by Amir Abrams
It’s a picture of this Spanish-looking chick with wavy hair, blowing a kiss. Wait, I’ve seen this chick somewhere before, I think, staring at the screen real hard, trying to remember where. Where the hell do I know her from? I’m not gonna hate on her and say she’s busted ’cause truth is, she’s serving it. But the big bad heifer has no dang business tagging my man with a picture of her blowing kisses, whether they’re to him or not. I click on her profile, then click on PHOTOS. Then I spend the next hour going through all two hundred and seventy-two pictures—happy chick was dumb enough to keep her photos public—until I figure out she’s the same rude chick that was all up on Sincere the night I first met him. Oh, so this is the ho who pulled him away from me. She has about fifteen pictures of Sincere; some with her in them, and others with him alone or with other people—mostly dudes.
I’m not really too pressed, since most of the pictures were taken last year and over the summer—before me. Still, I want her off Sincere’s page. I click back on his page and start reading some of his older posts and see all this thirstiness going on with a buncha birds sweating him.
One of these pigeons posted: HORNY.COM! SEND ME SOMETHING GOOD TO LOOK AT OR CALL ME SO WE CAN LISTEN TO EACH OTHER MOAN.
I frown.
Another post reads: HEY SEXY. WISH I HAD YOU FOR MY BOO. I’D SHOW YOU SOME NEW TRICKS I LEARNED OVER THE SUMMER. AND YES, IT’S THAT GOOD!
Thirty-seven people liked this mess, including Sincere.
Another post reads: WHO WANTS TO SEE ME SWALLOW A BANANA? HMU IF YOU WANNA CHECK MY SKILLZ. IF I LIKE WHAT I HEAR I MIGHT SWALLOW SOMETHING ELSE. LBVS.
Ewww! My first thought is to call Sincere up and scream on him, but then I remember something Erika and her girls used to say: Never, ever let someone know you’re checking up on ’em, ’cause then they’ll only cover their tracks. Monitor in silence, store your facts, then give ’em enough rope to hang themselves.
I open up another browser on my computer, then type into the search engine. When I find the site I want, I click on the link, browse their items, then add what I want to my cart and use Daddy’s credit card—the one he gave me to use for emergencies only. Well, this is an emergency. I use Zahara’s address as my shipping address, then make my purchase. There’s no way I can have my package delivered here without my mother’s nosy butt opening it up, then asking me a ton of questions. Oh no . . . not gonna happen.
I close out the screen, then reach for my phone and text Zahara to let her know to be on the lookout for a package for me that will be delivered in three to five days to her house.
She texts back: WHAT KINDA PACKAGE?
Me: IT’S A GIFT 4 MY DAD. Okay, that’s a lie. But she doesn’t need to know that!
Zee: THN Y U SENDIN IT HERE?
Me: I DON’T WANNA CHANCE HIM BEIN HERE WHEN IT COMES
Zee: K
Me: TTYL
Zee: KOOL
I close out the text screen and my phone starts ringing before I can make a call. I smile. It’s Sincere. “Hello.”
“Hey. Whatchu doin’?”
“Thinking about you,” I say, clicking through his Facebook photos. Mmmph, thinking about you is all I do. “I was just getting ready to call you.”
“Aaaah, that’s wassup. What were you thinking about?”
Well, let’s see. Who you’re with when I’m not around? Why you didn’t call me sooner? Who’s all up in your face when I’m not around? Why the hell you got all these birds up on your wall, poking and tagging you? And the list goes on and on!
“Us,” I tell him, clicking back on Ho’s page. Stay away from my man! I log off. “Are you messing with anyone else?”
Way to go, dumbo! You never ask a boy if he’s messing around on you when you know all he’s gonna do is lie to you.
“Nah. It’s all you, baby.”
Uh, duh . . . you knew he was gonna say that.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I am. Why would you ask something like that?”
I shrug as if he can see me through the phone. “Just making sure.”
“Are you messing with someone else?” he asks.
I suck my teeth. “Ugh! Illll, no. That’s nasty.”
He laughs. “A’ight, that’s what I wanna hear.”
“Sincere . . .” I pause. Listen to the way he lightly breathes into the phone.
