Street Divas

by De'nesha Diamond

  My eyes were as dry as a desert.

  Maybe I was still in shock. My dad had been standing outside in our driveway, guzzling down his after-dinner beer and jaw-jacking with Cousin Skeet and Cousin Smokestack. They were brothers, but they weren’t really our cousins; people just call each other that in our set....

  It was dark outside. The streetlight was already on, but I could hear deep baritones talking out in the driveway. I pushed open the screen and stepped out onto the porch. “Daddy?”

  My dad turned toward the door while blowing out a long stream of smoke. Momma didn’t like it when he puffed on those funny-smelling things that stunk up the whole house. “Yeah, what is it, Willow?”

  I rushed down the stairs and then jogged over to hug his trim waist. That was my way of saying that I really didn’t need anything, but I wanted to be around him.

  “Well, aren’t you a pretty young thing?” Cousin Smokestack said, glancing down at me. I was still dressed in my favorite yellow Sunday dress that I’d worn to evening service. I was supposed to have taken it off when we got back; Momma warned that she was going to beat me into the middle of next week if I got it dirty. But I wasn’t worried about that, because I liked how the bottom flared out when I swung from side to side. Plus my father always said that I look like a yellow lily—his favorite spring flower. I suspected that he knew a lot about flowers, because my mom and grandmother spent hours in their gardens.

  “What do you say, Willow?” my father asked.

  He shook his leg to try and get me to answer, but my gaze dropped to my white leather shoes. I used to love how they clacked when I walked around. I’d pretend for hours that I could actually tap dance despite my brother complaining about all the racket I made.

  “Willow,” my dad pressed. “What do you say?”

  “Thank you.” I twirled my dress and hid my reddening face against my father’s leg. I don’t know why I was painfully shy when it came to compliments. I loved getting them, especially from Cousin Smokestack. He was nice-looking. I’d even heard my mom and Aunt Nicky say so in the kitchen one time. Hell, he knew he had it going on. He was real tall and had smooth honey-brown skin, big dimples on both sides of his face, and what most of us called “good hair.”

  Cousin Smokestack tossed me a wink. “You got yourself a heartbreaker right there.”

  “Sheeeiiit,” my daddy swore. “These nappy-headed niggas better not come around here sniffing with their dicks out. I got something for they asses.” He tapped at something on the other side of his hip that caused Smokestack’s dimples to deepen when he laughed. I couldn’t help but smile, too. He had that kind of effect on people.

  Cousin Skeet nodded along, too. “I feel you. I wanted a boy my damn self.”

  I frowned up at him, but he tried to patch things over by smiling back. “No offense.”

  I rolled my eyes. Cousin Skeet wasn’t one of my favorite people, though he seemed very popular. Maybe it was just me, but there was something about his eyes. They shifted a lot like he was always thinking bad thoughts. He wasn’t as tall as my daddy and Smokestack and didn’t have as many muscles, but he still came across as a strong person. Someone not to fuck with, my daddy would say.

  Dad was in a good mood, because he didn’t order me to go back into the house so that grown men could discuss business. For the longest time, I literally thought that my father made paper—like the kind we wrote on at school—because that was what he’d say all the time, but I finally caught on. “Yo, man. I’m about to go make this paper” or “I’m hustlin’ for this paper.”

  This evening, I was trying to keep up with what they’re talking about, but it was all gibberish to me—except when they started cussing. Muthafucka this, grimy punk-bitch that. I thought that shit was funny and used it on my brother, Juvon, whenever he pissed me off, which was often.

  “So how things going with J.D.?” my father asked, pulling another drag on his funny-smelling cigarette.

  “Humph!” Smokestack rolled his eyes before tilting back his forty.

  My dad laughed. “That good, huh?”

  “Look, J.D. is J.D.: a fuckup of the highest order. But what can I do? He’s blood, nahwhatImean?”

  “I hear what you saying.” Daddy shrugged. “Everybody has at least one fuckup in the family.” He looked over at Cousin Skeet and cheesed.

  “Ha-ha. You ain’t funny, muthafucka.” Skeet rolled his eyes.

  “I call it like I see it,” Dad said.

