right.”
By the end of the day, I ain’t beat for any extras. I head straight to my locker to grab my things so I can dip, but remember I have basketball practice today. A few chicks holla, and I give ’im head nod
s, or a quick hug. I peep Quanda comin’ at me ’n’ I straight spazz on ’er the minute she starts in wit’ her BS.
“Bit...” I catch myself from callin’ her the B-word. “Look, just stay away from me, yo. All you are is a buncha trouble, yo. E’erything ’bout you makes me sick!” I slam my locker shut, then walk off.
I make my way down to the boys’ locker room, change into my gym clothes, and hit the hoops. I get out on the court before e’eryone else. Shootin’ the ball helps me clear my head. I stand on the free throw line, focused on nothin’ but the rim. Playin’ pro ball is all I think ’bout. I just wanna get my diploma ’n’ get away from all these crazy girls. I take a deep breath, aimin’ at the rim. I take another deep breath. Release the ball . . . swoosh! I run after it, then dribble it through my legs. I shoot it, again . . . swoosh! I fake a few moves, do a few layups, then knock down a hunnid free throws, sinkin’ e’ery last one in wit’ out a miss. I keep goin’ at it ’til the squad comes out on the floor.
I peep Justin comin’ outta the locker room, followed by Cease ’n’ Luke. Justin shoots a look at me. I can tell he’s still stuck in his feelin’s. I ain’t gonna press up on that broad, so he needs to relax. A few secs later, the coach comes out, blowin’ his whistle.
“Lopez . . . Davis . . . partner up.”
I frown. As captain of the team, I usually partner the players up. But, whatever. I know not to come at Coach’s neck if I don’t want the whole team to suffer for it.
Justin ain’t too happy ’bout it ’n’ neither am I. But it is what it is. I glance over at Cease. The mofo gotta smirk on his face so I already know what it is. I shoot him the finger, then toss Justin a chest pass. It’s time to make it pop. D-up, mofo! It’s game time . . .
20
Miesha
“Ummm, hey, girl,” the Fiona chick says, walking up to me at my locker, “you think I can bum a ride home with you today . . . ?” Is this chick effen serious? “My brother usually picks me up but can’t today. And none of my friends’ parents allow them to have passengers in their cars. I can give you gas money, if you want.”
