by Ni-Ni Simone
“The clock moved!” Naja yelled, excited. “It’s ten!”
I screamed, “Okay, okay. What we gon’ sing?”
“Sing?” Aniya popped her head from under the covers again. “Whatcha-whatcha-know ’bout me…”
I ball my fist up and say, “If you don’t shut your mouth.”
“Puleeze,” Sydney pops her eyes wide and rolls her neck. “She don’t wanna sing that mess, she wanna sing, ‘let me take you to bed, lead you to places you’ve never been.’”
“What in the—let me find out that you been singing that mess and see what happens to you,” I threaten. “Now don’t let me see you pop up from the covers again.”
“I’m tired of being treated like a slave.” Sydney sighs.
“Be quiet!” I yell.
“Come on,” Naja snaps. “We have to hurry up. We should sing,” she hesitates, “a Whitney Houston throwback. Hit all the high notes.”
“Yeah, and get hung up on.”
“I can sing,” Naja said, certain of herself. “I put Rihanna to sleep.”
“Wow, that’s a hard thing to do,” I said sarcastically. “Look, we don’t have time to argue. I’ll sing, you just hum…softly.”
We called the radio station at least a hundred times before we were able to get through.
“Hot 102,” the DJ said. “You’re on live. Who is this?”
“Ahhhhhh!!!!!!!!” Naja screamed…in everybody’s ear.
I swear, if we get hung up on, I’ma take her drawstring weave and sling her ass! “Would you shut up?”
“Ladies,” the DJ said, getting our attention. “This is Hot 102 and you’re live on the air…”
“Hey,” I said. “My name is Elite and I’m from—”
“Brick City, in the house!” Naja cut me off. “I’m Naja and I wanna give a shout out…” I could hear her ruffling paper in the background, “to my mother at work right now, my brother on lock down, and to all the homies who ain’t here—”
Oh my God! “Naja—”
“Wait,” she carried on, “and to Al-Terik. You know I’m through with you ’cause I saw you and big butt Belinda in the corner of the cafeteria—”
“Naja!”
“Dang girl, you rude.”
“We’re supposed to be singing.”
“Okay, and what’s the problem? Sing.”
“Thank you. Sorry about that, uhm, I wrote a song that I would like to sing—”
“Elite, they don’t wanna hear no poetry.”
I ignored her. “Okay, here goes. Do you want me to sing now?”
No answer.
I look at the phone to make sure it was still on and it was. “Hello?” My heart dropped in my chest.
No answer.
“Did they hang up?” Naja gasped.
“I think so.” I couldn’t believe this. “Hello?”
“Girl, they’re gone. Dang, why would they do that?”
“I didn’t even answer; I simply hung up on her, turned on my side and placed the covers over my head. I’m not surprised it didn’t work out. Besides, my mother is a crackhead and the furthest I’ll probably get in life is from one side of this tight ass bed to the other. Tears slide down my cheeks as I close my eyes and drift to sleep.
SPIN
Track 2
“Good morning, welcome to Hot 102,” the alarm clock radio echoed through my room, a signal that I needed to get up and get ready for school. I turned over on my back and stared at the ceiling, where my taped poster of Haneef flapped in the top left corner and sagged in the middle.
“We’re here today,” the radio continued, “with hip-hop sensation Haneef.”
“Wassup, everybody!” Haneef said, and my heart palpitated.
“So,” the DJ spat, filled with excitement. “Today is the last day to win tickets to the Haneef concert! So, if you can sing, give me a ring!”
Okay God, You must be trying to tell me something. I reached for the house phone and dialed the radio station with a quickness. And oh my God…oh…my God, they answered on the first ring.
“Hot 102, who do we have on the line?”
“Elite!”
“Say hello to Haneef.”
“I can’t,” I said in a pant. “I’m speechless.”
I can hear Haneef laugh…and oh, what a beautiful laugh.
“Alright,” the DJ continued on, “so you’re calling for the contest?”
“Yes.”
“Can you sing?”
“What? Boy, don’t play with me,” I said seriously. “Can I sing? I sing all the time, listen,” and I burst out into the best soprano version of, “hahhhh…llelujah! Hahhhh…llelujah! Hallelujah, hallelujah…hah—lay-lu-yaaaaaa!”
