by Amir Abrams
“I know you’re familiar with the expression ‘you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover,’ right? Maybe you should free your mind and try it.”
She takes her eyes off the road, glancing over at me. “My mind is free. And I’m not judging him. I’m merely stating an observation.”
“Yeah, an observation based on opinion. Not fact.”
“Oh, whatever. He probably sells drugs, too. I wouldn’t put it past him. No judgment.”
I shake my head. “Wow. I can’t tell.”
I love Jordan like a sister. I swear I do. But sometimes she can be so judgmental. And . . . well, disturbingly narrow-minded at times. Still, I wouldn’t trade her for the world. She always has my back. And I’ll always have hers.
Even though I know what her response is going to be, I decide to ask anyway. “Hey, you want to take a road trip over to Irvington to hang out with my cousins?”
I call it a road trip, because although Irvington is only like twenty-five minutes away from where we live, it’s like worlds apart from the life she and I live. Where we have estates and circular driveways and tree-lined streets, they have dilapidated buildings, abandoned houses, and trash-littered streets. And they have more murders and robberies than any other town in the area. Still, I enjoy going there to visit my twin cousins Shaniqua and Kaniqua. They’re my uncle Kent’s—my father’s brother’s—daugh-ters, and they’re hilarious. They live with their mother, Tiny. Well, Tiny isn’t really all that little. She’s more like whopper size. My brothers used to call her Auntie Big Whopper. Not to her face, though.
Jordan’s car almost swerves over into the other lane as she snaps her neck in my direction. “Irvington? Thugville? In my parents’ Benz? Oh, I don’t think so. So I can be robbed? Or worse . . . raped? Girl, you have really lost your mind.”
I roll my eyes at her theatrics. “Ohmygod, stop! No one is going to rape you, girl. Besides, you know my cousins look out for us.”
She sucks her teeth. “Girl, please. They look out for you. You know your cousins Boomquisha and Boomquita do not even like me. They’d save them roaches they keep for pets from getting stomped out before they’d ever look out for me.”
I laugh. “Oooh, you’re so wrong for that. And I’m dead wrong for laughing at it.”
But she’s right. They don’t like her. They want to fight her. And she’s never done anything to either of them. Well, maybe they might have caught her rolling her eyes up in her head when she thought one of them wasn’t looking, or they caught her giving me one of her looks when they said or did something that was maybe a little bit on the ridiculous side. Like the time they both had on matching pink bodysuits, a pair of those glass-looking stripper heels, and bright fuchsia china doll wigs. I didn’t want to admit it, but they did look like two circus acts. Most times they do.
Still . . . those are my first cousins and they like to party and have a good time. And they don’t care who doesn’t like it, or them. They do whatever they want. Whenever they want.
“Don’t you sometimes just want to live on the edge a little?” I ask, shifting in my seat. “Don’t you ever get bored following the rules, or coloring within the lines?”
Jordan gives me a blank look. Then bats her lashes. “I do live on the edge. I’m on the edge of my seat every time I’m out with you, wondering what craziness you’re going to get into next, like kissing riffraff.”
“What if I did want to kiss him? What’s so wrong with that? He had nice lips. And he was cute.”
“Do you even know him?” She lets out a disgusted sigh. “Never mind. Nice lips or not. That’s nasty. I mean. Aside from probably sucking down pig’s guts and chicken claws, do you even know where that boy’s mouth’s been?”
I swear. Jordan can be such a joy-kill sometimes. Okay, most of the time. She’ll yammer on and on about this for most of the ride to her house if I don’t quickly redirect the conversation.
“You’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“That’s just it. You weren’t thinking.”
“I’m sorry, mom,” I say sarcastically. “I won’t let it happen again.”
She laughs. “Yeah, right.”
“Soooo, did you end up buying that cute skirt you saw in Nordstrom?”
She shakes her head. “Oh, no. We’re not even about to change subjects. Not this time. I want to know where you know that boy from.”
I tell her I don’t know him. That I’ve only seen him a few times in the mall. That he’s tried to talk to me several times, but he’s always with his friends.
She shoots me a look, rolling her eyes. “So what’s his name?”
