The Girl of His Dreams

by Amir Abrams

  I’m dead, yo!

  I shift from one foot to another. My palms are sweaty. I nod, hangin’ my head. “Yes, sir.”

  “Daddy, it is—”

  He yanks her up by the arm. “I told you to shut your mouth. Now take your fresh tail on outside with your mother before I forget my religion up in here. Olivia, get this girl out of my sight before I do or say something I can’t take back.” Mrs. Fitzgerald snatches Tiffany by the arm ’n’ drags her outta the crib, spewin’ a buncha curse words at ’er. Tiffany’s pops waits for them to walk out, and shut the door behind them.

  “How old are you, son?” I tell him seventeen. He asks when I’ll be eighteen. I tell him in November. “Listen, son. I was your age once. And I know all about peer pressure. And I know all about raging hormones and having sex way before you’re really ready, even when you think you are. I know you young kids all want to have sex and grow up fast, but all you’re doing is messing your lives up. Now look.” He pauses, shakin’ his head. “The damage is already done. There’s nothing we can do to undo what’s already done. All I’m asking is that—if this baby is yours—you do right by my daughter.”

  I frown.

  Pops frowns. “Now, Mr. Fitzgerald I done already told you if that baby your daughter’s carryin’ is his, Antonio’s gonna take care of it. He’s gonna be in that child’s life, period.”

  “I trust you’ll make sure he’ll do right by his baby. But, he needs to do right by my daughter.”

  “Right by your daughter?” Pops says, tiltin’ his head. “What exactly you tryna say here? I know you not suggestin’ what I think . . .” He eyes him. “Are you?”

  “I most certainly am. When this young man turns eighteen, I expect him to man up and marry her.”

  My mouth drops open. “Marry her?” My knees buckle. I feel sick!

  “Yes,” he says. “It’s the right thing to do. She’ll be seventeen by the time she has this baby. And I will sign consent for the two of them to be married.”

  I can’t believe this! I swallow. “Sir, no disrespect, but I’m not about to marry that girl. I don’t even like her. I’m goin’ away to college.”

  “Not if that’s your baby, you won’t be,” he says, raisin’ a brow. “You may not like her. But if she was good enough to have sex with, then she’s good enough for you to marry.”

  “Mr. Fitzgerald,” Pops says, stormin’ over to the front door ’n’ swingin’ it open. “It’s time for you to bounce. Like I said, my son will handle his financial responsibilities. But he ain’t about to wife no young trick.”

  Mr. Fitzgerald grabs up his suit jacket. And heads toward the door. “I can’t blame the boy for bein’ who he is. I had hoped we could all be men about this. But I see the apple don’t fall too far from the tree.”

  “Yeah,” Pops snaps. “And it’s fruit ya daughter kept tryna eat. Now get the hell outta my house.”

  “We’ll be in touch,” he says, brushin’ past Pops, walkin’ out. Pops slams the door behind him.

  I don’t get my mouth open good to say a word, to try’n cool things down, before Pops is on me, snatchin’ me by the throat ’n’ slammin’ me up against the wall, hard. “What I tell you ’bout handlin’ ya business, huh?”

  I gasp. “Y-y-you s-s-said . . . don’t . . . be . . . sloppy.”

  He slams me into the wall again. “Then what the hell you got this lil ho comin’ up in here wit’ her folks for talkin’ ’bout you got her knocked up, huh?” He slaps me upside the head. “And why you didn’t mention this shit to me?” His face is all up in mine. His hot breath ’n’ spit hits my face. I ain’t ever disrespect my pops, and I ain’t ’bout to start now, even though I feel like he real outta pocket for yokin’ me up like this. My blood is boilin’, but I know enough to keep my hands at my sides, palms open, ’cause if I close ’em into a fist, it’ll be curtains . . . lights out for me. “Answer me, boy!”

  “I-I-I c-c-can’t . . .” I try to talk but he’s really chokin’ me up. And now I’m mad spooked that he might really crush my windpipe. He must see it in my eyes. Fear. He lets me go.

  “Go up to ya room,” he says. “I’ma deal wit’ you later.” He ain’t yellin’. But I wish he was ’cause now I don’t know what he’s gonna do next.

