by Amir Abrams
I toss him a lil wave. He flaps his tongue out at me. I lick my lips ’n’ turn my head just as Miesha peels down the street. She swings a right onto Bergen.
“Fiona, girl,” she says, glancing over at me. “I don’t mean no harm, but you’re too pretty to be messin’ with all these boys out here. Don’t you wanna settle down with one boy?”
I snap my neck in her direction, shifting in my seat. I look at her like she’s crazy. “Whaat? Settle down? Who, me?”
She laughs. “Yeah, you. You know. Just chill with one boy, instead of having a buncha different boys all up in your face.”
What? Girl, bye! Miss Chickie has let love soak her brain if she thinks I’ma ever be the settle-down type of chick. Ha! Chill with one boy? Never that. I don’t think so. Doesn’t she know every diva should always have a rotation of cutie-boos at her beck ’n’ call?
“Girl, boom! You have gone completely cuckoo-crazy. Why on earth would I wanna do some mess like that, huh? Boys are like playgrounds—no, no . . . like amusement parks. They can be fun ’n’ tiring at times. And ohh so exciting the next. There’s always something to hop up ’n’ down on, bounce on, slide down on ’n’ spin around on. It’s like one big thrilling rollercoaster ride. You never know what you’re gonna get or how the ride is gonna end until you strap up ’n’ take it for a spin.”
She turns down onto my street, shaking her head. “Ohmigod! Fiona, girl, you’re a hot mess!” She starts laughing. “Only you would say some crazy ish like that. What about love, girl?”
I rapidly blink my eyes at her. Oh no, this messy heffa didn’t just go there! Cursing me with that, that, that dirty L-word!
“Love? What about it?”
“Don’t you want it?”
“No. I’m allergic to it.”
She laughs. “Whatever. No. I’m serious. Don’t you ever wish you had a boo you could call your own? Someone you can love ’n’ know he’s the same boy who loves you back?”
“Girl, please.” I tsk. “There’s no guarantee he’s gonna love you back.”
“Well, no. But you can’t be afraid to take a risk, either. Sometimes you have to trust your heart. Look at me ’n’ Antonio. I wasn’t beat for him at first ’cause I knew he was a dog, but he kept pressin’ me until I finally gave in, ’n’ look at us now. Madly in love. And I trust him with all my heart.”
“Ooh, Oprah, boo,” I say sarcastically, rolling my eyes dramatically. “I didn’t know you had it in you. Sign me up.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever. You don’t know what you’re missing out on, boo.”
“Girl, let me stop. I do have it.”
She gives me a confused look. “You have what?”
“Lots of love.”
She stops her car in front of my house ’n’ tilts her head. “Oh, really?”
I smirk. “Yes. I love turnin’ boys out. It ain’t no secret. I love sex, boo. Don’t you? ’Cause I know you ’n’ that boo-daddy of yours stays playin’ Twister in the sheets.”
She laughs. “Sex is not the most important thing with me and Antonio. Yes, I enjoy it with him. But it’s not all we do. I love him for him. Not for what he does or doesn’t do in bed. I enjoy his company.”
I blink. “Dear gawd!” I clutch my chest. “Boooorrrring.”
“Fiona, I think it’s time you shut ya legs more ’n’ open ya heart to love, boo.”
“Girl, no.” I shake my head. “Not interested. Love doesn’t have a home here, boo. Lust is the only thing livin’ in my heart.”
She gives me a look that borders more on pity than appreciation for my truths. And I give it right back. Trust. There’s nothing pitiful about me not wanting to be boo’d up with only one boy. If God didn’t want me to indulge my desires, why would He tempt me, huh? Why would He dangle so many fine, mouthwatering cuties out in front of me, knowing my weakness, if He didn’t want me to reach out ’n’ sample ’em, huh?
I tell you why. Because He wants me to indulge. Because monogamy is about as played out as them dusty hood roaches on Love & Hip Hop, chasing behind that old nasty Joe Budden, okay? Ain’t nobody got time for that. So, forbidden fruit or not, it is my mission, my divine diva purpose, to pluck more than one sweet, juicy, sexy boo-daddy from off the vine, gobble him up, then spit him out ’n’ send him on his merry way. And, yes, boo. I stay doing it for the vine. Don’t you?
“One nice boy is all you need, girl.” She unlocks the car doors. “All that messin’ with a buncha boys is real whack.”
