True Story

by Ni-Ni Simone

  “Slowreeka?”

  “Slow. Reeka.” I tilted my head to the side for emphasis. “Said he was cracking her back so much that he forgot to apply for housing.”

  Zaire shook his head.

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  “So wassup? What he gon’ do?”

  “He’s on the waiting list for a room.”

  “Y’all gon’ let him stay?”

  “What?” I said. “Did you hear what I just said to you? Courtney was on supersonic ten yesterday. He can forget about staying in our crib. Ain’t. Gon’. Happen. Captain! I told him to go to the men’s shelter.”

  Bzzzz . . . Bzzzz . . .

  “Oh my God, here he goes again!”

  Bzzz . . . Bzzz . . .

  “Just answer the phone,” Zaire insisted. “And stop trippin’.”

  I rolled my eyes and twisted my mouth to the side as I answered the phone. “Yeah. What?”

  “Seven,” Courtney whispered. “Is that you, Seven?”

  What in the... “Boy, what? And why are you whispering? I can’t hear you!”

  “They ’bout to get me, girl.”

  “Who?”

  “All these men, girl. They keep looking at me like I’m a piece of meat. I’m scared to drop the soap.”

  I was completely confused. “Where are you?”

  “I’m at the men’s shelter. I took your advice. Now, please come and get me, girl. I can’t thug it out no more.”

  Ugh! I soooo wanted to tell this fool no! But I didn’t. Instead, I sighed and said, “Which shelter are you at?”

  “The one in the ninth ward on Robertson. It’s down the street from the Dip-Threw.”

  All I could imagine was this fool hiding in the corner. Shaking.

  Reluctantly I said, “We’re on our way.”

  “Thank you, Seven. I’ll be the one at the top of the steps with the hair rollers and the pink suitcases.”

  “Bye, Courtney.”

  “No, please. Don’t hang up. ’Cause as soon as you hang up, they gon’ get me, girl.”

  “Boy, please.” Click. I looked toward Zaire. “Can you take me to get Courtney?”

  “Get Courtney? From where? Yo, I don’t have time to play with you and Courtney. I have to be to work in two hours.”

  “I didn’t ask you to play with us. He’s at the men’s shelter, holding on for dear life. And why he’s at the men’s shelter is beyond me.”

  Zaire looked at me. “You were the one who told him to go there.”

  My eyes bugged. “I didn’t think he would really go.”

  “That’s your problem. You play too much.”

  “Are you gon’ take me?”

  “And what I’ma get for doing this?”

  I leaned over. “A kiss.” I gave him a soft peck. “A thank-you. Thank you, babe. And a smile.” I smiled and tossed in a wink. “Now come on. Before this fool starts selling cigarettes and washing somebody’s underwear.”

  “Leave the truck runnin’! Don’t shut the engine off!” Courtney screamed as we pulled up in front of the shelter, which was a one-story, beige brick building, with bars on the window and posters with the words hope and change taped to the door. Courtney’s hair rollers shook as he ran down the stairs and hopped in the truck, screaming, “Step on it! They comin’!”

  “Ain’t nobody following you, fool!” I said, aggravated that I was even here, dealing with this dude.

  Zaire shook his head as he pulled off and started to drive.

  “Wooo-eee! Thank you, Jesus!” Courtney squealed. “Thank you, Father. I gotta call Slowreeka and tell her I’m still alive!”

  “Slowreeka?” I said. “You should’ve had Slowreeka come and get you.”

  “From Jersey, Seven? You need to stop being so selfish. And anyway, what took y’all so long getting here? I mean, goodness, if you didn’t wanna come through, you could’ve told me straight up. You didn’t have to play me by having me wait!”

  Oh no, he didn’t! “Excuse you. You’d better be glad that we came and got you. Mmph! Zaire has to work and I have class this morning. Okay. Nobody has time to be fooling with you and your escape from the homeless shelter.”

  “Seven.”

  “What?”

  “Hush. Now, Zee-Zee, real talk.”

  Zaire looked at me and mumbled, “Who is Zee-Zee?”

  “You,” I mumbled back.

  Courtney continued, “Word up. It got really real in there, son. It wasn’t even safe for me to take my rollers out.”

