by Sharon Flake
“Yo, big girl!” he said. “Yeah, you,” he said when she looked his way. “Come here.”
Jamaica backed up. “Pastor’s gonna be mad.”
Daylea grabbed her hand. “Well, Pastor ain’t here. And Pastor ain’t fourteen, neither.” She dug in her purse and pulled out square silver earrings as big as Pop Tarts. “He’s old, and he’s had his fun.
Now he wants to stop us from having ours.” She pushed the earrings through the holes in her ears.
Satina looked mad when she said that. But what could she say? Daylea pulled Jamaica into the street. We all followed, breathing hard but not saying a word. Our eyes went from the boys to all them girls sitting in the stands watching them play.
“It’s gonna be easy,” Anna Belle said. “They already like us.”
I stuck my chest out. K’ya pulled the rubber band off her hair and shook. Her brown hair jumped. China waved her finger like Pastor does when Daylea, N’kia, and K’ya started opening the top buttons on their shirts.
“You do that,” Jamaica said, stopping right in the middle of the street, “and I’m gonna call Pastor right now.”
We all believed her, so the buttons closed again, and our feet keep moving across the hot black asphalt.
“Yo, girlie,” one boy said. He didn’t have a shirt on. You could see sweat and dirt on his chest, and a ring in his nipple. K’ya pulled her shirt from out her skirt and tied it so her flat yellow belly showed.
Jamaica looked disgusted and started singing under her breath.
The devil knows what you like to do.
The devil knows the good and bad that’s in you.
But the devil can’t make you do what you do.
You better act like you know the right way.
Satina can’t sing as good as Jamaica, but she’s louder. So when she started rapping, and Daylea, K’ya, and even Anna Belle started clapping, they drowned Jamaica out.
So you say life is fun?
Well, well, well,
You can’t prove it to this one.
Well, well, well,
All I do is what they say,
Kneel down and pray,
Go to church every day.
Well, well, well,
Lord, I love you, I swear I do,
But can’t my life have some fun in it too?
We laughed when Jamaica covered Satina’s mouth and the words pushed through her fingers anyhow. “I wanna dance with boys . . . yeah, you made them too, Lord. . . .”
“Ouch,” Jamaica said, looking at the bite mark on her hand. But Satina didn’t care about the song no more. She was looking at the boy with the Z tattooed on his arm. “I want him.”
I looked at her with her tight shorts, gold earrings with her name spelled on them, and sandals that showed off toenail polish we aren’t allowed to wear.
Satina’s doing everything wrong, I thought, and she’s the one all the boys want.
Z looked Puerto Rican or Cuban. He was as brown as the edges on Sister Berta’s walnut sugar cookies. He was tall too, maybe sixteen years old, with light brown hair that hung in his eyes and stuck to his sweaty brown neck.
“You like this, don’t you?” he said to Satina, smacking his chest, then jumping high in the air and sending the ball into the hoop. “Yeah, you like it,” he said, wiggling his long tongue at her.
Satina stared at him.
Anna Belle told her that wasn’t no compliment he just gave her. “That was just nasty.”
She was right. Me and Satina knew that.
But we kept our eyes on him anyway. “Sit down before you get knocked down,” a girl said.
Being a pastor’s kid, Satina doesn’t always think the rules apply to her, ’cause everybody from the Church Mother to the janitor lets her have her way when she wants. So she just ignored the girl telling us to move and hollered at the boy with the Z tattoo.
“Hey. You. Come here,” she said, like she fit right in. A few minutes later, Z was twisting one of her curls, and eyeing her all over.
China, Daylea, and me just watched and wished for somebody cute to come talk to us, too. But before they could, another girl yelled at us. “If you don’t move your big head . . .”
I knew she was talking to me because I have the kind of head that you have to special-order hats for. So I moved out of her way and stared at the boy in the red tank top. “God’s got somebody for everybody, right?” I asked Jamaica.
She rolled her eyes, then pointed to the court. “We ain’t like them,” she said. Then she pointed to the girls behind us. “Or them.”
We headed for the bleachers and sat down. I looked at all them half-dressed girls sitting around us. Jamaica was right, I thought, we are not like those girls.