  There was more laughter before my dad asked, “So he’s still in rehab?”

  Smokestack shook his head. “Nope. He got locked up over in Tupelo for knocking over a gas station out by the casinos. Dumb fuck got away but then remembered that he wanted to get some rolling paper and went back. Damn police was there taking the robbery report when he returned. Nigga behind the counter looked up, pointed, and said, ‘Hey, there he go right there.’ J.D. had the nerve to get mad and started scream in ’ that snitches get stitches.”

  Daddy and Cousin Skeet dropped and shook their heads. They did that a lot when they were talking about Smokestack’s youngest brother. Of course, I’ve never met him. At least I don’t remember ever meeting him. Momma said that he wasn’t allowed to come around our house because he was too much trouble—or he was always in trouble. I couldn’t remember which.

  They continued talking about J.D. being a fuckup until Mom came to the front screen door. “Darcell, have you seen—Willow, child, get your butt in here and take off your good church dress.” She opened the door and stared at me.

  I hugged my dad tighter.

  “Go on and do what your momma told you,” my dad scolded, shaking his leg as a hint for me to let go.

  I poked out my bottom lip and then hung my head lower.

  “Evening, Lucille,” Skeet called out to my momma.

  She flashed him a small smile but then turned her attention back to me. “Giiiiirrrrl, if you don’t get your narrow behind up in here, we’re about to have a problem,” Momma said, jabbing a hand onto her hip. “And pick up your lip before you trip over it.”

  Reluctantly, I released my father’s leg but kept my head down and my bottom lip damn near on the ground. The men laughed as I dragged my feet toward the house. I made it halfway to the porch when the sound of screeching tires caught my ear.

  “Who the fuck is these muthafuckas?” Smokestack asked.

  Nosy, I turned around. A series of what sounded like firecrackers went off, and my dad fell to the ground while everyone else dove for cover.

  Except for me.

  I stood there in my favorite yellow dress, now sprayed with my father’s blood, trying to process what had just happened and staring into my father’s eyes and watching this strange light dim.

  “SIX POPPIN’, FIVE DROP PIN’, NIGGAS,” some boy shouted from the black car as it peeled down Ruby Cove.

  Momma raced out of the house screaming, “DARCELL! OH, GOD, NO!”

  From behind my father’s bright red hoopty, Smokestack came up shooting at the fleeing car. “GRIMY, PUNK-ASS MUTHAFUCKAS!”

  POW! POW! POW!

  “DARCELL,” Momma wailed as she rolled my dad over.

  Cousin Skeet dropped down next to Momma and tried to pull her into his embrace for comfort, but she didn’t’t want anything to do with that and shoved him away from her.

  I looked down at the ground and saw the odd angle at which my father lay. It looked painful, and I couldn’t figure out why he wouldn’t try to get up.

  Smokestack kept shooting. POW! POW! POW!

  It was useless. Those boys covered in blue were gone.

  Time warped. I don’t remember how long it took for my brother to race outside or who called the ambulance or even how we got to the hospital. I remembered standing in the hallway, watching the doctors and nurses rush my father through the hospital’s double doors.

  I turn away from the doors and the sad memories in time to see the flashlight cop mumbling and pointing two police officers i
n my direction. Here we go.

  “Excuse me, miss. But were you the one who brought in the gunshot victim?”

  He makes it sound like there was just one bullet. I want to go ahead and throw up the first brick wall, but their opening question isn’t one I can just lie about. “Yeah,” I say, folding my arms.

  One cop, who looks like he’s fresh off the boat from Africa, whips out his pen and notepad while the other one, a salt-and-pepper Italian, folds his arms and matches my stance. “You want to tell us what happened?”

  “Don’t know,” I tell them. “I found him out on O’Donnell’s and then brought him here.”

  “You found him?” Africa asks, lifting a brow.

  “Yeah. He was crumpled up in front of an abandoned building. I stopped, realized that I knew him, and brought him here. I didn’t see what happened.”

  The odd couple cut their eyes toward each other and shared a look that clearly said, Niggas. Next, they fire one question after another, but I stick to my story, which happens to be the truth this time around.

