Caught Up

by Amir Abrams

  “Please. I’d rather watch Netflix,” Hope says dismissively, “before going to see a Jennifer Hudson movie. She has an Oscar for Christ’s sake. And this is the best she can do?” She shakes her head. “Tragic. Just real tragic.” She scrolls through her phone. “But what about seeing that movie with Idris Alba? He’s so . . . mmph.”

  “Ewwww. Old,” Jordan retorts, twisting her face up. “And that’s so nasty!”

  I laugh. “Well, he’s distinguished.”

  “And dirt old,” Jordan says again.

  “But he’s still cute for an old guy,” Hope says defensively. “Old guys can be cute, too.”

  Jordan rolls her eyes. “Yuck. Not when they’re old enough to be your father.”

  Hope waves Jordan on, dismissing her comment. “So do y’all want to see the movie or not?”

  I shrug. “I guess.”

  Jordan says, “Okay, I guess. I’m game. Let me text my mother to let her know we’re going to the movies.”

  Not that this is my ideal way of spending a Friday night. I mean, really? It’s real nice out. Now that the sun is down, it’s not as hot and humid out like it was earlier. It’s like eighty degrees out now. And I know the streets in the hood are jumping with excitement. Maybe I’ll be able to convince Jordan to at least roll up all the windows real tight, lock all the doors, and speed through the hood to see who’s out. Yeah, right. Not!

  “Yo, what’s good wit’ ya peeps?” this brown-skinned guy with box-braids asks. He’d reached out and touched my hand, stopping me when Hope and Jordan and I walked by him at the concession stand. He spoke to Jordan and Hope, but they both looked him up and down, like he was a commoner, then told me they’d wait for me by the theater doors. He’s wearing a pair of baggy cargo shorts that hang off his waist, showing the waistband of his American Eagle underwear with a black wife beater. He has a thick chain hanging from his neck with a bulldog pendant dangling from it. He’s not as tall as I like, but he’s still a cutie-pie. He kind of reminds me of a younger and very much shorter, stockier version of that basketball player Dwyane Wade.

  “Why they actin’ all stank?” he wants to know, eyeing Hope and Jordan as they walk off. Well, correction . . . practically stomp off.

  Because they’re snobs. I shrug. “Don’t mind them. They’re in love with their boyfriends and don’t believe in speaking to other guys.” Of course, it’s a lie. But I can’t flat-out tell him that they just turned their noses up at him because of the way he’s dressed. That he looks like a thug.

  “Oh, word? Well, I wasn’t checkin’ for either of ’em, anyway. But, I’m sayin’, yo. What’s good wit’ you, ma? You gotta man?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know.”

  “You want one?”

  I smile. “I don’t know. Depends.”

  He licks his lips. “Well, how ’bout you let me know ya name, love? You got Facebook?”

  “It’s—”

  “C’mon, Kennedy,” Jordan calls out, stomping her foot. “Dang. The movie’s about to start.”

  He smirks. “Kennedy, huh? I like that.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Oh, my bad, love. It’s Rocky.”

  “Why they call you that?”

  He grins. “ ’Cause I go hard, like Sylvester Stallone in them old Rocky Balboa flicks.” He starts shadow boxing. “My knuckle game real right.”

  I laugh.

  “Nah. I’m dead serious. So anybody eff wit’ you, you come holla at me, a’ight?”

  I nod, smiling. “Okay. If you say so.”

  We chat a few seconds more before he wants me to text him my number. I don’t have the heart to tell him I’m not that interested in him. Still... I take his phone and type in my number.

  Hopefully, he won’t call.

  “A’ight, bet.” He wraps his arm loosely around my shoulder and whispers in my ear as he walks me over toward Hope and Jordan. “You real pretty, love. I wanna chill wit’ you. I might even wanna wife you up.”

  I giggle. “If I let you.”

  Hope and Jordan are both gaping at me with their jaws dropped open. Jordan looks mortified. Hope looks confused.

  And I want to laugh at the two of them.

  “I’ma call you, a’ight?”

  “Okay,” I say softly, eyeing him as he walks off.

  “Dear Jesus!” Jordan huffs the minute he’s out of earshot. “You’re like a magnet for the riffraff.”