I wave her on, then grab my bag. “Umm, hello? Speak for ya’self. Why settle for one nice boy, when I can have two or three? No, thanks, hun. I’ll leave all that stay-true-to-one-boo for you ’n’ Tone.”
She curls her lip up. “Mmph. Looks like you got company.”
I look over toward the house, ’n’ sure enough. There’s Benji—one of my ex-BWBs—standing on my porch, uninvited ’n’ unannounced. Now that’s a no-no. Still, I can’t help but lick my lips at the thought of seeing him stripped down to nothing but his boxers and Timbs.
Anyway, I’d been messing with Benji since like the beginning of the school year up until three weeks ago, when I decided to finally chop him. But every now ’n’ then he still comes around. The thing with us, we had a special understanding. He didn’t sweat me. I didn’t sweat him. He wasn’t my man. Just a boo-daddy with benefits. So he did what he did ’n’ I did what I did. It cut down on all the drama. There was no cheating. No lying. And we both stayed very happy.
Well, that’s until he no longer stayed on script ’n’ started tryna check for me like I was wifey. Stepping up to me at school tryna mark his territory. Getting all up in my face. Boy, bye! He mighta thought he was Ike, but I ain’t Tina ’n’ he ain’t beatin’ up this box. So, boom!
“Girl, please. That boy ’n’ his love-stick are of no further use to me.” I open the car door.
“Call me later,” she says.
“Okay. Ummm, can I help you?” I say to Benji, shutting Miesha’s car door.
“What’s goodie, yo?” A smile eases over his fine, brown face.
I roll my eyes. “I don’t know what’s good with you. But I know what’s not goodie. And that’s you stalking my porch.”
He chuckles. “Go ’head wit’ that, yo. Ain’t nobody stalkin’ you.”
“Uh-huh. Lies. But whatever! Why you here?”
“What you think, yo,” he says, grinning again as I make my way up the stairs. Mmph. With his ole freak-nasty self. “I’m tryna chill.”
I roll my eyes. “Define chill.”
He sucks his teeth. “C’mon, yo. Don’t front. You already know what it is.”
“Uh, noooo. I know what it was. And I know what it isn’t. If you wanted to chill with me, you shoulda brought ya butt to school ’n’ chilled in class.”
“Nah, I’m good. I wasn’t beat today.” He tries to pull me into him. He smells of weed ’n’ alcohol.
I frown, pushing him back. “Are you frickin’ kidding me right now? You’re lit up.”
“Nah. But I’m nice.”
I sigh. A boy with no ambition, no motivation, no dang drive—other than gettin’ high ’n’ gettin’ his rocks off—is such a turnoff. I brush by him, opening the glass storm door.
He steps up in back of me. “Don’t front, yo. You know we hot like fire together.” His breath is hot on my neck.
I smirk. “Uh-huh. Hot fire or not, you ain’t gettin’ up in here, lil boo-daddy. So go have a seat. Ya heat ’n’ hot flames ain’t welcome here. So go take it over to some other ho’s spot ’cause you ain’t burnin’ up no sheets over here. Not today.” He tries to force his way in behind me as I slide my key in ’n’ open the door.
He presses himself up into me. I bump him backward. “I know you straight up buggin’, boy.” He grabs me again. I push him off of me, again. “I’m not playin’, Benji. The only thing I want is for you to go home. Or get maced down. Now, good day! Please ’n’ thank you.”
&nb
sp; “Oh, word? It’s like—”
I slam the door in his face, then press my back up against the door ’n’ slide my way down to the floor. As sure as my name is Fiona, that boy’s lucky I knocked him outta his rotation slot ’n’ I’m done with him. Otherwise, I woulda wrapped my lips around him ’n’ had me a taste of that lil boo-daddy juice. Trust.
8
Never let another chick steal your shine...
The one thing I hate more than a cheap pair of heels or a handbag with them frayed raggedy edges is a phony bish! And, trust. McPherson High’s halls are flooded with the likes of ’em. Fakes. A buncha wannabe Barbies. All tryna be the next Nicki Minaj. Whoop, whoop! Chile, boom! Who let the clowns out! Epic fails!
Besides me, Miesha, ’n’ a few of the cheerleaders, all these other chickies clucking around here in their thot wear ’n’ lace fronts are straight-up fraudulent. Okay, well, not all of ’em. But most of ’em definitely are. And those are the ones that make the palms of my hands itch to slap ’em up. All they do is smile up in your face ’n’ talk about you behind your back. Then when you step to ’em ’n’ confront ’em, they wanna start hemming ’n’ hawing ’n’ backpedaling. Chile, boom!
