Flip Side of the Game
Page 1
Flip Side of the Game
Triple Crown Collection
Tu-Shonda Whitaker
www.urbanbooks.net
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Flip Side of the Game - Triple Crown Collection
Dedication
Acknowledgments
The Ground Floor
Step One
Step Two
Step Three
Step Four
Step Five
Step Six
Step Seven
Step Eight
Stuck
Step Nine
Step Ten
Step Eleven
Step Twelve
Larceny
Copyright Page
Flip Side of the Game
Triple Crown Collection
by
Tu-Shonda Whitaker
Dedications
To my parents, my husband, and my children. Moreover, in loving memory of my grandparents, Lucy and Sip Whitaker; my grandfather, Phillip Parker; my Aunt Tom; and my godmother, Leola Atkinson. You are truly, truly missed.
Acknowledgments
No word is spoken, and no word is written without Hallelujahs! Be it to the glory of the coming of the Lord, for without God and His son Jesus Christ, there would be no spirit, no talent, and no storytelling in my soul. So, there is no looking back, because everything, by the grace of God and in the name of Jesus Christ, lies ahead.
My mother, Barbara Whitaker, and my father, Melvin Parker, what would I do without you? You have been everything to me, and nobody in the world could have greater parents than you! You are the epitome of love and strength, and for that, I thank you!
My two li’l divas, Taylor and Sydney, as God has blessed me to be in your life and bring you into this world, I can only hope and pray that I stand up to be the mother that He requires of me. I thank you for allowing me to be a mommy and a writer at the same time. It’s a tough job, but somebody’s gotta do it! Mommy loves you more than anything! I hope and pray to teach you that you have the ability to do anything that you set your mind to.
My husband, Kevin Lake, thanks for listening to me read a line here and a line there. Thanks for all the belief, love, support, and a triple thanks for being the best living room editor that anyone can ever, ever, ever, have. P.S.: Much respect to the Trini masses. “Trini to the bone!”
To my grandmother, Lizzie Parker, thanks for being who you are. Don’t ever change.
All homage and respect given to my ancestors, from whose loins my family and I have come.
To the six oldest women in my family: Lizzie Parker, Iruth Williams, Elsie Askew, Eunice Stephenson, O’dessa Askew, and Vivian Bush. There is strength and honor in you that God has blessed me to be part of. Your lives and your stories are filled with a richness that words cannot speak and a written story could never map. May God always bless you, and may I grow to be as graceful as you all are.
To Aunt Phyllis, thanks for the encouragement and belief. Who could have a bigger fan of literature than you?
To Aunt Deborah and my uncle, Minister Millard Hardaway, thanks for the constant encouragement. May God bless you as you travel the road to continued and renewed strength in Him.
To Uncle Sip and Aunt Gerri, my children’s godparents, Renee and Kevin, Phine and Ricky, thanks for all the all the love and support.
To my aunts and uncles, Sharon, Yolanda, Lonnie-Lee, James (J.D.), and Donald, and to my family in and around my hometown of Murfreesboro, North Carolina, the Robinsons and the Parkers, thanks for your love and support. To my cousin, Antwain “Mark,” you know what’s up. Do the right thing, ’cause you got it like that.
To Aunt Geraldine Boone in Norfolk, Virginia, thanks for the e-mails! And thanks to my family in Norfolk, the Greens and the Boones.
To my family in Jersey City, the Askews and Johnsons, you all are always there to offer your love and support in everything that I do, and for that, I say thank you.
To my cousins, John, Kaareem (my children’s godfather), Taniesha, Malik, and Sharief, damn, who knew the li’l kids from Newark would grow up and one of them would have written a book! God is good!
To my cousins, Gerard, Jaquan, Kristen, Korynn, RaShea, Rayanna, Kenya-Amir, Tiana, Nia, Aashir, Isaiah, TeAunda, and Marquise, as you grow and become beautiful black men and women, I hope and pray that you stop along the way to enjoy your childhood; that you leave adult things and adult situations for when you are adults; that you know that education is no joke! Go to school, learn, and be true to yourself.