  “Word?”

  “Thunderbird. Yo, my dude, I know you don’t like talking about your trap life. But I feel like we homies now. You heardz me? Fo’ shizzle, my nizzle, I feel I wanna get my change on. I wanna be like you. Rehabilitated. Get Courtney together. I’m not built for these streets.”

  “Oh . . . my . . . God! Why are you talking like that?” I snapped. “You don’t even speak like that!”

  “I’m speaking to Zaire in his native tongue, ah-la-slang. Okay? Now mind yours.”

  “Courtney.”

  “What?”

  “Shut up.”

  “Two snaps up and fruitloop! You know what, Seven? I’ma let you get that. ’Cause the next time you tell me to shut up, we gon’ be two cats rolling on the concrete.” Courtney paused. “I don’t know why you gotta be like that.” He mumbled as he sifted through his suitcases, “Where is my . . . Oh God!” He raised his voice. “Oh Jesus! AHHHHH!!!!” he screamed, scaring the mess out of me! “AHHHHH!!!!”

  I whipped around in my seat and Zaire stopped short, causing the car behind us to swerve, lay on his horn, and flip us the bird as he zoomed by.

  “What is wrong with you, Courtney?” I yelled.

  “My man,” Zaire said. “You gotta chill with that screaming. You gon’ cause an accident.”

  “My fault. But I’ma need you to turn around!”

  “Why?”

  “ ’Cause they got me! They got me! Two snaps up and fruitloop! That nucka, Rico, stole my Pink Friday perfume and CD. Oh hell, nawl! Zee-Zee, on everything we ’bout to take these fools! Lay ’em down! You ready to come out of thug-life retirement? Huh?”

  “No. He’s. Not,” I snapped.

  “And I’m not turning around, man,” Zaire said.

  “Zee-Zee, what, you scared? Seven, what kind of boyfriend you got? He supposed to be from the streets and he’s too scared to run up in a homeless shelter? Word? What kind of thug is that? Know what?” Courtney sucked his teeth. “Just take me back to the dorms and get me out of here!”

  Zaire clenched his jaw and I could tell that he was beyond pissed.

  I leaned over toward him and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m the one you should be apologizing to,” Courtney cut in. “Do you understand the amount of stress you’ve put me through?”

  “You know what?” I turned around and faced the backseat. “This is why I can’t do you for long, ’cause you’re crazy! Now get out!” I snapped as Zaire pulled into the dorm’s parking lot.

  “Gladly.” Courtney grabbed his things. “I’ve been kicked out of better places!” He reached across the front seat and hugged Zaire around his neck. “Stay up, my dude.”

  “Man.” Zaire brushed Courtney’s arms off of him. “Just go ’head.”

  Courtney grabbed his things and rolled his eyes as he walked past me and into the building.

  Zaire looked me at me and shook his head. “Don’t ever get me involved in anything like this again.”

  “Now you see why I kept sending him to voice mail.”

  5

  Say that I’m sorry . . .

  I knew from the moment I stepped into Dubois lecture hall, where my world literature class was held, and my professor stood at the door and made us form a line—

  Practically in order of size.

  While he took attendance.

  And passed out class rules—

  That this mofo, right here, would be a problem.

  “H
ood off and pants pulled all the way up. On your waist, young man,” the professor barked at least five times to five different guys who stood in front of me in the line.

  People were sighing and some sucking their teeth. Me? I was just trying to ease past this dude and move on to my seat.

  Fail.

  I didn’t even realize I was in the front of the line until I looked straight into my professor’s face and no matter how hard I tried to fight it, my mouth stretched into a wide and unexpected yawn.

  Shoot me now . . .

  “No yawning in my class. Go to bed at night and come here well rested.”

  Oh no, he didn’t.

  This Bill Cosby look-alike was trippin’.

  Instantly, I felt like I was in high school again.

  “What’s your name?”

  Roberta . . . “Umm, yeah, it’s Seven.”

  “Well, Umm-Yeah-It’s- Seven. No sleeping in my class.”

  This gon’ be a situation.