“What you looking at?” a girl in a gold halter top and no bra said.
I fixed my eyes on the game. “Nothing.”
She stood up then. “Oh, so I’m nothing, huh?”
I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything.
“Get out the way!” another girl shouted to Satina and them. She, Daylea, and N’kia were still by the fence watching the game.
“GET! OUT! THE! WAY!”
Daylea and N’kia tripped over each other trying to make that girl happy. They came and sat down with us.
The gold halter top looked at me. “Why y’all here?”
We all looked to Jamaica. But Jamaica kept her mouth shut. So we did the same.
“You . . . You down there,” a blond-haired girl said to Satina. “Get out his face.”
Z smiled. Then told the girl to mind her business, ’cause he was sure minding his.
Satina was standing real close to him. He was whispering in her ear. Every once in a while she would giggle, but when she cut her eyes over to us, she looked kind of scared.
Anna Belle stood up. “We need to leave,” she said, looking Jamaica’s way. “’Cause God’s not gonna bless no mess.” She was repeating one of Sister Berta’s lines.
K’ya called for Satina. I thought maybe she was gonna tell her it was time to go home. But she wanted to know if Z had a friend. “’Cause I wanna meet somebody, too.”
Jamaica said they had ten minutes to do what they were gonna do because after that she was leaving this place.
“Go then,” K’ya said, “because we came here on a mission.”
Satina called for China, N’kia, K’ya, and Daylea to come over to the fence. When four big boys walked over to be with them, the girls behind us started whispering. No, not whispering, loud talking. Saying there was gonna be a beat-down ’round here if somebody didn’t get out somebody else’s face.
That’s when the girl in the halter top leaned over and asked where we were from. I said Hilton Heights. Jamaica said the Calvary Church of God’s Blessed Example. The girl pointed to Satina. “Her too?” She covered her mouth and laughed.
Before we could say anything, a girl ran past us talking about Satina. “I’m gonna kick her butt now!” she called to her friend.
Jamaica yelled for Satina. But before she could get her attention, two other girls were up in her face. They were cussing. Asking all five of ’em who they thought they were, coming in their neighborhood like they owned it.
The game never stopped. But more girls went over to the fence. And they got louder and meaner, and pushed harder. “Let’s go,” Jamaica said.
Karen, Anna Belle, and Lisa said they weren’t going down there to get beat up, too. Jamaica said they were right. Wasn’t no reason for all of us to get in a fight. But when we got to the pavement, Jamaica headed one way, and we headed the other. There was, like, sixteen girls gathered ’round Satina and them. And the boys were just egging them on.
“Yeah. Yeah, get that hair, so we can see if it’s real,” one said.
“Tear her top off and let’s see what’s under that shirt,” Z laughed.
I looked at Jamaica. “Don’t go, or they’ll beat you up, too.”
Her right hand trembled. �
�I asked God to stop the fight before I get over there. But I don’t think he’s gonna.”
“Me neither,” I said.
Jamaica headed for the fence all by herself. She was singing, so I started singing, too.
Lord, I am scared.
Please don’t hold it against me.
God, I am weak.
Please don’t hold it against me.
Please don’t hold it against me when I do what
shouldn’t.
When I act like you don’t,
When I do what you wouldn’t.
When they hit Jamaica in the face with a shoe, me, Anna Bell, Lisa, and Karen run away like she was a stranger. We didn’t even wait for each other once we got outside the hoop court. So I was by myself when I got to the candy store two blocks away and called Pastor. He was at home and we were in trouble. I knew that before he even said one word to me.
Our parents put us on punishment for six weeks. When you don’t have a TV, radio, or computer, like most of us, what can they take off you? Nothing. So they put us to work in the church. They had us scrubbing walls and floors, polishing pews that hadn’t been waxed in years, scouring pots, papering cabinets, stripping wax off floors, and erasing marks from leftover Bibles and ragged hymnals.
While that was happening, Satina’s father came up with rules on how girls at our church should act. It was Satina’s idea to write them down and post them in the church where everyone could see them all the time. So on the last Saturday of our six-week punishment, we wrote them in blue metallic ink and mounted them high on the basement wall where we hang out most of the time.
