by Amir Abrams
I eye Brent real slow ’n’ sexy-like, batting my long lashes. He’s in a pair of gym shorts ’n’ a sweaty McPherson tank, looking all delish ’n’ whatnot. Boo, I ain’t even gonna front. If I was a messy kinda chick, he could get the cookie unwrapped. Yes, gawd! Ooh, I know he’d make some pretty babies with all that wavy hair ’n’ beautiful skin. Not that I’m thinking about gettin’ knocked up by him or any other boy. This is all hypothetically speaking. You know. If I did give him the cookie raw, ’n’ if I wanted to push out his babies. Uh, I mean, baby. ’Cause I’m only letting one stretch out this bangin’ body. Fiona isn’t doing the kitten thing, okay? Popping out four ’n’ five babies. I think not!
And I’m not tryna be like my mother, havin’ babies mad young. Chile, please. She was pregnant at fifteen ’n’ had my sister Leona when she was sixteen. Then she popped out my sister Kara when she was eighteen. Then my sister Sonji at twenty-one. Then Karina when she was twenty-four. Then nine years later came her mishap. Me. Some hot ’n’ heavy one-night stand in the backseat of my daddy’s pickup truck. Mmph. And she thinks I wanna end up like that. No, honey-boo. I think not!
I glance down at Brent’s legs. Deargawd! They’re beautiful. Mmph. I have to fight the urge to reach down ’n’ swipe a hand up over his thick, heart-shaped calves, then up his brown, hairy, muscular thigh. Oooh, I just wanna forget where I am ’n’ have my way with him.
I shut my locker ’n’ pop my lips. “It’s about time you got ya mind right, lil boo-daddy, ’n’ recognize sexy when you see it. It took you long enough.”
He grins, walking alongside of me. “Nah. I always knew you were sexy.”
I stop in my tracks. Run a hand up my hip, then toss my hair. “Well, of course I am. I’m drippin’ with sexiness, hun. Glad you know.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “Fiona, you mad funny. But seriously, how you?”
“Fine ’n’ fabulous, boo. Can’t you see?”
He laughs some more. “Oh, I see you.”
“Uh-huh. So why all of a sudden you steppin’ to me?”
He smiles. “I’m sayin’. I’ve been kinda checkin’ for you for a minute, but I didn’t really know how to step to you.”
I twist my lips. “Uh-huh. Last I checked you were still goo-goo, ga-ga over Miesha.”
The beginning of the school year all the hot boys were tryna get at Miesha ’cause she was the new chick on the campus. Fresh meat. And Brent was one of the many boys tryna make a move on her. But Antonio snatched her up ’n’ shut all that down real quick.
“Nah, nah. She wasn’t checkin’ for me like that. She’s wit’ who she’s supposed to be wit’. So it’s all wavy, baby. We just mad cool.”
I eye him. “What, so you think I’m gonna be second runner-up to Miesha?”
“Nah. It’s not even like that. On some real, I didn’t really think you were beat for me.”
Ooh, I’m so, so beat for you, boo-daddy! You have no idea.
I smirk, slinging my massive Michael Kors bag up over my shoulder. “Boy, bye. I’m still not beat for you.”
He laughs. “Yeah, a’ight. What you doing after school? You wanna chill ’n’ go grab something to eat?”
I blink twice. “Chill, like in a date?”
“Nah. Not unless you want it to be.”
“Uh-huh. Well, I’ma have’ta pass. My sister’s picking me up after school.” He wants to know what time I’ll be home. I tell him late. He wants to know about tomorrow. I tell him maybe; if I’m feeling generous.
He laughs. “Oh, word? It’s like that?”
I grin. “Maybe.”
I notice this big wide-back chick Samantha in my peripheral vision—elbowing Quanda and pointing over at Brent ’n’ me. Of course I’m not one to entertain dumbness, so I act like I don’t peep it.
“Heeey, Brent, baby,” Sam says all deep ’n’ husky, sounding like she tosses back whiskey ’n’ smokes a pack of Marlboros a day. She’s such a big-hand man-girl. All done up with a buncha clown paint on her face ’n’ drawn-on eyebrows. Where they doin’ that at? Using Magic Marker to draw on eyebrows? Mmph. Only the circus, honey-boo. Only the daggone circus.
All I can say is, Send in the clowns.
“What’s up, Sam?” Brent says to her, thrusting his chin up at her.
“You, boo. It’s all you.”