“Oh…. kay…” the DJ said. “I hope that’s not what you’re going to sing for us.”
“Oh no, my song is ‘When You Touch Me.’ It’s a dedication to Haneef.”
I close my eyes, open my mouth wide and Heaven springs from my throat. I’m naturally an alto with a sultry voice like Keyshia Cole, but I have a range like Mariah Carey, so there’s no mistake that I’m straight killin’ this contest! “…I’m missing you baby…”
“Lee-Lee!”
Hmph, I keep singing but I could’ve sworn I heard my mother just call me by the nickname she gave me. I glance at the clock and knew it wasn’t her, because at this time of the morning, she’s sleeping off her high from the night before. I close my eyes and continue.
“…. miss when you touch me…”
“Lee-Lee!”
My eyes pop wide open. That is my mother.
“Elite Juliana Parker, get yo fresh ass off that phone talkin’ crazy!”
Oh no! “Ma, get off the phone! I’m doing this to win tickets for Haneef!”
“Haneef? Who the hell is Haneef, some li’l hoodlum ass drug dealer? All you can do for Haneef right now is get his chin checked. You up here singing like you hot in the ass, about somebody touching you! Keep on singing and it’s gon’ be me reaching out to touch that ass! If anything, you need to ask Haneef if he got two dollars I can borrow. If not, then get yo ass off my line!”
Something tells me…I just died. I hang up the phone, lay back on my bed and my Haneef poster falls straight on my head.
A half hour into gettin’ my misery on, I rise from the floor, shower and dress in a pair of fitted Juicy jeans, a matching V-neck tee, colorful bangles, and matching earrings.
When I walk in the living room, I see that either my mother found two dollars to borrow or she stole something to supplement it because she’s not there. I promise you, Cassie Parker is a hot-blazed-up-mess.
She raised us from behind the bathroom door most of our lives because that’s where she hid to get high. Like we really didn’t know what was going on. But ever since she got with her new zootedup boyfriend, Gary, they’ve taken crack love to the streets. Most of the time she’s either in somebody’s hallway, street corner, or abandoned building.
I’ve never had the type of home where my friends came over and kicked it in my room. As a matter of fact, the only friend who knows the real life that I live is Naja. Everybody else knows nothing. And I wanna keep it that way. The last thing I need is a buncha chicks or the state in my business. I’ve adjusted to being the “real” mother around here and it’s cool. I love my sisters and brothers and whatever it takes to keep my family together is what I’ma do.
I would tell you about my father, but what would be the point? The shit is so typical that you’ll probably ask me to be quiet mid-way through my explanation of why my biological seems to be confused between loving me and loving ole girl (my mother).
Needless to say, I’m nothing special. There are a thousand girls like me. This is just my story. So…it is what it is, and other than being played (twice) like too sweet Kool-Aid for Haneef tickets, I don’t complain. What’s the use? Have you ever known shit to change because you complained? Exactly. Which is why we keeps it movin’ around here.
I walk over to
the pull-out couch where my brother, Ny’eem, is asleep and say, “Get yo ass up!”
He sucks his teeth and ruffles the sheets, but do I look fazed. Puleeze!
“And don’t think,” I carried on, “that I don’t know what time you came up in here last night. Play with me if you want to and you’ll be down at the men’s shelter or juvie somewhere.”
“Shut up!” he snaps and stretches. “You always tryna be somebody’s mother.”
“I’m the best mother you got.”
“What?” He stands from the couch and looks down in my face. He’s only fifteen but he towers at least three inches over me. “Girl, I’m grown.”
Grown? Did he just say he was grown? Is this suckah tryna buck? Okay, I see where this is going. I stand up on a rusted metal chair that somehow ended up as a part of our décor, and strike a karate pose, lifting my leg up high enough so that if I wanted to I could take it to his chest.
And don’t you know he cracked up laughing so hard that tears fell from his eyes.
“You think I’m funny? Do I look like I’m laughing to you?”
“No, you look like you lost your mind.” And he left me standing there.
“You just get ready for school!” I yelled behind him. “And let me hear you been skipping class again and see what I really do to you.”
Just as I step down from the chair, my five year old brother, Mica, rushes out the bathroom with a sheet wrapped around his neck like he and superman are boys. “What the hell? Boy, where are your school clothes?”
“I’m not wearing that shit!”