“Wassup?”
“Are you happy with me?”
“Hell yeah, baby. I’m not interested in anyone else.”
“You better not be,” I say, smiling.
“I got you, baby. Yo, who’s that singing in the background?”
“Adele.”
“Oh, word? She’s dope. What song is that?”
“ ‘Make You Feel My Love,’” I tell him.
“Oh, a’ight. That’s wassup. Is that what you’re trying to do to me?”
“What?” I ask, reaching over on my nightstand and grabbing the picture of him I have in a glass picture frame. He’s wearing a pair of basketball shorts and a tank top, holding a basketball. I roll over on my back and kiss his face, pretending he’s here in the flesh. “Make you feel my love?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, what, you don’t already feel it?”
He lowers his voice. “Yeah, I feel it.”
“Sincere . . .”
“Yeah, baby,” he says. “Wassup?”
“Don’t ever leave me.”
“I’m not, Miyah.”
“Promise?”
“I promise you, baby. I’m not going anywhere.”
And for the rest of the night, we listen to each other breathe and whisper sweet nothings into the phone until I fall asleep with the phone still pressed against my ear.
10
Daddy picks me up bright and early and takes me down to the motor vehicle department to get my license, then drops me off at school with a note. I am cheesing real hard right now. Finally, I am an official card-carrying licensed driver!
“Did you apologize to your mother like I asked you to?” he asks, pulling up in front of school.
I give him a frustrated look, shaking my head. “Daddy, I tried. But she wasn’t hearing it. I think she’s really gonna try to keep me a prisoner for the rest of my life. You have to talk to her for me.”
“Try again,” he says, eyeing me. “I don’t want to be in the middle of this with you and your mother. She felt disrespected and you need to fix it.”
“But, Daddy,” I whine. “She disrespects me.”
“She’s your mother.”
“I know. But still . . .”
“There’s no but,” he says, glancing at the digital clock in the dashboard. “Look, I have to get to the office for a meeting. We’ll talk about this later. Okay?” Both of my parents are college-educated professionals. Daddy works in the city on Wall Street as a commodities broker. And the Witch is a high-powered litigation attorney for one of the most prestigious law firms in the country. Her law firm has offices in New York, Denver, and Los Angeles which is why she travels a lot.
I nod as the music in the car stops and his phone rings. We both glance at the number that flashes up. Speaking of the Wicked Witch, I think, opening the door. “Okay.”
“Hey,” he says, answering the call.
I hear her ask, “Did she get her license?” as I shut the door. I wave at him. He waves back and I watch as he drives off, shaking his head at something she’s said, I’m sure.
I walk into the attendance office and sign in. Mrs. Bergen gives me a hall pass. It’s already the middle of third period and I think it really makes no sense going to class, so I decide to go to the library instead, until the fourth-period bell rings. I quickly change my mind and head to my locker so I can get my AP Lit book. I open the door and glance at my reflection in the mirror. Boo, you just too fly, I think, digging in my bag and pulling out a comb.
“Mirror, mirror on the wall . . . who is the flyest chick of ’em all?” Ameerah says, walking up on me.
> “Definitely not you,” I say, smirking.
She laughs. “Whatever, pumpkin head. Are you just getting here?”
“Yeah.”
“Well?” she huffs, putting a hand up on her hip.
“Well, what?”
“Uh, hellooooo . . . license, today.”
“Oh, that.” I laugh, fishing inside my bag for my wallet. “Bam,” I say excitedly, flashing my brand-new ID.
“Heeeey, that’s what I’m talking about. I can’t wait to get mine. Two more months and counting.”
“Uh-huh.” I pull out a little pot of MAC gloss and dab some on my lips.
“Let me get some of that,” she says, sticking her finger in, then gliding some on her lips as well. She smacks them together for effect. “Anywaaayz, boo. You need to hurry up and get off punishment already. This makes no sense, three whole days of cruel and unusual punishment. It’s heart wrenching. We miss you, boo.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Well, I don’t care if you have to beg, borrow, or steal. You need to get back in your mom’s good graces, like yesterday. You know Brittani’s birthday is on the first, which is next Saturday. Then at the end of the month is the Halloween party. And you know we are gonna get our trick and treat on, okay?! So you need to act like you know.”