  A litany of rules followed: “No gum. No talking. No slippers. No pajama pants. No sagging pants. No hoods on your head. No men in heels. No women in combat boots and overalls. No texting. If you answer your cell phone once, you will be asked to leave. If you answer your cell phone twice, you will be asked to withdraw.”

  Everyone seemed to pretty much feel the same way, like this dude was crazy, with the exception of a few old birds—there were some in every class—who loved rules and regulations. Mostly because they didn’t want anyone they considered a kid interfering with their bucket list.

  Whatever.

  I took a seat in the fourth row, all the way at the far end. My plan was to be in the cut and be out of Professor Pain-In-The-Butt’s way.

  “Umm-Yeah-It’s-Seven,” the professor called, “please sit a few rows down and closer to the center of the aisle. Thank you.”

  In a minute, I’ma gut him.

  I struggled not to roll my eyes as I took the suggested seat, in direct view of the stage below, where the doctor’s mahogany desk was, the one that he now leaned against and eye-stalked everyone. Once everyone took the seats he directed them to, he stood up straight and said, “Good morning. I am Doctor Richardson—” He paused and looked toward the door.

  I didn’t even have to turn around to know that his next victim had arrived.

  “Young sir.”

  Knew it.

  “Not only are you late, but you’re wrong. You don’t come in here with your pants sagging. Pull them up.”

  Everyone, including me, turned and faced the door.

  Jesus.

  Once I saw who young sir was, I didn’t know whether to laugh or have an attitude.

  I chose both. I snickered and topped it off with a suck of the teeth.

  Doctor Richardson pushed his gold wire-frame spectacles down the bridge of his wide nose and peeked over them. “This class begins at nine thirty a.m. Not nine thirty-one, nine thirty-two, nine thirty-three, and certainly not nine thirty-four. Now I’ll supply you with an explanation today, which is that your judgment was askew and you had no idea that Doctor Richardson, to quote the young folk, don’t play that.”

  He looked at the old birds, who all lined the first row and laughed. Hard. Everybody else looked at him like he was crazy.

  Doctor Richardson smiled a weird, freakish smile. “Now have a seat, young sir.” He paused again. “And not in the last row.”

  I couldn’t help but snicker and suck my teeth again.

  “Umm-Yeah-It’s-S even, I’m glad to see that you’re amused,” Dr. Richardson snapped, “because that lets me know you’re paying attention. Now keep it that way.”

  Oh . . . my . . . God. This cannot be college; this has to be third grade.

  As I watched the professor stick out his chest, brag about his credentials, and boast about how much smarter we were sure to be when we left his class, I began to doodle and my mind drifted to thoughts of Zaire.

  I love him so much.

  So then, why do I still feel a little salty about our argument?

  We made up and moved on.

  Did we?

  Why does my love feel like it’s changing?

  I hated that he told me to grow up.

  Is that what he thinks of me?

  Let it go.

  “Excuse me, Umm-Yeah-It’s-Seven.” Dr. Richardson interrupted my thoughts. “Would you reiterate to the class what I just stated about world literature contributing to the emancipation of the African community around the diaspora?”

  Huh? The dias-what? Run that past me again. “Well . . .” I hesitated. Say something. “Well . . . you just—”

  Doctor Richardson grimaced. “I tell you what, Umm-Yeah-It’s-Seven, don’t stress yourself. Class, I’ve just added two more rules. No doodling and no daydreaming. You can get your doodle and your daydreams on, after class.” He looked directly at me and nodded his head as if to say, Feel me?

  I swear I hate him.

  If this class wasn’t a requirement for my English and journalism major, I’d drop it.

  Ugh!

  “Now, for those who are here to get your education on”—Doctor Richardson smiled, like he’d just delivered a punch line—“you will be expected to familiarize yourselves with Jupiter Hammon, Phyllis Wheatley, Richard Wright, Zora Neale Hurston, Chinua Achebe, Shakespeare, Maya Angelou, Toni Morrison, Gwendolyn Brooks, and a few other literary giants.” He looked around the room and everyone, including me, stared straight at him.

  Sucker.

  “Okay, class, it’s been my pleasure.”

  I’ll bet it has.

  “Class dismissed.”

  Thank God!