“B-U,” I tell her, shifting in my seat.
She brakes at the stop sign. “B-U? What kind of crazy name is that?” I tell her it’s short for Born-Universe.
She frowns, pulling off. “Born-Universe? See. What I tell you? Strike one right there. Who in the world names their child that?”
I shrug. “I seriously doubt that’s his real name. At least I hope it isn’t.”
She grunts. “Does this Born U . . . B-U, or whoever he is, even have a high school diploma?”
I shrug. “I didn’t ask. It’s not like I was conducting an interview.”
“Well, you should have been.”
“Jordan, ohmygod! You really need to learn how to relax a bit. I think you need to lay off the CSI episodes. They’re causing you to overreact.”
She reaches over and touches my forehead. “Kennedy, girl, either you must be coming down with something or you’re an imposter. Because the Kennedy I know would never, ever, be caught dead trying to kiss some strange boy in the middle of a half-packed mall.”
I swat her hand away. “No, I’m not coming down with anything. And no, I’m not an imposter. Tell the truth. You didn’t think he was cute when you saw him?”
“Ummm, nooo. I thought he was ratchet.”
I crack up laughing. She sounded so funny saying that. “Jordan, girl. Stop. There was nothing ratchet about him. Do you even know what ratchet is?”
“Yeah, I know what it is. Him. Jeans sagging. Underwear showing. I bet you he doesn’t even know the real meaning behind wearing his pants sagging like that. Advertising his butt like that. If he only knew all he was doing was giving booty bandits something to drool about. I bet if he were in prison walking around like that he’d break his neck trying to find a belt or rope to keep his pants up over his behind. Or he’d end up wearing Kool-Aid painted on his lips and being called Bubblicious, while Big Bubba and his sweet tooth crew humped up on him.”
I playfully swat at her arm. “Ohmygod, that’s so disgusting!”
“Mmmph. He’s disgusting. His neck and arm inked up. And what were those teardrops on his face for. Ugh! Then top it off with a mouth full of gold. And there you have it. Ratchet. His teeth are probably all rotted out behind all that metal.”
“Ohmygod, stop!” I bite the inside of my lip to keep from laughing.
“No. You need to stop being so naïve. Kennedy, those kinds of boys will do nothing but use you up, then break your heart. You remember Nyla’s cousin Sheema, right?” I nod. “Well, she hooked up with some thug from Newark, and now she’s a druggie and pregnant.”
“A druggie?”
“Yes. All she does is smoke marijuana all day.”
“That doesn’t make her a druggie.”
“Well, it makes her stupid; that’s for sure. And three months pregnant.”
“And you blame that on her boyfriend?”
“Correction. Her thug. And, yes, I do. He is and was her demise. Now back to you. Since when you start vying for the attention of thugs?”
I don’t tell her that I’ve secretly lusted for bad boys since like forever. I’m not in the mood for a long, drawn-out lecture from her. Or being under her judgmental scrutiny for having a deep affinity for the street life.
I shrug. “I’m not vying for their attention. I’m simply trying to have a little fun. You know. Do somethin
g different.”
She narrows her eyes. “So what is this, some sort of teen life crisis? You want to do something different, go snowboarding. Go paragliding. Go shopping for a pair of red hooker heels. But you don’t go rifling through the trash for a boyfriend.”
I wave her on as she navigates traffic, my hand absently tracing the thick leather piping of my purse. “You’re such a hater.”
“I am most certainly not,” she says, feigning insult. “I simply hate seeing my dearest bestie in the midst of making the most tragic mistake of her life. I thought I was going to collapse right there in the middle of the floor seeing the two of you all cozied up like that.”
I laugh. “Then I guess he and those sexy lips of his would have been the ones to resuscitate you. It would serve you right for how rude you were to him.”
“Ewww. Not! Leave me dead on the ground. Please and thank you! I wouldn’t want that boy’s hood cooties anywhere near me, or my mouth.”
I laugh and playfully suck my teeth. I decide to not mention that he thought she was stuck-up. It wouldn’t matter to her, anyway, what he thought of her. She knows she’s a snob. Well, as she says it, “I know I have snobbish ways.”