To my aunts, Mae and Carol, and to my extended families, the Smiths, the Simmons, and my Trinidadian Lake and Bailey in-laws, thanks for the love and support, and to my cousin Monique, who said, “Shonda, you wrote a book? Oh my God, my li’l cousin done grew up!”
To my sistafied girlfriends, Valerie, Sharonda, Lisa S.H., Lisa G.W., and Lisa P., I thank you for your friendship. I can only hope and pray that as we grow and become more prominent African American women, we continue to move in such a way that pays homage to our ancestors, and that we always remember from where and which we have come. In the famous words of Valerie Hall, “That’s wassup!” Oh, and Lisa (Scofield), thanks for receiving and reviewing all the faxes and all of the phone calls, where I said, “Lisa, how does this sound?” Girlfriend, you know I’ll never forget the Alizé and the book club meeting.
To Lisa Gibson-Wilson, who said, “Gurrrrl, I am feelin’ this one!” I must say thank you, as I can only imagine that if I had a big sister, she and her husband would give me some of the same advice that you and Julian have shared. Always be blessed!
To Uncle Donald, there is but one God, and He is in the biggest business of blessing us with second chances. Please be strong and hold on. Something will happen for you, and prayerfully you will be home with us soon.
Larry Karpati, to simply say thank you would be a major understatement for all of the encouragement that you have given me! This one’s for you, baby!
To my godsons, Micah and Christopher, Godmommy loves you!
To Pastor Edward A. Allen and the congregation of Philemon Missionary Baptist Church, thanks for your love and support.
Thanks to Renaissance Management Services!
To Vickie Stringer, for a chance, Let That Be the Reason that I say thank you!
To the entire Triple Crown family, thanks for welcoming me to Triple Crown, and may we each reach the height of literary success!
To Kathleen Jackson, thank you, thank you, thank you! Trust and believe, you have it going on, girlfriend. In the beginning, Flip Side of the Game started out with an editor, but in the end, I gained a friend. Keep in touch, and the sequel to Flip Side of the Game is on its way!
Special shout outs to Arena Sports Bar in Brick City, the best artist in the world, Malik Whitaker of www.m-printarts.com, Easy Connect Cell Phone store on Bloomfield Avenue in Newark, and Ahmadi’s Hair Creation in Union, New Jersey.
I must thank my own; my mother’s, my aunts’ and uncles’ friends, coworkers, and book club members; the book stores; distributors; S.W.A.P.; my college professor Dr. Margot Banks; my second grade teacher Wanda Bishop; Deborah Smith (thanks for falling in love with the character Aunt Cookie!); my godmother Joyce Moore (continue to spread your love to all the children that you take into your home); Ms. Mary (thanks for braiding Sydney’s hair and loving her like she was your own); and a special thanks to the best financial advisor in Harlem, Julian Wilson.
And to all of those whom I love dearly, but may have inadvertently not mentioned, please do not hold it against me, charge it to my head and not my heart, for I appreciate all of you and al
l of the parts that you have played in my life.
As always, saving the best for last, to all of my readers, thanks for your support! I would love to know what you think of my first novel, Flip Side of the Game. Please e-mail me at info@tushonda.com and be sure to look out for the upcoming Web site.
One love and many blessings,
Tu-Shonda
The Ground Floor
Life is a mu’fucka, and that’s the God honest truth. I have been grown all of my life, and that has worked to my benefit, I believe.
When I first greeted the scene, I arrived in a black plastic bag, found in a trash dump, addicted to crack with a note that read: Please forgive me. My mother’s only fifteen . Well, that shit musta been a joke, because the trick that calls herself my mother, also known as Rowanda Wright, is a chickenhead that I want no parts of.
The State of New York raised me, for the most part. Rowanda Wright was fifteen when she had me, addicted to crack, and living on the streets. My grandmother was in an eighteen-month rehab and had just graduated the program when she heard that Rowanda had been arrested for putting me in a Hefty CinchSak. After that, social services gave me to my rehabilitated grandmother, which was a dressed-up word for a functioning methadone queen.