  “But, Pops—”

  “I said. Go. Up. To. Ya. Room. And I’m not gonna tell you again.” He says this, lips tight. Jaws clenched. I do as I’m told, takin’ the stairs two at a time. I ain’t even gonna front. Pops got me shook.

  “I’m disappointed in you, son,” Pops says, leanin’ up against the doorframe. He’s up in my room, holdin’ a half-full beer in his hand. I’m lyin’ on my back, starin’ at the ceilin’, listenin’ to music. I sit up, grabbin’ the remote to my stereo. I lower the volume. His face isn’t all twisted up, like earlier. And I’m relieved, for real for real. He puts the bottle to his lips, takes a sip, then drops his hand down to his side. “You know the rules. Don’t be sloppy. And you know what I expect of you. No cuttin’ school or classes, no C’s or D’s on ya report cards, no drinkin’ ’n’ drivin’, no lock-ups, ’n’ no damn babies; period.”

  I lower my head. “I know.” I look over at him. “And I’m doin’ all that, Pops. Word is bond. I ain’t get that lyin’ trick pregnant.”

  He takes a deep sigh, walkin’ into my room. He takes a seat on my bed. I scoot over some. He looks at me. “I believe you. And I was dead-wrong for puttin’ my hands on you like that. But how you think I felt when the doorbell rings and I open the door and this girl ’n’ her folks are standin’ in front of me, talkin’ ’bout ‘we need to talk ’cause your son got my daughter pregnant and now doesn’t want anything to do with her’? Then I find out you knew about this. How you think that made me feel?”

  “I know, Pops. And I shoulda tol’ you. But I ain’t really think it was a big deal. I mean, I knew she was lyin’, man. I didn’t mean to keep it from you.”

  “I know you didn’t. But we’re supposed to be able to talk about e’erything. We don’t keep secrets from each other.”

  “I wasn’t tryna keep . . .”

  He puts his hand up, stoppin’ me. “Let me finish. The last thing I wanna hear is ’bout you havin’ some young thing knocked up out there. That’s not what I wanna hear, you feel me?”

  I nod. “I got you, Pops.”

  “Now you see what I been tellin’ you all these years ’bout how grimy broads are, don’t you? I tol’ you they can’t be trusted. Didn’t I tell you that?” I nod. “See. That’s why you gotta always be three steps ahead of ’em. I tol’ you, play smart. Be smart. You don’t ever let a broad catch you slippin’. They’ll screw you over e’ery time.”

  “Yeah, tell me ’bout it.”

  “And let this be a lesson to you. You don’t ever toss ya condoms in the trash when you done spankin’ it up. And you don’t ever trust some hungry lil ho to handle it for ya. Those are ya lil soldiers stuck down in that wrapper. You take off ya own condom, then get up ’n’ handle ya own business. You drop it in the toilet, flush, ’n’ stand there ’n’ wait ’til you see it go down. And if the lil broad want another round, you strap up again ’n’ handle ya business. You hear me?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I say, noddin’, takin’ it all in. “I got you, Pops.”

  He sighs, then takes another sip of his beer before handin’ it to me. I tell ’im I’m good. Any other time, I woulda taken it ’n’ tossed it back wit’ ’im. But, I don’t know, right now, it don’t feel right, drinkin’ wit’ my Pops. I don’t know why, though. Real rap. I def could use a drink, for real for real. Seein’ that grimy broad Tiffany posted up in here wit’ her parents really got me on edge, yo. Then her pops talkin’ ’bout some marriage if she is carryin’ my seed. Eff outta here wit’ that dumbness! He done banged his dome talkin’ that ying-yang.

  Pops apologizes again for flippin’ on me. I tell him it’s all good. “All I want is for you to graduate high school wit’ out becomin’ another statistic.”


  “I don’t wanna be a statistic either, Pops. I’m not tryna get locked up, or be a teen dad.”

  “Good. All I want is the best for you, son; that’s it. Understand?”

  I nod. “I know, Pops. And I ’preciate e’erything you do.” He balls his fist, holds it out to me. “We cool?”

  I nod, givin’ him a pound. “No doubt.”

  He smiles at me, gettin’ up from the bed. “That’s what I wanna hear. Listen, son . . .” He pauses. Runs his hand over his face. “I don’t tell you this much. But so far you’ve done me real proud. You gotta good head on ya shoulders. I don’t wanna see you get all twisted up in the game. Play or get played. You know how we do.”