The Girls of the Calvary Church of God’s Blessed Example Do Not:
Date
Wear lipstick, short skirts, tube tops, jewelry, or makeup
Dance, or go to activities outside the church
Disobey their parents
Hurt themselves or their families with negative and destructive behavior
Jamaica thought it was silly. Me too, kind of. “Writing the rules down won’t make you obey them,” she said.
Satina disagreed. “I knew them before,” she said, painting silver stars on the poster, “but I think I’ll follow them now for sure.”
We looked at her. I’d keep to them too, I thought to myself, if I’d gotten hunks of my hair pulled out and my front tooth cracked, like she did.
“All right,” Satina said, closing the bottle of paint. “We have to plan for Teen Sunday and show the elders how responsible we are.”
“Yeah,” China said. “We’ll usher and read the announcements on Sunday, and go door-to-door all week long, raising money for something worthy— like old people.”
Satina looked at her when she said that.
“What?” China asked.
“Nothing,” Satina said, rubbing paint off her finger. But while China was telling us how much money we should raise and what cause to donate it to, Satina wrote me a note in shiny silver letters. “You think we’ll meet some boys while we’re out there?”
I stared at her. “Maybe,” I said, eyeing the rules, then looking at the cross over the door.
Wanted: A Thug
Dear Girl with All the Answers @ Teen Queen Magazine:
I like my boyfriend, but I like my best friend’s boyfriend better. Help!
You can call me Cheryl. I ain’t gonna tell you my real name, ’cause if I do, my girls are gonna find out what I’m up to and jack me up. ’Cause there’s two rules you don’t break ’round where I live—you don’t squeal, and you don’t go sniffing after nobody’s man.
Anyhow, don’t let me get sidetracked. I’m fifteen years old. Me and my man been going together for two years. He is fine. Better than fine, really. I ain’t giving you his real name here ’cause he would be hurt if he heard what I’m about to tell you. So let’s just call him J. Anyhow, me and J been going together since seventh grade. He the boy that all the other girls want for their boyfriend. He on the basketball team. He on the baseball team and he got a job, too. He got pretty, light brown eyes, good hair, and good manners, unlike most boys his age. J opens doors for you. Says “Yes, ma’am,” and “No, sir” to grown-ups. He always remembers my birthday. He the kind of boy everybody say is sooo nice. Well, that’s the problem really. He’s too nice. Boring, really. Why can’t he be different? Like my girlfriend’s boyfriend. He a thug. And more and more I been thinking, I want one of them, too.
Now, ’ fore you start going off on me, let me tell you this. All thugs ain’t bad. I mean, they ain’t all out there playing girls and hanging out and making trouble. Some of ’em is nice, like my girlfriend Katherine’s (not her real name) boyfriend, Rowl-D. He makes a girl want to lose her mind. All he got to do is look at you, and you be wanting to rob banks and knock old ladies over the head for him. He got sneaky little brown eyes that look at every girl like maybe they got a chance with him if only they play they cards right. He ain’t tall, like J. He average height. He wears braids with a bandanna wrapped ’round his head, diamond hoop earrings, and designer clothes. He smokes, too. (That’s the only thing I don’t like.)
Now, I know what you thinking. Why I want to trade J for a boy like Rowl-D? Especially when Rowl-D’s failing ninth grade, been kicked out the house by his parents, and don’t treat my girlfriend like she really his? Well, I know it sounds stupid, but I think he’s gonna be different with me. See, me and him been talking. My friend don’t know it, but him and me been on the phone late at night after my parents go to sleep. And Rowl-D been telling me stuff. You know that boy been taking care of hisself since he was seven? And his momma ain’t never been married, but she done lived with four men in the last six years? You’d be a thug too, if you was him.
Rowl-D says he likes nice girls. Quiet ones, like me. My girlfriend ain’t quiet at all. She so loud that you can hear her down the hall when she talks. I asked Rowl-D, “How you get hooked up with her?” “I don’t know,” he said. “Guess you drink Pepsi if ain’t no Coke around. But when the real good stuff show up, like you, then the crap gotta go. Know what I’m saying?”