He smiles. Quanda speaks to him. He speaks back. I act like she’s invisible.
Samantha says, “So whose man you tryna steal now, FeFe?”
Quanda laughs.
I cringe. I hate that name FeFe. It sounds so, so nasty. Like feces, or something horny inmates use in prison with Vaseline ’n’ spit to do they nasty business in. Ugh. This beast is really tryna do me. But I’ll never give her the satisfaction of knowing that she gets under my skin calling me that. Oh no, hun. That’s not what a diva does.
I eye her. She’s in a pair of tight jeans ’n’ a white blouse with a pair of wedge heels on her big feet, looking like the next top flop from off of RuPaul’s Drag Race. But I ain’t one to be messy.
So my lips are sealed.
I simply laugh in her face.
12
“So how was school?” my sister Leona asks the minute I slide into her Benz ’n’ buckle my seat belt. When I get old like her, I wanna be just like her. Fierce. Young heads stay checkin’ for her, but she ain’t havin’ it. I don’t blame her, though. She has a master’s degree in marketing from NYU, owns a fabulous crib with tons ’n’ tons of closet space packed with designer clothes ’n’ heels ’n’ handbags for days. And she has a fab job working in the city for American Express, making loads of money. She gets to travel all over the world, so I can understand why she wouldn’t be interested in havin’ a young boo-daddy on her arm.
But if you ask me, girlie needs to drop down ’n’ get her freak on. I mean, she needs some serious sheet action. All work ’n’ no play is soooo not it. For the life of me, I can’t understand why she doesn’t have her a lil boo-daddy. It’s not like she’s disturbingly ugly or something, so I don’t understand what the problem is. She claims she doesn’t have a man because she doesn’t have time for one ’n’ that she refuses to settle.
Is that what they callin’ it? Settle? Chile, boom! Her manless drought is soo not cute. But, uh, um, so you settle for cobwebs all up in ya honeypot instead? Girl, bye! Go out ’n’ get you some!
I flip down the mirror ’n’ recheck my lip gloss, sighing. “My day was borrrring. New day, same old mess. But I did almost have to beat this hood rat down for steppin’ to me over some boy a few days ago.”
She looks over at me. “Please tell me you didn’t.”
“I said almost. You know fighting is not my thing unless I’m provoked to take it there. Besides, who got time to be breaking up fingernails? Not me.”
“Good,” she says, pulling off. “It’s your senior year and the last thing you need is to get yourself suspended for foolishness. You know what happened the last time you got into a fight.”
Yeah. Don’t I.
She’s talking about the fight I had three years ago when I stabbed this girl in her forehead with a fork because she kept yappin’ her jaws. I told the chick to fall back. To take it down several notches. But she kept tryna bring the rah-rah. She wanted to show out in front of her lil crew, so I slammed a fork into her forehead, then beat her down. Yeah, I had to get locked up for it. And, yeah, she had to get rushed to the hospital. Oh well. But I tell you what. I bet you she keeps it moving anytime she sees me now. Every time she looks at herself in the mirror she sees my four-prong stamp. Bottom line, don’t eff with me ’n’ I won’t have to take it to your head!
I grunt. “Mmph. I’m not thinking about that trick. But if she steps to me like that again, I might have to do them ten days, ’cause I’ma beat the skin off her. Senior year or not, she stays tryna get it turnt up. I can’t stand her.”
“What do I always tell you, Fiona?”
I sigh. “I know, I know. Pick ’n’ choose m
y battles.”
“Exactly.”
She goes into mom mode. Tells me how it’s not ladylike to be cussing ’n’ fighting, especially over a boy. I quickly enlighten her on my diva rule: Read ’em for filth. Snap, snap! Never, ever, look for trouble. But if trouble comes strutting your way, give ’em a tongue-lashing before a beat-down. Please. I ain’t got no time to be breaking a nail or twisting an ankle in my heels. Going with the hands should always be a diva’s last resort. Well, um, that’s unless a trick puts her hands on you first, then it’s showtime.
She chuckles. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you, girl. You’re so much like Sonji. That chile was always suspended for fighting some girl when she was in school. It’s a wonder she even had enough credits to graduate.”
Sonji lives in New Haven, Connecticut, with her husband, Rondell. Her ’n’ I aren’t as close as I am with Leona or my sister Kara. I think I’m probably the closest to those two, more so than with Sonji ’n’ Karina, because they were the ones who spent the most time with me. Usually, wherever one of them went, I went with her.