She snorts. “I was not rude. I just wasn’t interested in being nice.”
“Same difference, girly. Same difference.”
3
“I mean, like, seriously, Kennedy. What do you even see in them hoodlums? They are so . . .”
Fine.
“They’re so . . . how can I delicately say this? They are so . . .”
Sexy.
“Beneath you,” she says pointedly, shooting a glance over in my direction as she pulls around her circular driveway.
“Ohmygod, Jordan!” I exclaim, shaking my head. I can’t believe she thinks that. That because a guy doesn’t live in a gated community, or attend a private school, or drive a luxury car gifted to him by his parents (or grandparents) that he isn’t worthy of dating, or falling in love with. “You are so out of control right now. What a classist thing to say.”
She rolls her eyes, parking her car in front of the cobblestone walkway that leads to her front door. “No. You’re the one out of control, Kennedy. Practically ready to kiss some derelict, and in public no less.” She shakes her head, turning off the engine. “Is this some kind of crazy phase you’re going through? I mean. We’ve been best friends for, like, forever, so you can tell me if it is. Because it seems to me like you might be struggling with some sort of teen life crisis or something.”
I sigh, opening the car door. “Noooo, it’s not a phase. And the only thing I’m struggling with at the moment is you.”
She opens her door, popping the trunk open. “Struggling with me? All I’m doing is stating the obvious.”
I raise a brow at her. “Oh, really? What exactly is that?”
She grabs her bags, slamming the trunk shut. “That the only thing any boy from the ghetto, hood, slums, or whatever they’re calling it these days can ever do is use and abuse you, Kennedy. They’ll break your heart. Then toss you out like last night’s trash while they lie in wait for their next unsuspecting suburban victim.”
I frown. “Ohmygod! That is so not true. Having my heart broken has nothing to do with someone’s socio-economic status, where they’re brought up, or what race they are. Heartbreakers and users come from all walks of life.”
“Well, that might be true. But they’re being bred in the ghetto,” she says dismissively. “Kennedy, I can’t believe you’re being so naïve right now.”
“Well, that makes the two of us,” I say defensively. “I can’t believe you’re being so dang biased.”
“I’m not biased. Face it, Kennedy. Most of those so-called thug boys you’re so fascinated with are high-school dropouts, use drugs, sell drugs, are in gangs, and in and out of juvy.”
“That is so not true. There are plenty who graduate high school and even go off to college.”
She laughs, shaking her head while sliding her key into her door. “Plenty? Yeah, right. Wishful thinking. Try plenty of prison-bound losers. I don’t know what TBS special you’ve been watching. But you need to either change stations, or remove those rose-colored lenses you’re looking through. There are plenty of dropouts. There are plenty hanging on street corners.”
I sigh. It’s time I face the blaring truth, I think, following behind Jordan as she lets herself into her house replete with shopping bags galore. There’s nothing I can ever say that will make an ounce of sense to her about my affinity toward boys from the hood. So there’s no sense in wasting my breath trying to explain it.
She drops her bags onto the marble floor of her foyer. I walk behind her as she heads toward the kitchen. No one else’s here. Her parents oftentimes work long hours. They are both corporate attorneys who work out of a Madison Avenue law firm in New York City. Like me, Jordan is the youngest. But instead of having three older, overprotective brothers, she has three older sisters who spoil her rotten. I so envy her for that. I wish I had sisters. I mean. Having older brothers is kind of cool. But they can be annoying. And bossy; especially when they’re trying to be my fathers.
Anyway, like my siblings—who are all in the armed forces (my nineteen-year-old brother, Kent, is in his second year as a cadet at the Naval Academy; my twenty-one-year-old brother, Keith, just graduated from West Point; and my twenty-three-year-old brother, Kenneth, is a commissioned officer in the Air Force)—her sisters all live out on their own. So, for the most part, she has this big gigantic house all to herself, to do whatever she wants long before her parents’ commute home comes to an end for the night.
“You want anything to eat?” she asks as she’s grabbing two bottles of Fiji water and a large bowl of strawberries from the fridge. “I can heat up some chicken strips if you want.”