  When I get through wasting time with Dumb and Dumber, I drift over to the waiting room with Bishop, Tombstone, Silk, and Gully.

  “You think Lil Man is going to pull through?” Bishop asks, looking worried.

  “Who knows?” I’ve never been one to give niggas false hope. “Did you call Fat Ace?”

  Bishop shakes his head. “He’s not answering his phone.”

  “Fuck.” I dig my cell out of my pocket.

  “Who are you calling?” Bishop asks.

  “Who the fuck do you think?”

  “But I told you—”

  I signal for him to shut the fuck up when the call is transferred to voice mail. “Yo, man. Where the fuck you at? You need to get your dick out of that cop’s pussy and head on over to the hospital,” I blast into the phone. “Profit has been shot up pretty bad and . . . fuck, man, I don’t know if he’s going to make it. Hit me back on my cell when you get this message. I’m out.” I disconnect the call and shove the phone into my pocket. “If he doesn’t call me back in ten minutes, I’m riding out to that fake bitch’s crib and snatching his ass out from between her legs my damn self.”

  The boys shake their heads.

  “Jealousy don’t look good on you,” Bishop says.

  “But you wear stupid well.” I turn my back just as my cell phone starts ringing. Glancing down at the screen, I recognize Mason’s home number. “It’s about damn time. We’ve been blowing up your phone.”

  “Fuck! I don’t have my phone. Shit.” He groans. “I left it at that bitch’s crib.” He swears for a few more seconds. “You’d never fuckin’ believe who that bitch has been smashing on the sidelines.”

  “Look. As much as I’d like to pretend that I’m interested in your bullshit relationships, I’d rather you hurry up and get your ass down to the Med. Profit has been shot.”

  “WHAT?” he thunders. “I thought he was going—”

  “His limo got jacked. Bishop and his crew found him out off O’Donnell’s.” I lower my voice to inject sympathy. “It’s bad, Mason. He’s been pumped with a lot of muthafuckin’ bullets.”

  There was a beat of silence. “Is he . . . ?”

  “He was still alive when he got here. He’s in surgery right now, but I ain’t going to lie to you. It ain’t looking too good.”

  “See you in a sec.”

  7

  LeShelle

  “FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!” I reach out and grab a curling iron from off the bathroom counter and hurl that muthafucka toward the vanity mirror. I don’t even flinch when the bitch explodes into a million pieces. In the hallway, that pissy son of a bitch starts screaming and hollering, and it takes everything that’s in me not to march back out there and give his ass something to really cry about.

  “LeShelle, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

  I ignore Python’s ass as I stomp on broken glass in order to get over to the window. Sure enough, Ta’Shara’s ass ain’t nowhere in sight. “Shit!”

  “LESHELLE!”

  I turn around and storm out of the bathroom. The first muthafucka I see is that child hollering and snotting in the hallway. “Will you please shut the fuck up?”

  “LESHELLE,” Python thunders, limping into the hallway.

  “What?” I shrug. “I fuckin’ said please.”

  Python’s eyes narrow as he grinds his teeth together.

  I toss up my hands. “Fine. You deal with him. He’s your kid. I have my own problems.” Jerking away from his lil crybaby, I squeeze past Python to get out of the fuckin’ hallway.

  “And where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

  “I got some personal business I got to handle.”

  Python’s face twists like I spat in his face. “Business? Bitch, what about me? I’m fuckin’ bleeding all over the place.”

  “Then call your damn aunt Peaches over here to take care of it. I got shit to do, and that brat is really working the fuck out of my nerves right now.” I try to snatch away my hand, but before I know it, Python’s large hand locks around my throat and slams my head into the wall.

  “Your mouth is out of fuckin’ control!” His forked tongue slithers across his thick lips before he slams my ass again. “Do I look like some four-corner nigga who you can pop off to? Huh?”

  Slam!

  “I done capped one bitch tonight who thought she could play me stupid. You’re welcome to join her ass in hell as far as I’m concerned. Now say something else slick.”

  Slam!

  “Go ahead. I fuckin’ dare you!”