“I know, I know. I’m working on it. But, ohmygod, that woman is so difficult. I tried apologizing to her last night and she just straight played me to the left. I’m so over her right now.”
She grunts. “Mmmph. Well, you better get over it. And make nice—quick!”
I start combing my hair out. “I will.”
“Shoot. What you need to do is learn to keep your trap shut.”
The bell rings and kids start pouring out of their classes, flooding the hallway.
“Ohmygod, my future baby fahver is too fine for his own good,” Ameerah says, looking over my shoulder as she’s standing at my locker waiting for me to finish combing out my wrap. I already know without looking who she’s talking about. Joe-Joe. He’s a senior and our indoor and outdoor state and regional track star in the 400- and 100-meter sprints. He also runs cross-country to stay conditioned. The boy is crazy fast.
“Heeeeey, Joe-Joe,” Ameerah says, waving at him as he walks up to us.
I roll my eyes up in my head.
He steps into our space with his long-legged self, grinning. “Hey, Meerah. Wassup, Kamiyah?”
“Hey,” I say back.
“Are you still gonna wait for me after practice?” he asks Ameerah. I try to act like I’m too wrapped up in making sure my do is good to be all up in their convo. He’s cute. Okay, okay, he is fine and he has a banging body. But in my head I’m picturing her playing all up in his curly hair and popping them nasty zits with her fingernails. Ugh!
“Of course I am. You already know.”
“A’ight, cool. I gotta get to class, but I’ll talk to you later, a’ight?”
“I’ll be waiting,” she says, sounding real extra with it. He says good-bye to the both of us, then dips.
“Oh God, he’s so fine.”
I suck my teeth. “Girl, get a grip.”
She scrunches her nose up at me. “And what is that supposed to mean?” She places her hand up on her hip, waiting for my response.
I take out the books I need for my last three periods, then shut my locker. “Uh, it means you are sounding real thirsty right now. Okay, you dig the dude, but geesh, you don’t have to be so desperate with it.”
She puts her hand up in my face. “Screeech! Oh, puhleeze, look who’s talking. Miss All-up-on-Facebook-and-I-can’t-stop-looking-at-my-phone-and-answering-on-the-first-ring.”
Wait, who told her that? How she know I stay up on his Facebook page? I frown. “Wrong answer, boo. I’m not sweating Sincere like that. You got it confused. That’s what you do, sweetie.”
She rolls her eyes. “Lies. But, okay. If that’s what you believe. Truth is, you’re worse than me, boo. Admit it.”
I laugh, flicking my hand at her. “Whatever.”
“Exactly. It’s time for—”
I dig in my bag when I feel my phone vibrating. She stops in midsentence when she sees me pulling it out. It’s a text from Sincere. HEY BABY. WAS THINKN BOUT U
She clears her throat. “So . . . who’s looking thirsty now?”
“Whatever, trick,” I say, stopping to text Sincere back. THINKN BOUT U 2.
“Um, are you gonna grace us with your presence at lunch today or spend it texting Sincere?”
“Girl, hush. I’m—”
I read Sincere’s text. B GLAD WHEN U OFF PUNISHMENT
Ameerah walks off, shaking her head. “I’m out. You know where to find us.”
“Hold up. I’m coming,” I say, texting him back. I CAN’T WAIT EITHER. WHAT U DOIN?
Sincere: GETTN READY TO WALK IN2 CLASS. LOVE U
Me: K. TTYL. IM GOIN 2 LUNCH NOW. LOVE U 2
Sincere:
My man loves me! I toss my phone back into my bag, slinging my book bag up on my shoulder, smiling as I walk-run to catch up with Ameerah.
11
Ohhhkay . . . will someone please explain to me the purpose of homeroom? I mean, really. It’s dumb.com for real. The only saving grace is that Mr. Langston—everyone calls him Mister L, though—who is also my advanced calculus teacher, is finger-licking fine and nice to look at. Other than that, homeroom is a waste of time. Well . . . my time, that is. I glance up at the clock as the announcements are being read over the intercom. I yawn.