  Now it’s my turn to smile. “I got you, Pops. Playa for life, man. You already know.”

  22

  Miesha

  “Unh-uh, Miss Honey-Boo,” Mariah says, walking into my bedroom. I’m lying across my bed listening to Elle Varner’s CD and reading over my notes for my English test. It’s a sunny Saturday afternoon and I’m holed up here. Yippee. I couldn’t go to Brooklyn this weekend ’cause my dad had to fly out to California to check on my granny. And my mom wouldn’t let me stay at Tre’s. She feels her mother lets her have too much freedom, and that there’s not enough parental supervision going on. Oh, puhleeeze! She thinks I’ma get in a buncha trouble hanging out over there. Like, really? Whatever. Anyway, two days ago I spoke with my dad about living with him instead of here and he said he would talk to my mom about it. Well... surprise, surprise. I can’t! She told him we’re a package deal and if she’s not going to live with him, neither am I. Are you serious? Who does that? When I heard she told him that mess I almost took it to her throat.

  “And why would you tell him some dumb mess like that?!” I snapped, shooting her daggers. “I wanna go home.”

  “This is your home. And this is where you’re gonna stay. With me. So you might as well get over it now and get used to it.”

  “No, this is not my home. And this is not where I wanna be. And I will never get used to being here. If you wanna stay here, then stay. But let me go back to Brooklyn. Let me live with Daddy. That’s where I wanna be.”

  She huffed. “Absolutely not! You’re my child and—”

  “I’m his too,” I said, cutting her off. “And I’m old enough to decide where I wanna live and who I wanna live with. And if I have to start running away for you to get it, then I will.”

  “And where exactly do you think you’re gonna run to, huh? Your father’s? Your little girlfriends’? Please. You know all your father’s going to do is send you right back here with me. And them little friends of yours’ parents are not going to want any parts of harboring a minor, a runaway at that. So don’t you dare try’n blackmail me with that mess, girl.”

  She was right. Daddy might let me stay for a few nights; then again... if it was a school night, he’d drive me right back. And Tre’s mom . . . mmmph, she isn’t really even beat to have Tre in the house, let alone letting me stay there for any extended period of time. And as far as Stacy and Jalanda, well .. . those are my girls and all, but staying with them is definitely outta the question. Stacy’s mom is mad cool. . . when she’s sober, that is. But once she gets liquored, all hell breaks loose and she turns into a drunken beast. And Jalanda’s mom keeps a real nasty spot. Dishes stay piled up in the sink, dirty clothes are all over the place, and they act like they allergic to taking the trash out. So, no thanks, boo-boo. Staying there is a definite no-no. I don’t do filth.

  “I’m not tryna blackmail you,” I told her, tryna convince her to let me move back home with my dad. But she wasn’t tryna cooperate. “It’s my life! And I should be allowed to do what I want with it. What gives you the right to think you can control it, or me?”

  “You listen here, little girl. I gave birth to you. And I am responsible for you. So until you turn eighteen, you will do as I say. And this is where you’re going to stay, whether you like it or not—end of discussion!”

  Whatever! I’ll be eighteen in three months, then I’m outta here. And there’s nothing she’ll be able to do or say to stop me. I made sure I told her that, too.

  “And if that’s what you still want to do when that day comes, then I’ll be glad to help you pack.”

  Soooooooo, needless to stay, I’m marking the days on the calendar while I do my bid here in Jersey. Stuck and disgusted!

  “C’mon, hooker,” Mariah says, snapping me outta my thoughts. She claps her hands. “Chop, chop! Let’s get it crackin’, boo.”

  I roll my eyes in up in my head, glancing up from my notebook. “Excuse you?”

  “Whoop-whoop! Wrong answer,” she says, strutting across the room wearing a sexy pair of ripped-up faded jeans cuffed with a matching jacket over a red cami and a pair of black pointy-toed ankle boots. “There’s no excuse, hun. It’s time we get out and breathe in some fresh air. It’s nice out. And you need a man in ya life, boo. And today is the day to make it pop. I know just the place for you to bag one.”

  I laugh getting up. “Girl, you stooopid. Let me find something to wear, then hop in the shower.”

  She grunts. “And don’t even think I forgot to ask how your lil date with that lil chocolate hunk on the lacrosse team went. I was waiting to see how long it would take before you told me. But as usual, you fail miserably. You stay withholding juicy details.”