“Well, I can’t wait to graduate. Trust. I’m so over high school.”
“Don’t rush it. Savor it for as long as you can. Trust. It’ll be over before you know it.”
“Hunni, four months ’n’ counting. I can’t wait.”
“Well, wait until you get out into the real world, sweetie. You’re going to wish you could have stayed in school longer. You’ll be tryna rewind the clock. Don’t rush it.”
“Chile, boom! I can’t wait until I’m eighteen ’n’ grown. I’m outta here.”
“And where are you off to? Have you even given any thought to what you want to do once you graduate, since you’re so anxious to be out on your own?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I thought maybe I could come stay with you.”
She peels her eyes from off the road. “Oh, really? And do what?”
I toss my hair. “Shop ’n’ be fabulous, of course.”
She shakes her head, laughing. “Girl, get those grandiose delusions out of your head. You have a lot to learn.”
I turn toward her. Poke my lips out. “So, you’re saying I can’t come stay with you?”
“No. I’m not saying that. I’m saying it’s time you start giving some thought to your future. And moving in with me cannot be your post–high school life plan. Have you even taken the SATs?”
Ohgod, is she serious? Not this again.
“Yesss. I did. I took them a couple of months ago. But I’m going to take them again, just to see if I can improve my score.” Truth is, I’m okay with my SAT scores: 1100. I’ll take it. Now what I’m going to do with them is a whole other story.
I’m not sure I wanna go to college. I wanna travel to exotic places ’n’ be able to wine ’n’ dine in fancy restaurants. I wanna rock lots of ice ’n’ rock a fly whip, like my sisters. I think I’ma have to snatch me a baller ’n’ marry rich.
“Good. Get your college degree, then land a great job and you can have the kind of life you’ve always dreamed of.”
Uh, ohhkay. “Girl, hush. I already have a fabulous life, hun. I’m young. Gorgeous. Smart. And I get all of my sisters’ wardrobes. What more could a girl ask for?”
She chuckles. “And let’s not forget being spoiled rotten. And while we’re at it, let me add conceited to the mix.”
“Hahaha. You wish. Never that. Okay, maybe a lil spoiled, though.”
She shoots me a look. “A little? Really?”
I laugh. “Okay, okay. A lot. But it’s mostly your fault.”
She laughs with me. “Yeah, yeah. I know. I’m guilty as charged.”
I look over at my sister ’n’ smile. I love her so, so much. I swear. I don’t know if she realizes how much I look up to her. She’s like everything I want to be. Fly ’n’ paid!
“Mom said you and her got into it the other night,” she says, broaching the subject ever so lightly. Ugh. She knows I hate talking about our mother. Well, I don’t mind talking about her; just not talking about something she’s told one of my sisters about me, which is usually some level of exaggerated BS.
“No,” I say, shifting in my seat. I reach for the controls on the side ’n’ adjust my seat. “We didn’t get into anything. She slick-talked ’n’ I checked. Game over.”
“She says you told her to kiss the back of your—”
“Omigod! Lies ’n’ fabrications! I told her to go have several seats. I didn’t tell her to kiss anything. I thought it.” I give her a run-through of what really popped off.
“It was still disrespectful, Fee.” I shrug. Tell her respect is given when it’s gotten ’n’ I’m not respecting her until she respects me. She shakes her head. “Well, who is this boy she said you ran up out of the house to be with?”
“Some lil boo-thing I chilled with. Nothing serious. The boy couldn’t even kiss.”
She glances over at me. “Fiona, you’re a beautiful girl. You know everything shouldn’t always be about sex.”
I frown. “Who said anything about sex? I said he couldn’t kiss.” She gives me a look like Okay, and? “Trust. I didn’t have sex with him if that’s what you’re thinkin’. He had sex with himself.” She frowns, giving me a confused look. I give her a dismissive wave. “Long, sad story. Anywho . . . for the record, I don’t sleep with every boy I chill with.” Only some of ’em. Okay, okay... most of ’em. Still . . . I’m a selective ho.
She sighs. “I just want you to be careful. Mom’s worried you’re going to end up pregnant, or worse—contract some kind of STD.”
“Ohmigod. She is so over herself. Why is that lady all up in my honey hole? What she needs to do is go out ’n’ get her some. Maybe she wouldn’t be so miserable. Jeezus. Trust. I don’t do nothin’ raw. Period. Ain’t nobody tryna get pregnant. I’m a handbag ’n’ heels girl, boo. Diaper bags ’n’ strollers are so not it.”