  I roll my eyes. “Oh, shush. Let’s go in.”

  She doesn’t let it go. Not that I expected her to. “I mean, like really, Kennedy. Can’t we take you anywhere without you picking up strays?”

  “Ohmygod!” I shriek, playfully pushing her. “That is so messed up. You’re such a hater.”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” she says over her shoulder as she walks into the darkened theater, “I hate to see you making a fool out of yourself.”

  Hope pushes Jordan farther into the theater. “Jordan, chill out. Kennedy wasn’t making a fool of herself. She was just being nice. That’s part of her community service. Being nice. You know that boy isn’t even her type.”

  I laugh, following behind the two of them. “You got that right.” He’s too short. “Thanks, Hope. At least somebody knows me.”

  Jordan sucks her teeth. “Whatever. I know you, too. And I know I missed all the movie previews because of you. You know I like to catch all the upcoming movie attractions.”

  Oh joy!

  11

  “Hey Special K,” the Sasha girl says in a tone friendlier than usual, walking over to me as I’m closing out my register. I silently roll my eyes up in my head, wondering what she could possibly want now. All this week, she’s been working my nerves to the point that I am starting to not like coming in for work if I know she’s working. It’s as if she wants me to quit. And, honestly, I don’t know how much more of her rudeness I can take. Yesterday, I heard her mumble, “This Oreo,” when she walked by and saw my line was backed up. Then today when I almost ran smack into her as she was coming out of the bathroom and I was going in, she acted like she was ready to fight me.

  I apologized for almost hitting her with the door. She rolled eyes. “Why don’t you watch da fuqq where you goin’!” she snapped, brushing by me. “Stupid bish!”

  And now here she is standing beside me with this phony-like grin plastered on her face like she’s up to something.

  “Yeah?” I say cautiously, refusing to give her eye contact.

  “Crissy wants to know if you want OT tonight?”

  “Not interested,” I say nastily.

  “Oh, okay.” She doesn’t move. I feel her eyes on me. Can practically feel her breath on my neck. That’s how close she’s up on me.

  I frown. “Anything else?”

  “Meeeeeeeeeoooooow,” she caterwauls. “Put da claws in. No need to wanna scratch my eyes out. I come in peace.”

  I finally look at her, giving her a blank stare. “Oh, really?” I snap, finally deciding it’s time to say what’s been on my mind. Inside, I’m a nervous wreck, hoping like heck that she doesn’t try to slap me or punch me out. But I don’t let my fear stop me from saying what I have to say. “That’s a switch. Seems like all you’ve been to me since I’ve started working here is nasty and disrespectful. And I’ve done nothing but try to be nice to you.”

  “That’s because you came up in here with dis uppity attitude ’n’ I wasn’t checkin’ for dat.”

  I give her an incredulous look. “You know what you are? A bully.”

  “Pop, pop. Shots fired,” she says, stepping back. “Put da gun down, boo. No need for all da ’tude.”

  I slam my register shut. “No. I have every right to have an attitude. There’s been no need for you being rude and nasty to me, but you have. If you don’t like me, fine. But that doesn’t mean you have the right to say nasty things to me or about me under your breath when you don’t even know me. And
quite frankly, I’ve had about enough of your insolence.”

  She blinks. “My what?”

  I huff. “Your rudeness.”

  She rolls her eyes and twists up her lips. “Ooh, look at Special K tryna—”

  “And stop calling me that; my name is Kennedy.”

  She smirks. “Oh, okay, Kennedy. I guess youuuu told me, huh? Looks like li’l Miss Uppity got a li’l heart after all.”

  I frown, storming off. I can hear her laughing in back of me, but I don’t care. Screw that girl, I think, heading toward the time clock to punch out. I’ve had enough of her for one day.

  My parents have raised me to treat people the way I want to be treated. And if I don’t have anything nice to say about someone, then to keep my mouth shut. Obviously, she hasn’t been afforded the same mindset.

  I don’t need this crap! Jordan is right. It’s not like I need the money. So why should I put up with that girl’s stankness. Maybe I should just quit!