But every now ’n’ then I entertain their foolery. After all, I know how to serve up a dish of messy with the best of ’em. Bottom line for me is this: A real diva is her only competition. So no chick can do me better than I can do myself. No matter how hard she tries.
Trust.
“What, you can’t speak?” this chick Alicia says, walking over to my locker as I’m slamming it shut. I look her up ’n’ down. She’s standing here holding a half-eaten Pop-Tart, wearing a pair of nondescript jeans with a cute lil black off-the-shoulder blouse ’n’ a pair of red heels. Nine West, I think. But what I care? Not my feet. Not my worry.
She tosses her hair.
Two can play that. I flick mine. “Should you be eating that mess? Didn’t you just get a ton of gut fat sliced outta you last summer?”
She rolls her eyes, sucking her teeth. “Don’t worry about what I eat.”
I shrug. “Your body.” I flick my hair over my shoulder. “Now. How can I help you?”
“Don’t get cute,” she says, placing a hand up on her now size ten hips. Now being the operative word, because before her parents sent her away to some chunky girls’ farm last summer, she was a thick, six-piece-’n’-a-biscuit, greasy-spoon, eat-a-whole-cake kinda chick. Size eighteen or twenty, I think. All I know is, she had like a sixty-inch waist ’n’ was a real big beef patty. But now that she’s serving up a few new curves ’n’ a smaller waistline, she’s really feelin’ herself.
Now, I’m not gonna hate or even throw shade on the chick. Because that’s not how I do mine. No, no. No, hun. No shade, ever. I give credit where credit’s due. Alicia’s real cute in the face. She has high cheekbones ’n’ a kinda thin nose. She kinda looks... exotic. And her new ’n’ improved body makes her fourth runner-up for the next Wish I Could Be You world pageant. Still, she ain’t ready to go up against moi.
I blink. “Come again? Don’t get cute? Ooh, hun, I stay cute. Would you like my autograph now or later, sweetie?”
She flicks a dismissive wave at me. “Girl, bye. Not.”
I shake my head ’n’ walk off, heading down the hall.
She falls into step alongside me, unwelcome. “What I wanna know is why you stood me up yesterday.”
I shoot her an icy glare. “Excuse you? Sweetie, I know I didn’t let you get the cookie last night, so why is you coming at me like you just blew my back out?”
“Tramp, bye. Miss me with that. You can’t do a thing for me.”
I give her a dismissive flick of the wrist. “Girl, have several seats. What do you want?”
She rolls her eyes. Tells me I was supposed to meet her down at the library so we could work on our English Lit project together. Uh, hel-lo? I didn’t know I needed to hold her by the hand to get it done.
“Alicia, boo. Riddle me this, hun—’n’ I’m only gonna ask you this one time: Did I eff with you when you had that double chin ’n’ were rockin’ thick glasses ’n’ wobblin’ your way down the halls the last three years?”
She frowns.
“Exactly,” I say, not giving her a chance to respond. “I didn’t do you then. So I’m not doing you now, sweetie, just ’cause you can finally squeeze ya’self into a pair of stretch leggings ’n’ not look like a beached whale wrapped in Saran wrap. So if you think staying after school to work on some paper with you is gonna happen, you’re sadly mistaken, hun. You do your portion. And . . .”
She bucks her eyes.
“Yo, what’s good, Fiona?” P-Money—I mean, Pauley—says, walking by. Hunnni . . . listen. He’s a real cutie-boo for a white boy. And he loves him some chocolate pie. Mmph. And he’s hanging, too. Oh, how I know? Mmph. How you think? I sampled the vanilla stick. Let him swirl it all up in my chocolate love-cup last summer when I ran into him down on the Ave. one night. I sure did. Things got real hot ’n’ heavy for like fifteen minutes, then it was over. Boy, bye. My engine was just gettin’ revved up ’n’ here this boy was already at the finish line. Sweating like he’d run a two-hundred-mile race. Mmph. Noooo, thank you!
“Heey, Pauley,” I coo, checking him out. He’s rocking the new KDs with a pair of baggy jeans. His red polo shirt is half tucked-in. And his long hair is done up in cornrows. Two weeks ago he wore his dirty-blond hair out in a huge ’fro.
Mmph. Can you say confused?