  Fuck. The way this nigga is squeezing my throat, I can’t say shit. Plus, I think he has cracked the back of my head open. But if I’m not mistaken that loud-ass screaming has stopped. After the stars disappear before my eyes, I glare back into Python’s black gaze, but I keep my muthafuckin’ mouth shut. I’m not sure how long I’m pinned to the wall, but it feels like a long muthafuckin’ time. While we’re blowing invisible steam at each other, I realize that I do need to check myself. What’s the point of making the moves I’m making just to lose Python to the next bitch he undoubtedly has on standby?

  Python releases me and I slide down the wall and away from the big-ass dent my head made into the muthafucka. At my first gulp of oxygen, I start choking and hacking.

  “Now fuckin’ apologize,” he barks.

  “What?”

  Python’s open hand slams across my face, and I fleetingly think his ass gave me whiplash.

  “I SAID FUCKIN’ APOLOGIZE!”

  Before his ass can hit me again, I throw up my hands as a sign of surrender. “I’m sorry,” I manage to get out of a numb and bleeding tongue and aching windpipe. But when my gaze finds his again, I’m sure that he can still see anger in my eyes. His hand comes up again and I flinch.

  “DON’T. TRY. ME.”

  Another standoff ensues, and luckily for my ass, his whiny whoreson starts sniffling. Python steps back but then starts ordering my ass around. “Take care of Lil Man. I’ll take care of this plug my damn self.” He turns and then storms into the bathroom. I hear him ask, “What the fuck happened in this muthafucka?” before he slams the door behind him.

  I can’t resist the urge of shooting my middle fingers at the closed door. I’m so sick of his ass always thinking that he’s the only one with problems. I better find Ta’Shara and make sure she don’t start blabbing to the po-po about her dead nigga. Then again, I know her ass ain’t stupid enough to snitch. If she thinks my ass was ruthless earlier, she ain’t seen nothing yet.

  Sniff.

  I jerk my head around, and once again, I’m staring at this ugly-ass kid. “C’mon here,” I snap, turning toward one of the guest bedrooms. It’s not really a guest bedroom since Python and I aren’t exactly the type of people to be hosting niggas. The blue-painted room is more like a miscellaneous room, where Python stashes all his old workout equipment. There’s an old treadmill with a mountain of clothes piled all over it.
There’s a stationary bike with the same problem and everything else that his aunt Peaches buys in the middle of the night from the Home Shopping Network and gives our asses. Basically, it’s a room full of junk.

  But there is an old bed in here as well—a twin bed that is as comfortable as sleeping on a pile of bricks, but that shit ain’t my problem. “You can sleep in here,” I tell him. “Just for the night—because I promise you that this shit ain’t no permanent thing. I don’t raise other bitches’ bastards.” I stare the kid down to make sure he gets my meaning, but then he blinks his big watery gaze up at me and I feel something tug in my chest. Didn’t some old bitch tell me and Ta’Shara that once when we moved in with them?

  An image of a woman with her nose in the air and a nasty, crooked-ass wig flashes in my memory. Yeah. It was the same bitch who fed us only one bowl of rice a day the entire three months we were there. It wasn’t like we could steal shit either, because the evil woman kept food locked in a pantry and then kept the key tucked down in between her breasts. God, I hated that bitch.

  I draw a deep breath and then shake off the memory. “Did you at least bring some clean clothes with you?” I ask, softening my voice.

  He shakes his big, bowling ball–sized head while his bottom lip trembles.

  “Fine.” I huff out a long breath. “Take off your clothes and I’ll go find something for you to wear.” Now, just because I’m not snapping at his ass doesn’t mean that I’m less annoyed. It’s hard to get around feeling this goddamn disrespected.

  I leave the kid alone and head to the master bedroom. Once there, I can’t stop mumbling, “Fuck this bullshit” while I rummage around for something, anything, that would fit the child. Ten minutes later, I settle on one of Python’s black T-shirts. Shit. At least the kid won’t be naked. But when I walk back into the hall, I step in the kid’s puddle of piss, and my blood pressure shoots right back up. I swear to God I don’t see shit but red. “Guess I’m supposed to mop after this muthafucka, too,” I snap at the closed door.