Whew . . . talking to Sincere last night, then seeing him, really made me feel . . . um, mmmph, good! No, great! No, wait. Better than great! Phenomenal—yeah, that’s it. Whew, my man knows he can kiss. His sweet lips and warm, strong hands were all over me last night. And I was all over him. I just hope he doesn’t start tripping. Not a good look if he does. No, Sincere definitely better not even think it.
So, anywaaayz . . . guess what? This morning, the Wicked Witch told me that she has to travel for work for the next three days, some kinda conference, and won’t be back until late Sunday night. So, guess where I’ll be staying? With Daddy! And you know what that means? There is a merciful, Kamiyah-loving God after all! Oh yes . . . this morning I was jumping for joy. Then she said, “I’m taking you off punishment. Not because I think you’ve earned it. But since I know your father’s not going to adhere to it, there’s no sense in keeping you on it.”
I ran up and almost knocked her down, giving her a big hug and a kiss. Although it was all phony and whatnot, I was too dang excited to care. I couldn’t believe my change of luck!
“So does that mean I can drive my car to school, too?” I asked, holding my breath.
“For now you can. Your father’s driving it over here now, then taking my car to drive me to the airport.”
“Yes!” I shouted, pumping my fist in the air.
But, of course—like she always does—she had to toss something real slick in the mix ’cause she’s real special like that. “Enjoy yourself while you can, because we both know you’ll do or say something to get you right back on punishment.”
I kinda gave her a blank stare. But I didn’t go in on her. Shoot, I’m not even thinking about her. I finally drove my car to school today. I get to hang out with my girls. And, most importantly, spend time with my man. So all that ying-yang she was popping this morning went over my head.
Anywaaayz, I didn’t sneak back into the house until almost one o’clock in the morning. Then I woke up mad late because I didn’t hear my alarm. And I didn’t have time to charge my phone. So now it’s dead! And there’s absolutely no way I’m gonna go all day without being able to text my man, or talk to him during lunch. I dig through my bag to make sure I didn’t forget to bring my charger with me. I pull out my phone, then quickly drop it back in my bag when Mr. Langston shoots me a look.
“Uh, Miss Nichols, is that a cell phone I see in your hand?”
“Of course not, Mister L,” I tell him, a
ll sweet and whatnot. “You know I wouldn’t do you like that.”
He chuckles. “I hope not. I’d hate to be the one to give you detention.”
“It’s probably her little rabbit you saw,” a voice in the back of the class says.
“Yeah, you noticed she spends a lot of time in the bathroom,” another voice says.
That gets the goofballs in the back laughing. Without looking, I know it’s nobody but Jarrell and his whack sidekick Calvin, popping junk. Jarrell—with his thick waves and sexy dimples—has a thing for me, so he’ll do or say almost anything to try to get my attention, since I usually make him invisible. Thing is, I used to really, really, reeeeeally like him in my sophomore year. And I kinda still do, but . . . mmmph. No, thank you! We dated for like three days, then it was lights-out. The show was over. Kissing him made my stomach turn. It was like sticking my lips into a dishwasher with all that spit he had going on. Yuck! Fine or not, if you can’t kiss, you get dissed.
Anywaaayz . . . maybe he’s stepped up his lip game. After all, that was two years ago. But I won’t know. I roll my eyes up in my head, deciding to not even entertain their dumbness.
“All right, Misters Mills and Russell,” Mister L warns, eyeing both of them, “another outburst like that and—”
Fortunately for the two of them, the bell for first period rings, cutting Mister L off. Everyone scatters out of homeroom like a bunch of roaches. Mr. Langston calls me over to his desk as I’m gathering my things, then asks me if I’d be interested in being a math tutor.
I tilt my head. “Mister L, I thought only members of the math club were tutors.”
He smiles. “They are. But being that you’re one of my brightest students . . .”
“With one of the highest GPAs in the school, don’t forget,” I add, grinning.
“Right, right,” he says, chuckling. “How could I forget?”
I shrug. “I’ll forgive you this time since you happen to be one of my favorite teachers.” And you’re so dang fine, I think, staring into his dark brown eyes. I bet when he was in school he had all the girls.