  “Next customer, please.” My breath immediately catches in the back of my throat as I look up from my register and this dream boy steps up to the counter to place his order. He’s like six-three, at least, with delicious dark chocolate skin and muscles bulging everywhere. He has on a crisp white wife-beater tank top that fits him oh so perfect, showing the ripples in his abs. An eight-pack, I muse, trying like heck not to stare. But I can’t help it. I just want to reach out and touch him.

  He looks to be like eighteen, or nineteen. He’s definitely grown.

  All I keep thinking is, swaggerlicious.

  “Hi, would you like to try one of our mocha or caramel frappés?”

  “Nah, I’m good,” he says, grinning. “Let me get a number three. Hold the lettuce and pickle.”

  “Okay. Anything else?”

  “Nah,” he says, looking over my shoulder. He does a head nod to whoever is in back of me.

  For some reason I am not surprised when Sasha comes out from the back and starts prancing back and forth. He ogles her every move, his eyes locking on her booty.

  I roll my eyes up in my head.

  It’s been two days since that incident with her and so far she hasn’t been as brusque toward me. In fact she spoke to me today when I first started my shift and walked by, averting my eyes from hers.

  She smirked. “Well, hello to you, too.”

  “Oh, hi,” I said, surprised.

  “What time you get off?” she asked, sliding a hand over her bangs.

  “Six.”

  “Oh, okay. Make sure you see me before you leave.” She walked off, saying nothing more. And that’s the last thing she’s said to me all day. Now she’s conveniently standing here at my register while I’m finishing up Sexy Chocolate’s order, instead of working her station in the back.

  “That’ll be eight-dollars and thirty-seven cents,” I tell him, eyeing him gawking at Sasha. There’s no way I can compete with a girl whose boobs are practically bursting out of her uniform top.

  He digs into his front pocket, pulling out a wad of money and handing me a twenty.

  “Ooh, you fine,” she says to him, fully aware that she’s caught his attention.

  “What’s gucci, yo?” he says to her, grinning.

  What’s gucci?

  “Chillin’, boo. Tryna make these coins. What’s good wit’ you?”

  Oh, that’s what that means.

  He licks his lips. “Right, right.”

  I hand him his receipt. Tell him his order will be up soon, then call for the next customer. He steps to the side and waits.

  “Hey, girl,” Sasha says. “You wanna roll wit’ me to a party dis weekend?”

  I can’t believe what I am hearing. I give her a confused look, not sure if I’ve heard her right. “Huh?”

  She snaps her fingers in my face. “Umm, hello? Party. Finger pop. Fine boys. Wit’ me. You do know how to pop dem hips ’n’ drop it like it’s hot, don’t you?”

  Heck no. Well, only in the mirror, in private. Alone.

  I don’t feel comfortable telling her that.

  Ohmygod! I can’t believe she’s standing here asking me if I want to go to a party with her. Me!

  “Um, I don’t know. When is it?”

  “This Saturday.”

  I eye her curiously, wondering why she’s inviting me to hang out with her, when she hasn’t had one kind thing to say to me since I started here. Now all of a sudden she wants to party with me.

  I can hear Jordan’s voice in my head saying, “Unh-uh. Don’t do it. That girl’s ratchet and crazy! It’s probably a setup, girl. Don’t. Do. It.”

  Girl, get over it. This could be the start of the exciting summer you’ve been looking for.

  I decide it really doesn’t matter why she’s asked me. Point is, I’m ready to have some fun. And it’s not like anyone else is banging down my door to let me in on the happenings. So I need to take whomever I can get.

  “Okay, sure. I guess,” I say tentatively.

  “Good. I’ll give you my address so you can come through early.”

  I raise a brow. “Why?”

  “Girl, have you looked in the mirror lately? For a makeover, boo.”

  I swallow. “A makeover? There’s nothing wrong with the way I dress,” I say, offended.

  “Yeah, okay. That preppy look might work where you from. But you can’t even be tryna roll out wit’ me lookin’ all church-girl. No, we gonna have ta put a li’l beat on ya face ’n’ step ya fashion game up.”

  Put a li’l beat on my face?

  “You mean makeup?”

  “Yeah. Just a li’l to make ya eyes pop ’n’ ya mouth real juicy.”

  “Oh.”

  “So you down?”

  “I guess.”

  “Good.” She smirks. “And you better not flake out on me, either. Or I’ma come to work on Monday ’n’ bust you in ya head.”