This boy can’t decide if he wants to be the next Huey P. Newton or Snoop Dogg one minute or Malcolm X the next. Chile, boom! I can’t with him.
“What’s good, Alicia?” he says, keeping his shimmering blue eyes on me.
“You, boo,” she says, grinning ear to ear. But she’s too caught up in tryna be fabulous to see he isn’t even checkin’ for her like that. “You still have my number?”
He peels his gaze away from me, glancing at her. “Yeah, I got it. Why? You tryna chill?”
She smacks her lips. “Maybe.”
I laugh.
Alicia shoots me a dirty look. “I know you not even tryna hate.”
“Hate? No, hun. Never that.”
“Then what the hell’s so funny?”
I raise a brow. “First of all, check ya tone, boo. Second of all”—I ease up on Pauley ’n’ loop an arm through his—“he ain’t checkin’ for you. Now, good day.”
Pauley grins, then looks over at her. “Yo, me ’n’ my baby out. I’ll holla.”
“Not today you won’t,” I say, tossing a look over at Alicia. She peers at me through narrow slits. I toss my hair. “Don’t hate, boo.”
“Eff you, tramp,” she hisses, storming off in the other direction.
Pauley laughs. “Yo, why you do ole girl like that? You ice cold, babe.”
I shrug. “I don’t wanna talk about her.”
He grins again, glancing at me. “Oh, word? What you wanna talk about? Me ’n’ you?”
I frown. “C’mon again. Not,” I say as we turn the corner toward my geometry class. “I hear you done bagged you up some ratchet-snatch.”
He laughs. “Yo, you crazy, Fee. Word is bond. Where you hear that?”
“Don’t worry, boo-boo. News travels. Besides, ya name’s scribbled all over the girls’ bathroom wall ’bout how you been motorboatin’ Quanda’s jugs.”
He cracks up. “You wildin’, yo. Hahahahaha. But, nah, nah. It ain’t even like that. We just chillin’.”
“Uh-huh. Code word for we sexin’.”
He keeps laughing.
“You know I’m not one to gossip. But—” I stop, eyeing Quanda as she walks in our direction. “Ooh, here come ya boo now,” I tease, leaning into him.
He laughs, shaking his head. “She ain’t my boo. Just somethin’ to do.”
“Uh-huh. Good luck with that.”
Quanda squints, her eyes darting from me to Pauley, then locking onto my arm looped through his. She stops dead-s
mack in front of us. Hand on hip, head cocked. “Umm, Pauley. You not even ’bout to play me, boy.” She shoots me a look. “Umm. Do you mind gettin’ up off my man?”
I look up at him, easing my arm free. “Ooh-ooh, no worries, hun. He’s all yours.” I start laughing. “Apparently somebody didn’t get the memo. Pauley, I’ll catch you later, boo.”
He gives me a nod. “No doubt. Yo, what’s good, Quanda? Why you steppin’ up on me like that, like you tryna check a nucca? You know what it is, yo.”
“I don’t ’preciate you disrespectin’ me, huggin’ up on no trick.”
I blink. Stop in my tracks. Turn to look at her. “Excuse you?”
“You heard me,” she snaps. “Get ya own damn man ’n’ stay the hell away from mine! You hoes stay tryna steal somebody else’s boyfriend.”
“Yo, hol’ up, hol’ up,” Pauley says, putting his hands up. “Chill, Quanda. Now you doin’ too much.”
“Chill, hell, boy! You not gonna be playin’ me.”
I start laughing. “Ooh, sounds like somebody forgot to take her cuckoo meds this morning. Girl, bye. I’m not thinkin’ about Pauley. And I’m definitely not thinking about you.”
Quanda starts gettin’ loud as usual, rolling her neck ’n’ talking. Always on ten, always ready to bring the rah-rah, this chick loves attention. Loves to make a scene. She makes a buncha promises to beat my face in if I ever disrespect her again. Demands I keep my hands off of Pauley.
Now her lil performance becomes amusing to me. I crack up laughing. “Girl, boom! You a real live circus, boo. Go have several seats at the back of the bus, sweetie, ’cause you ain’t ready for the front row. Trust. If I wanted Pauley, I would have him. Been there, done that. All you’re doing, sweetie, is chasing behind what I’ve already had.”
“All right, girls,” Mrs. Sheldon—one of the AP English teachers—says, coming out of her classroom. “You girls break this nonsense up ’n’ get to class before both of you find yourselves in detention.”