“Hol’ up…hol’ up…did he just cuss again!” I ball up my fist. See, Mica, he’s the one I really have to bring it to, ’cause he think he’s tough. But if I look at him hard and long enough, he’ll burst out in tears. “Go put on those clothes. As much money as I paid that booster! I work at the mall part time—”
“Mommy gets a welfare check.”
“And mommy gettin’ high, too,” Ny’eem snaps as he gathers his clothes for the day.
“Shut up!” I said to Ny’eem. “Now,” I turned my attention back to Mica, “why don’t you want to wear what I laid out for you?”
“Because I want my pants to droop down like Ny’eem’s. You got a belt laid out for me, some hard bottom shoes, and a turtle neck. I may as well be going to church.”
“I didn’t lay a turtle neck out for you. It’s a Phat Farm shirt. Know what? I don’t have to argue with you.” I stare him down and just like I predicted, he’s in tears.
“Everybody treats me like a baby around here.” He storms back into the bathroom.
Whatever, I go in my room where the twins have to be watched closely when they put on their gear because believe me, they will walk outta here draped in my Bebe, Baby Phat, and any other designer dig I either worked or got a hook up for.
And yes, they look a hot mess, considering I’m 5’5 and a size ten and they’re just eight years old. So, I stand guard while they slip on their jeans, a cute li’l Bobby Jack shirt and some pink and white kicks.
Their hair is shoulder length and easy to maintain because for ten dollars, every other week, the girl across the hall puts in cornrows and beads. An hour after me acting like Jerome the flashlight cop, everybody is ready to roll.
As soon as the city bus doors open and I step foot in front of the school, I know right away that everyone here heard me get played on the radio. Especially since they all look at me and either smile too wide or laugh in my face.
But it’s all good ’cause I will read these ghetto birds like they stole somethin’. Besides, don’t get it twisted, just because I have a jacked-up home life doesn’t mean I’m not fly—because I am. Honey colored skin, flat ironed straight hair that drapes past my shoulders, Asian eyes, full lips, thick hips, and a cover-girl smile.
Just as my Boost mobile vibrates through my purse, I see Naja running toward me. I twist my MAC covered lips and ignore her. Yes, I’m still pissed.
I flip my phone open. “Who dis?”
“Elite?” It was a male voice.
“Yeah.”
“Wassup girl?”
“Terrance? Boy, didn’t I tell you to lose yourself?”
“This isn’t Terrance. This is DJ Twan from Hot 102.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Didn’t you call us this morning for the singing contest?”
“Oh now you got jokes, Terrance? Look, I’m down to my last twenty minues on my phone, so I don’t have time to waste with you on my line. Now bounce!”
“Elite, this is Haneef, and your friend Naja called the station when we announced that despite your mother playing us both out, you won the contest, front row seats to the concert and a chance to be on stage with me!”
I tap my foot and look around at the sea of students going into the school, then I look at Naja, who is standing here grinnin’ and mush her dead in the head. “Do I sound impressed? I know you don’t think I’m going to believe that this is Haneef and you all cared so much about me, that you gon’ track me down. For what? Puleeze, this is Terrance. And since you playing so many games, I’ma be sure to tell all your boys on the basketball team that you ain’t never had no booty, punk ass!”
“This is the last time,” a deep male voice said, “before we hang up—”
“Do you—but if this is really Haneef, then sing something.”
Suddenly the phone turned in a personal serenade, “If I don’t have you baby, I’ma go crazy…I need you in my life.”
At that moment, I knew that this was Haneef. “Jesus!” I screamed, right before I looked at Naja. She was jumping up and down.
“This is Haneef!” I screamed at the top of my lungs.
“Yes,” he said. “You won the contest, and you have your friend Naja to thank! So do you want the tickets? They’re two, so you can bring a friend.”
“Boy,” I said seriously. “Don’t play with me.”
“Come to the station,” the DJ said, “by Saturday and pick them up.”
Naja and I hugged tightly as we jumped up and down.
“Elite!” the DJ screamed. “Tell us the best station in Jersey!”
“Hot 102! Where my baby daddy lives! Holllaaaah!”
DAFINA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
850 Third Avenue
New York, NY 10022
Copyright © 2008 by Ni-Ni Simone
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
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ISBN: 0-7582-3660-3