I shake my head, reaching for the latest issue of Seventeen magazine lying on the aisle counter. “No. I’m fine.” I flip through the pages. I roll my eyes when I stumble on an article on Miley Cyrus and her newest love interest. Jordan tells me to grab some napkins from the marble table. I shut the magazine, grab a handful of napkins, then follow her upstairs to her room.
I love Jordan’s room. In addition to having a huge king-size bed and fifty-inch flat-screen TV, she has a massive walk-in closet, a huge bathroom with a Jacuzzi tub and separate shower stall, and a balcony.
My bedroom isn’t anything to sneeze at, but it’s definitely nothing like hers. I’d kill to have my own private bathroom in my room.
I open my water, take a few sips, then place the cap back on, and set it down on the floor beside her bed. I kick off my shoes and flop back against the big, fluffy pillows on her bed, flipping through the magazine I’ve been holding in my hand.
“So, what time is Hope getting here?”
She steps out of her bathroom, completely changed into a pair of red boy shorts and a black sports bra. “She should have been here by now. You know she’s almost always never on time. That girl will probably be late to her own embalming.”
I shake my head, laughing. “You’re stupid.”
The doorbell chimes three times as Jordan picks up her buzzing iPhone.
“Speaking of the Miss Late, that’s her now.”
She scurries out of the room and rushes down the stairs to get the ringing doorbell. A few seconds later, she returns with Hope following behind her.
“Ooh, you nasty heathen,” she says pointedly as she drops her Burberry tote on Jordan’s dresser. “I heard you were going to let some thug kiss you right out in the open at the mall. Please tell me it’s all lies.”
She looks cute. She’s wearing all white, a pair of white capris with a white blouse that crisscrosses in the front. I glance down at her white Marc Jacobs leather wedged sneakers.
“Those are cute,” I say, pointing at her feet. My feeble attempt to deflect the question. “Where’d you get those?”
“Nordstrom.”
“Girl, later for them shoes,” Jordan snort
s, flicking her wrists. “They are cute, though. But that’s irrelevant at this moment.”
Hope’s eyes widen. “Says who?”
“Says me,” Jordan counters. “Now let’s get back to Kennedy and Sir Kiss ’Em on the Lips.”
I roll my eyes at her. “No. Let’s not.”
“Tell Hope what his name is. B-U, right?”
“B-U? What kind of name is that?”
I groan. “It’s short for Born-Universe.”
Hope blinks. “Dear God. How exotic.”
Jordan snickers. “And original, right?”
Hope rolls her eyes. “Oh, definitely. Creativity and uniqueness at its best.”
I suck my teeth. “Okay, okay; enough about my day at the mall.” I shoot my gaze over at Jordan. “How about we talk about you and your break-up with Howie for the umpteenth time this month?”
Hope gasps. “Again? What the heck is wrong with y’all? What, this is like break-up number six in the last four weeks?” She shakes her head. “Y’all need therapy.”
I laugh.
Jordan rolls her eyes. “We don’t need therapy. What we need is a permanent break from each other.”
I give her a “yeah right” look.
“No. I’m serious,” Jordan insists. “I think we spend too much time together. And now we act more like brother and sister than we do boyfriend and girlfriend.”
Hope shakes her head. “Uh, no. Y’all need relationship counseling, hun. I hate to be the bearer of bad news. But both of you seem to have problems with communicating. You do know communication is key to any successful relationship, right?”
I chuckle. “Ohmygod, you are starting to sound like your mom.”
She giggles. “I know, right. It’s getting scary. She keeps saying I’m going to end up becoming a therapist like her. But she’s wrong. I’m going to practice law.”
Jordan huffs. “I’m too young for relationship counseling. That counseling stuff’s for old folks who are about to get divorced.”
“Wrong,” Hope corrects. “Counseling is for anyone with problems or issues they can’t solve on their own. And you, girly, I don’t mean to rain on your parade. Or pull the rug from under your feet. But you have some serious relationship issues. My mom says it’s not healthy for couples to constantly keep breaking up. She says it’s a sign that there are bigger problems in the relationship.”