She sighs, shaking her head. “Fiona, you know I love you, honeybun, but sometimes your mouth is real extra and you know it. I know Mom can be a little rough . . .”
“A lil? Uhh, you think?”
She chuckles. “Okay, a lot. But that’s still our mom. And you have to know when to pick and choose your battles.”
“Omigod, Lee!” I cross my arms in front of me, feigning insult. “You don’t know what I have to put up with. I try iggin’ her. I try bitin’ my tongue. But her mouth is reckless. That lady has always treated me like crap. And you know it.”
“Stupid little girl.”
She shakes her head. “I know Mom hasn’t always been exactly nice to you . . .”
“Ooh, you don’t say?”
“I can’t stand yo’ high-yella azz!”
“You make me sick . . .”
“I shoulda never had you . . .”
My own sisters saw her hatred toward me, which is why they always tried to protect me from her beatings ’n’ erratic tirades the best they could. But then one day, everything just stopped. Her yelling. Her name-calling. Her beatings.
Maybe it’s because I went to school ’n’ told Miss Neilson—my seventh grade social studies teacher—who told the prinicipal, who then called New Jersey’s Division of Youth and Family Services on her. Maybe it’s because DYFS threatened to bring charges against her butt the next time she put her hands on me, beating me with brooms ’n’ hairbrushes. Mmph. Or maybe it’s because I pulled a knife on her ’n’ was ready to slice her in her sleep. All I know is, it stopped. And I know it didn’t stop ’cause she knew what she was doing was wrong, or that she felt bad, or that she loved me.
Leona takes her eyes off the road, reaching over ’n’ grabbing my hand. “And you know I’m so sorry you had to go through all that.”
I shrug. “It’s a little too late to do anything about it now. The damage’s already done. She’s ruined me.”
She gives me a pained look, squeezing my hand. She tries to tell me that I’m not damaged or ruined. That I shouldn’t ever think like tha
t. That I’m far from ugly. That I’m beautiful ’n’ talented ’n’ bright ’n’ loved. Blah, blah, blah.
Yeah, okay. That’s how I feel sometimes. Ruined. Damaged. Ugly. Thanks to my mother. I swallow, turning my head toward the window. I’m done talking. I swipe a lone tear lingering in my eye. Ugh! That woman’s not even here ’n’ somehow—once again—she’s managed to spoil my dang mood.
13
“Hello.”
“Fiona?”
“Uhhh, yeah. Who’s this?”
“What’s up? It’s Brent.”
“Oh, okay.”
“I wanted to make sure you didn’t give me the wrong number.”
“Oh no, hun. I’m too grown for that. I ain’t wasting my time givin’ out no wrong numbers, boo. If I’m not beat, I just say it. Who got time for them kinda tricks?”
“Yeah. That’s what I like about you, Fee. You different. Always have been.”
“Well, I’m glad you called,” I tell him, not sure how much of it’s truth. I mean, yeah, I’ve flirted with this cutie-boo ’n’ I’ve even lusted for him on the low for a minute. But all Brent’s ever been is a fantasy boo. Someone I have shamelessy laid in bed thinking about in the wee hours of the night with my wandering hands ’n’ eyes closed ’n’, well, uh . . . you fill in the blanks.
“I’m glad I hit you up, too.”
I smirk. “It took you long enough.”
I’d given Brent my number right after seventh period today when I ran into him in the hall ’n’ he asked me for it. So I’m not surprised that he’s calling me seven-and-a-half hours later. Sure, he coulda played it like he really wasn’t beat ’n’ let a few days go by or even the rest of the week. But he didn’t. And he wouldn’t have. I’m sure lil daddy couldn’t resist holding out any longer than he’s already done. Mmph. I’ve known him since freshman year, so the fact that it’s taken him ’til senior year to finally get up the nerve to step to me says he’s a bit slow, or shy, or maybe even... special.
Ooh, bless his lil heart.
But I’m not gonna hold that against him. Oh no. But I got something I’ma hold him against. Yes gawd, hunni. Trust. Miss Fiona has been wanting her a lil taste of Brent since the moment I laid my green eyes on him in freshman gym ’n’ saw him ’n’ all’a his goodness in a pair of gym shorts. But I never stepped to him ’cause: one, I had too many other boo-daddy distractions; and two, I’m many things, but thirsty ain’t ever gonna be one’a them, so sweatin’ a boy is a no-no.