I like that. Him calling me the real good stuff. I am, too. J knows that. That’s why he be treating me so good. Only he boring. Don’t want to do nothing but watch TV and play basketball. Rowl-D says he be clubbing. That if I was his girl he would hook me up with a ring, or necklace, or something. Miss Answers, did I say he ain’t got no job? He wears chains so big ’round his neck, I wonder how he can stand up straight. But he say he ain’t never worked. He got connections. That’s kind of scary, you know. Kind of exciting too. Is it wrong for me to like that about him? I hope not.
I told Rowl-D that I feel bad about him and me talking behind my friend’s back. He told me not to worry. He gonna dump her soon. “Then it’s you and me. All right?”
I don’t know. Katherine is my friend. We been tight since elementary school. When she first met Rowl-D, I told her not to have nothing to do with him. “He trash,” I said. Now here I am, dreaming ’bout that boy. Sneaking ’round after school just so I can be with him. The other day I came in so late my father took the belt to me. Rowl-D and me wasn’t doing nothing. Just talking. For real. Thugs know how to hold a conversation too, you know.
Anyhow, I’m writing you for a lot of reasons. Do you think I should tell my friend Katherine what’s going on? And what about J—would you dump him if you was me? Most important of all, do you think a girl like me stands a chance with a thug? I mean, some of the people Rowl-D run with is in gangs and stuff. Most of ’em been kicked out of school, or just stopped going. But not Rowl-D. He a thug, but he got potential. He say that somebody like me make him want to do right. I think he’s right about that. What you think?
Can’t wait for you to answer me,
Melody
Dear Melody:
Sorry, but your letter won’t ever appear in Teen Queen magazine.
I pulled it as soon as I read it. I stashed it in my purse and took it home with me. That’s against the
rules, you know. But I don’t care. ’Cause if I had published your letter, your girls woulda beat the crap outta you, and everybody at school would know what kind of girl you really are.
You see, I know you. (You signed your real name at the end of your letter.) I’m in two of your classes. I’m not telling you my name. That’s a secret I can’t reveal. But I am in eleventh grade at John Marshall High. I lucked out six months ago and got picked to write for Teen Queen magazine. This is the first time I broke the magazine’s rules, though. But to me, it’s worth getting caught, and maybe fired, to let you know where I’m coming from.
You probably think you’re the only girl with this problem. You’re not. Recently we got a letter just like yours. But the editors didn’t include this girl’s letter in the magazine. They say girls take other girls’ boyfriends all the time. But I figure you can learn a thing or two from her. So here goes.
I can’t give you her real name so I’ll call her Shavon. Anyhow, Shavon attended five different high schools before coming to ours. You’d think somebody was chasing her, huh? Well, they were. A whole gang of girls—who were better than dope-sniffing dogs when it came to tracking people down—showed up every place she went.
Things for her started out the same way they did with you. She liked her best friend’s boyfriend. He was so cute, the girls nicknamed him Pretty. She wasn’t looking to take him from her girlfriend, either. It’s just that one day Pretty came up to her when her friend Cassandra was home sick with the cramps. It was after school and nobody else was around. You know boys. He got closer to Shavon than he should. Said all the right things. Then he kissed her. Naturally, she kissed him back. Wouldn’t you?
You know, Melody, girls like you and Shavon always end up the same—chasing some boy who already got some other girl chasing behind him too. Anyhow, Shavon decided she wanted Pretty all to herself. So she started writing anonymous letters to Cassandra, telling her she’d better watch her man because he was stepping out on her.
Shavon figured Cassandra would dump Pretty. But Cassandra wasn’t letting go of her man that easily. So she got her friends together and asked them what was up. She followed Pretty everywhere he went. That’s when Pretty told Shavon him and her had to chill. And that’s when Shavon really screwed things up. Putting notes every place Cassandra went—in her locker, under her desk, and stuffed in her sneakers just before she put ’em on for gym. Making it so Cassandra wouldn’t let Pretty out of her sight.