  I wave her on, standing in front of my packed-tight closet overflowing with a buncha clothes—some still with tags on them, mad boxes of shoes, and handbags. “Puhleeze. There’s nothing to tell. And it wasn’t a date. We went to Brooklyn for a while, then got something to eat in the city. Brent’s a nice guy, but not my type. So that’s about as juicy as it gets.”

  “Oh, well. So much for a love connection,” she says.

  “Exactly. Now where are we going? I need to know how to dress.”

  “Cute. That’s all you need to know. Dress real cute.”

  I step outta my jeans. I scoop them up, and toss them into the hamper. Since it’s still kinda warm out, I decide I’ma rock a faded, short jean skirt, a cute lil black stretch top with the words TEMPT ME scrawled across the front in red glitter.

  Mariah screeches, causing me to look over at her. “What?”

  “Oh my god! You are so wrong for”—she points at my pink granny panties—“havin’ that big, bouncy booty of yours stuffed in them big, ole nasty drawers. Please tell me you do not wear them ugly things to school. It’s no wonder you’re man-less.” I crack up laughing, giving her the middle finger and telling her to kiss my big, ole bouncy behind. She shakes her head at me. “Girl, if you wore some sexy drawers, you might have you a man kissing it for you.”

  She rummages through my underwear drawer, pulling out a red thong and matching bra, then tossing it over on the bed. “Wear this.”

  “Yes, mother,” I say, sarcastically walking off to take my shower. Twenty minutes later, I step back into my room with a big, fluffy towel wrapped around me. Mariah has her butt perched up on top of my dresser, flipping through a Ni-Ni Simone book. She grunts and hisses every so often as she thumbs through it.

  “What in the world? Why you making all those crazy-azz sounds?”

  “ ’Cause this chick is a trip. Oh my god, what the hell is an Uncle Shake?” She tosses the book over to the side. “I can’t.”

  “Well, I like her books. They’re entertaining and have some real-life lessons in them.”

  “Whatever.” She huffs, glancing at the time. “Umm, will you hurry up, please? I wanna get to the courts before all the birds start flockin’ in.” I slip into my wears, then slide my feet into a sexy pair of red heels.

  I twirl in front of my mirror. “Boom, boo, boom! Oooh, I’d be scared of all this fierceness if I wasn’t me.” I shake my hair out, run my hands through it, and let it hang off my shoulders, wild and carefree . . . like how I wanna be.

  “You doin’ it, boo,” Mariah says, hopping off the dresser and snapping her fingers. “Now let�
�s do this out the door. Please, and thank you!”

  “Okay, okay. One sec,” I say as I glide a coat of lip gloss over my lips. I grab my purse, stuff my lip gloss, keys, cell, and ink pen inside, and slip my shades on. “Let’s roll, boo.” We head for the door. “Umm, you’re driving.”

  “Of course I am.” She disarms the alarm. “Now get in.”

  O-M-G! Lincoln Park is hot and poppin’! And I can feel myself getting caught up in its heat. There’s mad heads out, flossing it up in their wears. And the cluckers are out in full force, shaking their tail feathers every which way, tryna snag the attention of a cutie or buffed boo. I can’t even front. My cutie meter is on high. The energy and excitement is enough to get me outta my funk—for the moment, anyway. Me and Mariah strut through the crowd snapping mad necks. All kinda cuties keep tryna check for us.

  “Yo, ma, what’s goodie?”

  “Damn, let me get them digits, yo . . .”

  “Yo, Mariah, who’s shorty you wit’? Let me holla at ’er . . .”

  “Yo, let me bounce up on them cakes you shakin’ . . .”

  Mariah waves ’em on, though. “Girl, these fools extra thirsty out here. But they lucky I’m taken ’cause I’d be out here quenching their thirsts.” A group of chicks grill us, rolling their eyes as we strut our sexiness. “Bonita, girl,” Mariah says, stopping in front of one of the chicks. She’s a cute brown-skinned girl with long, thick lashes. “I know you not even tryna serve up the stank ‘cause you out here with your girls, ho. You know I will do you, girl.”

  “Oh my god, Mariaaaaaah?!” she yells, running up and giving her a hug. “Girl, I ain’t seen you in like forever. Where you been, boo?”