We never had any furniture, food, money, or any time to be children. There were three of us who were born grown, and no, we didn’t come from the same pussy. Rowanda had a twin, Towanda, and they were both cracked the fuck out. My grandmother tried, but she could never kick the habit, and when methadone didn’t work, she shot up dope and mixed the shit with coke.
And Daddy? Humph, who he?
Lincoln Street Projects was all that I had ever known for the first eight years of my life, and what I discovered was that the projects had moments when it was in a groove of silence—a time when it could mix the tranquility of night with the drumbeat of the piss-filled hallways, and the high-pitched clapping of the steel doors against metal frames. It was a quiet noise, where you could hear clearly how Ms. Johnson got her ass kicked every night, how the two girls next door were more than just friends, and how Grandma was in the bathroom tappin’ on the wrong vein, falling down, and slamming her head against the cold iron of the lion-claw tub.
Rowanda found Grandma naked and bleeding, with her body stretched out like Jesus on the crucifix, a hypodermic needle in the cradle of her vagina, and blood running like calm waters down the side of her face, rippling over her breast.
Grandma’s man took off and ran, with the lingering clink of his belt buckle dragging behind him. His splash in the puddle of Grandma’s blood held his footprints as he made his way out, with his pants in one hand and the rest of his and Grandma’s stash in the other.
Sirens ringing, church folks singing, and half the congregation was getting high. The social worker came to give me a speech about having a home and a new type of peace. All I could do was obey, ’cause not even my mother knew where I was gonna stay. And relatives? Puh-leeze! Most of them either had their own social services cases, were in prison, dopefiends, or plain out didn’t give a fuck.
The day that Grandma went to Heaven’s ghetto, I stayed in the social services office all day and half of the night. Then a lady came in with a low haircut dyed bleached blonde and crème-de-café skin. She wore magenta lipstick, tight Levi jeans, with red high heels, and a midriff black tank top. She smacked her lips when she spoke, and the first thing she said was, “Rowanda Wright sent me here.”
“And you are?” the social worker asked.
“Larry Turner’s sista.”
“Larry Turner?”
“He’s my brotha. Vera Wright-Turner, her mama, say she’s my niece. I’m Cookie Turner. And you are?”
“The social worker for Vera.”
“Mm-hmm. Well, I just found out today that Larry had a chile, so I came to see what her eyes look like, and that’ll let me know if she is a Turner for sure. And if so, she ain’t never got to worry ’bout the state of New York, ’cause she will have a home with me.”
Since I was born grown with an innate ability to hustle, I didn’t wait until the social worker came to give me some long speech about this lady, me needing a home, and who Larry Turner was. I ran out of the social worker’s office, grabbed this lady by both her legs, and cried into her belly pouch to please take me. She didn’t think once about my eyes. She raised my head, kissed the crooked part between my two corn rolls, and said, “Let’s go.”
When I got there, I suddenly realized that I didn’t know this lady, and she damn sure didn’t know me. I was scared to death, because I had never seen anyone like her. Her wrists were draped in silver bangles, and her hoop earrings were so big that they rested on her shoulders. It seemed that she had a passion for smoking cigarettes, cussin’, and walking around the house with her bra and tight jeans on.
She held one phone conversation after another, laughing and carrying on, all the while smoking cigarettes and listening to Marvin Gaye. I knew instantly that she ain’t take no shit, and being that I didn’t know her and she didn’t know me, I ain’t say two words for a week. Hell, what was I going to say? Who are you? Who is Larry Turner? How come, after all these years, somebody say that I got a daddy and you’re his sister, but where he at? And how come you ain’t gettin’ high right in front of me? Why is there always food in your refrigerator? Does that mean that I should stop stealing food out the pantry and hiding it under my bed? And, by the way, anybody seen Rowanda?
So, instead of asking these things, I just watched and became amused. Aunt Cookie had a live-in boyfriend, Boydon Brown, who I called Uncle Boy. It was 1982, and Uncle Boy still wore bell-bottom pants, long sideburns, and a thick mustache. He was caramel-colored, and the way Aunt Cookie looked at him was like he was so fine that she could just taste his sweetness on her tongue. But she didn’t take no mess from him either, and he knew better than to bring the noise up in Cookie Turner’s row-house, ’cause she didn’t play that shit.