  I frown.

  She laughs. “Girl, relax. I’m only playing wit’ you. I’m not workin’ tomorrow so make sure you come see me before you get off so we can exchange info. I’ma ’bout to break you in real right, Miss Goodie-Goodie. So be ready.”

  I nod, bringing my attention to the next customer as she walks off. “Hi, would you like to try one of our mocha or caramel frappés?”

  12

  Saturday afternoon, at a little after two P.M., I arrive at Sasha’s apartment building after having my mom drop me off at the mall as if I had to go to work, then calling a cab to bring me over here.

  “So, you ready for your makeover?” Sasha says excitedly. “Out with that ole preppy white girl look ’n’ in wit’ the boss lady swag.”

  I shrug. “I guess.”

  She plants a hand up on her hip. “You guess? Girl, bye! Miss me wit’ that. Already tol’ you, if you gonna roll wit’ me, then you gonna need to step ya dress game up, boo. ’Cause what you stay rockin’ ain’t it.”

  I frown, glancing down at my Century 21 pink cami, Adiktd Mystery jeans, and expensive sandals. “What’s wrong with what I have on?”

  Sasha gives me a blank look. Then rapidly bats her lashes. “Well, nothing, I suppose. If you tryna go for suburban white girl, then you’re a smash hit. But if you wanna rise to the top ’n’ be a fly girl then I’ma need for you to sit back ’n’ let me work my magic. I can’t have you rollin’ in the hood wit’ me lookin’ all wack ’n’ whatnot. Not gonna happen, honey boo-boo. If we gonna roll then you gonna have to represent for the boss chicks. I promise you. When I’m finished you’ll have all the cutie-boos checkin’ for you. I’ma ’bout to turn you from a plain chick into bein’ a real problem. Watch ’n’ see.”

  “And what’s a problem?” I ask with raised eyebrows.

  She runs her hands up and down her body. “All’a this, boo. I’m problem number one. And now I’ma ’bout to make you problem number two. Thought you knew.”

  I blink. No offense, but Sasha dresses kind of . . . um, well, let’s see. What’s the right word I’m looking for? Skanky. Yeah, that�
��s it. Everything she wears is always so tight. Even her uniforms fit snugly, causing the seams to stretch over her curvy body. It’s like she feels the need to put on display everything she’s blessed with.

  It’s like she thinks less is sexiness.

  “Well, okay. I guess I can go along with the makeover. But I don’t want to wear anything that screams boy-hungry hooker.”

  She waves me on. “Ain’t nothing wrong wit’ showin’ off a whole lotta thigh. Just be classy wit’ it.”

  I take in her teensy-weeny black boy shorts and skimpy white off-the-shoulder see-through blouse. She’s sitting up on her dresser with her legs gaping wide open, showing all of her goodies. I’m almost certain she doesn’t have on any panties. The thought makes me gag.

  “I guess,” I say, shifting on her bed. “It all depends on how you define classy.”

  “Okay, Miss Lady. How do you define it?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. For me, it’s about the way you carry yourself. Being a lady. Polite. Knowing how to sit and walk and talk. Not being all loud and crude. Knowing how to act in public. Someone with impressive character. Elegantly stylish. High quality.”

  “Wow.”

  “Wow, what?” I ask innocently. She’s looking at me as if I’ve said something crazy. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Like what?” She tilts her head. “Like you’re crazy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Because you are,” she snaps, jumping off her dresser.

  I blink, taken aback at how quickly she’s flipped on me.

  “How the eff you gonna sit up here in my face ’n’ try’n call me ghetto, huh? Where they teaching that at? The ’burbs? Because, honey, you got the right one.”

  She starts removing her earrings.

  I blink again. Shift in my seat. “That’s not what I meant,” I quickly say, trying to defuse the situation. The last thing I want is a fight with her. “I apologize if I said something that offended you. That wasn’t my intention. I thought we were speaking freely. You asked me to define a word. And I gave you my best definition.”

  “Tsk. Definition my ass. Sounded like you were tryna throw shade to me.” She tsks me again. “You uppity hoes kill me, turnin’ ya noses up at us hood chicks. Bish, be clear. Ain’t nothin’ ghetto ’bout me. I’ma hood classy chick. Believe that.”