  I packed my signature Coach tote bag and I couldn’t wait to get out of there and meet up with Shae and Khya in the caf. I walked up the aisle, and just as I approached the door, Josiah, or better yet, Young Sir, reached for my hand. “Can I speak to you for a minute, Seven?”

  If looks could kill, Josiah would’ve been cremated. “First of all, don’t touch me. And second of all, what are you? Stalking me?”

  Josiah laughed. A stupid laugh. “Stalking you?”

  “Stalking. Me,” I said venomously. “Why else would you be taking this class . . . again?”

  “Me having to take this class, again, has nothing to do with you.”

  “Oh, that’s right.” I snapped my fingers. “You having to take this class again has to do with the million and one chicks you cheated on me with. You were too busy in their faces to keep your grades up. It’s a wonder you’re still riding high off that basketball scholarship, since I’m not around to do your homework anymore.”

  “Yo, that was low. It wasn’t a million and one chicks. And I only asked you to do a paper for me once.”

  “Whatever.” I pushed past him and walked quickly out into the hall.

  “Seven. Seriously.” Josiah rushed alongside me as I walked briskly. “All I want you to know is that I thought about what happened last night, and my bad.”

  Now that caused me to halt. I frowned. Turned around. Looked him up and down and quickly talked myself out of choking him out. “Your bad? Really? You completely show your raggedy behind last night and for no reason. Straight stuntman. You’re lucky my man didn’t beat you into the ground. And now you’re standing here telling me that it’s your bad. Don’t you think I know that? Psst, please. Really?”

  “Seven—”

  “Look, do us both a favor and act like you don’t know me, ’cause you can believe I’ma act like I don’t know you!” And I left him standing there, watching my back as I stormed into the distance and faded from his sight.

  6

  That bomb ish . . .

  Trinidad James’s “All Gold Everything” blasted from an iPod that sat in an old-skool-esque jukebox dock, as I stepped through the caf’s—or better yet, Stiles U’s crunked eatery club’s—double doors.

  The caf was always live with music, cliques, Greeks, some folks just kicking it, and others grabbing their grub and
hurrying to go. It was a place where mostly everybody met in between classes to catch up with their crew, get the latest gossip, or just to have something to do.

  It was designed like a 1950s mom-and-pop diner. In the center of the room were rows of red-and-white booths. Along the right wall was an L-shaped counter outlined by red leather bar stools. And to the left was a buffet station, filled with everything from dirty rice and shrimp po’boys to loaded nachos.

  The walls were painted crisp white, and hanging on them were mahogany-framed black-and-white posters of accomplished African-Americans.

  There were three cashiers, all women, who each popped gum way too much and called out food totals like auctioneers with an attitude. They were posted in the back of the room, behind their cash registers, giving the stank eye to everyone who came through their line or walked by.

  I refused to pay them any mind as I walked over to the buffet station, fixed me a plate of loaded nachos, paid for my food, and took a seat in a booth next to a table of Gammas, who were dressed in all pink and inspected me harder than the DMV.

  Dang!

  Instead of showing them a face that revealed my thoughts, I shot them a quick wave and a Barbie-doll smile. Yet, instead of returning my wave or smile, they each played me and turned around.

  Whatever.

  I took out my iPhone and just as I was prepared to text Shae, “Hey, boo,” poured from behind me.

  I turned to see Shae and Khya walking toward me. They slid into the booth. Shae sat next to me and Khya sat across the table from us.

  “Whew!” Shae sighed as she flung her urban statistics textbook across the table, like it was a creature she wanted away from her.

  Khya curled her glossy lips as she tucked her backpack underneath the table. “Excuse you, Rudeness, you couldn’t call us back last night?” Khya reached for a nacho.

  “I’m sorry, y’all. I meant to call you back, but I got caught up with your boy Courtney.”

  “Gurl,” Shae said, exhausted. “Why did he waltz up into our apartment this morning saying that he’d just hit the bricks and you’d just picked him up from doing a stint? And that you told him he could stay with us as long as he needed?”

  I shook my head, causing my hair to dance over my shoulders. “Something. Is. Wrong. With. Him. He called me this morning, spazzing.” I told them the entire story, from Courtney whispering my name on the phone to him practically cussing Zaire out for not turning around and beating somebody down for his Pink Friday perfume and CD.