Aunt Cookie walked around her living room, crushing orange-speckled industrial carpet under her feet, Marvin Gaye singing the hell outta “Sexual Healing”, and check this: she had incense burning, and this chick wasn’t even smokin’ a spliff! What the fuck was that? This was the first person I had ever met in the eight years of my life who had incense burning just for the hell of it.
I was speechless. I just sat back and waited for the moment when she pulled out a hit, started noddin’ off, or when Uncle Boy hauled off and slapped the shit out of her ’cause he felt like it.
“I guess it’s just me, you, and Uncle Boy, Babygirl,” Aunt Cookie said to me, patting the bottom of her soft pack of Newports in an effort to loosen up a cigarette. She held the phone to her ear, and had just gotten finished telling one of her girlfriends that wasn’t nothin’ goin’ on but the rent.
“This is home, Babygirl,” she continued to say, with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth. “Ain’t no place else after this.”
I just looked around, ’cause I knew this bitch was either rich or she was boostin’ mad shit, ’cause she had the flyest place I had ever seen in my life: a plastic-covered crushed velvet living room set, carpet, a tiger floor rug hanging on the wall, and a color television.
“So, what you think?” Aunt Cookie asked, hanging the phone up and then taking a pull from her Newport. “You think you might like living here? All we got is each other.”
“I think that all you do is run yo’ mouth,” I said to Aunt Cookie. “And you need to practice being quiet before Uncle Boy knock the shit out of you. Just some advice. And another thing: Is you boostin’ and shit? ’Cause, I done had enough raids in my day to save my mu’fuckin’ life. I know that you ain’t got this fly shit in yo’ crib by magic. The niggas I know ain’t just straight-up livin’ like this!”
“Come again, Babygirl?” Aunt Cookie asked, taking a long hard pull off her cigarette, blowing out a string of smoke, and then mashing the cigarette into the orange marble ash tray. “Run that pass me again.”
“Look, Aunt Cookie,” I said, beginning to feel slightly comfortable with my newfound aunt. “Every time I turn around, your mouth is on fire with one cuss after the next, and yo’ nigga, he don’t even check you or nothin’. That’s some real live shit, homegirl. And then, I’m lookin’ at you and I ain’t seen you nod, scratch, or sniff yet. I mean, really, is you boostin’? Tell me, ’cause I done seen it all.” Then I reared back in the kitchen chair and crossed my legs. The only thing missing was a forty-ounce and some Mary Jane.
“Let me ask you somethin’, li’l miss project queen,” Aunt Cookie said, invading my personal space and damn near smothering me with her bosom. “Who is you talkin’ to? You payin’ bills in this piece? Let me inform you, ain’t no cussin’ up in this mu’fucker, ’cause you is a chile! And another thing, don’t no boostin’, no drugs, and no raids go on up in here, ’cause we work every day! And any nigga that uses his hand to beat you gets cut the fuck up! You understand?” she said, moving so far into my personal space that I ended up falling backward out the chair.
Immediately I jumped up and started yelling and screaming for dear life! Living up the dramatics of being embarrassed, I started stomping my feet and banging on the walls. Before I could run and break something, Aunt Cookie was back in my face.
“Maybe you didn’t hear me the first time,” she said, bending down and looking at me. “Seems to be that you been a li’l grown-ass, but from this point on, you is a chile. My chile. Cookie Turner will bust a nigga’s ass, so don’t sleep. And another thing: When the bills come up in this mu’fucker, Cookie Jolene Turner or Boydon Brown’s name is on ’em, and that’s who payin’ the bills up in here, not Vera. So, anytime you get to cussin’, stompin’, rollin’ yo’ eyes, or smellin’ yo’self, think about how yo’ Aunt Cookie love ya to death, but the next time you try and be Teena Marie up in this piece, hollering and shit, yo’ Aunt Cookie will do a Rick James pimp-slap summersault on yo’ ass! Understand?”