Upgrade U

by Ni-Ni Simone

“Me too!” Shae joined in.

  “Me three!” Khya said, completing our group hug.

  A few seconds later, Cousin Shake said, “All right, get up off me now. Minnie don’t like too much perfume in my taco meat.”

  Yuck! I promise you I couldn’t stand him. He walked toward the door and hit us with a two-finger peace sign. “Deuces,” he said and a few minutes later he was gone.

  2

  He on some other sh*t.

  —LUMIDEE FT. PITBULL, “CRAZY”

  I have to stop calling him.

  But I can’t believe he hasn’t returned my text.

  So what? I don’t give a damn.

  Yes, I do.

  Puhlease, two can play that game.

  But he said he would be here to help me move in.

  Where is he?

  Maybe he didn’t make it to campus yet.

  He’s a ball player. He’s always on campus.

  Maybe my text didn’t go through.

  Yeah, right, out of the five hundred I sent, not even one went through? He got ‘em.

  Prove it.

  Fail.

  Seriously, I was buggin'. I sat on the edge of my unmade twin-sized bed, in a sea of cardboard boxes, while Q 93.3 FM serenaded us during our pre-party preparation. Khya sorted through her makeup bag, picking out the right eye shadow. Shae laid True Religion jeans, a hot-pink ribbed tank top, and stilettos across the foot of her bed—all while I straight fronted like going to this party was the most pressing thing on my mind.

  But it wasn’t.

  I hated that I played myself like this. I really wanted to enjoy this moment. I mean, seriously, my freshman year of freedom was just beginning, and the hottest Big Easy bounce party was about to go down. I needed to be practicing my booty bounce, not sitting here with a grip on my cell phone, praying it would ring or signal that I had a text message.

  “So when are you going to get dressed?” Shae asked, sliding gloss across her lips.

  “Yeah, really,” Khya said as she applied mascara, “ ‘cause we fidda catch da wall, bey-be.”

  What did she say? “Khya.” I laughed. “Catch a who?”

  “Da wall, honey. It means—”

  “Get your groove on,” Shae interjected. “So get up and stop thinking about Josiah.” She pointed to my cell phone.

  “Who’s Josiah?” Khya asked, while she looked in the mirror and blew kisses at herself. “I am so sexy.” She turned away from the mirror and said, “Now tell me, who is Josiah?”

  “Seven’s boo,” Shae volunteered.

  “All right now.” Khya snapped her fingers. “You miss him, Seven? Where’s he at, in Jersey?” She sat on the edge of the dresser.

  At this point I wish he was in Jersey…. Then at least I would understand not hearing from him.

  “No, he’s—”

  “Right on campus, girl,” Shae snapped.

  Oh no, she didn’t.

  “Oh hell nawl!” Khya said. “What’s his name again? Jamil?”

  “No, Josiah,” I said.

  “Well, he sounds like Jamil.”

  “Who’s Jamil?”

  “My ex-boyfriend,” Khya said. “Being on the same campus and not calling is something he would do.”

  “I never said I haven’t heard from Josiah.”

  “Actions speak louder than words,” Shae said, pointing to my phone.

  If looks could kill Shae would be laid out on the floor. “You need to fall back, fa’real.”

  “Girl, please.” Shae smiled at me. “You know I love you. Now, come on ‘cause my baby, Big Country, is throwing a slammin’ part’tay.”

  “Yes, he is!” Khya hopped off the dresser and turned up the radio where Sissy Nobby screamed about a spinning top. Khya placed her hands on the wall and proceeded to break down the art of a Big Easy bounce.

  “Don’t stop, get-it—get-it!” Shae jumped up and joined Khya, both of them shaking their bottoms as if their be-hinds were having multiple seizures.

  Okay, so, despite how I really felt, I had to jump off the bed and join them. After all, attached to my size-fourteen hips was more than enough rump to spin. Not to mention Shae wasn’t really doing the dance that well. And since she was my homegirl, I wanted to show her how it’s supposed to go down.

  “First of all,” I said, half smiling and half smirking, “this is how it’s done.” I did a Beyoncé pop, swept the floor with it, and bounced my booty like I was a New Orleans native and not a transplant.

  “Dang, girl!” Khya said, shocked. “No, but you killin’ it. Put you on some super-tight-tight-glued-on jeans, a cleavage-busting tee, and we’re sure to leave Big Country’s party with so many numbers that you’ll be like ‘Josiah who?’ Come on now, just for tonight, Josiah don’t even matter.”

  Heck, maybe she was right. Josiah didn’t matter … at least for tonight.

  “All right.” I picked out my gear for the party. “Time to get dressed,” I said and headed into the bathroom.

  Before I stepped into the shower I did all I could to ward off thoughts of calling Josiah again … but I couldn’t fight it. I had to call him at least one more time. The problem was that one time turned into two … and two times turned into too many, especially when they were all met by his voice mail.

  So, forget it. I showered quickly and headed back into the room with Shae and Khya.

  As I dressed in a pair of tight jeans and a Ni-Ni Simone original T-shirt that read, DRAMA RULES EVERYTHING AROUND ME, Shae, Khya, and I talked about everything under the sun. From Khya’s family remaining in Houston after Hurricane Katrina, to Shae saying how happy she was that her mother was in a drug treatment program, and me talking about how my relationship with my daddy was the best it’s ever been.

  We chatted away like old friends and yet there was only one problem I could see: the unsettling feeling that washed over me and forced me to think that maybe … I really needed to skip the party and stay in our room … just in case Josiah came knocking…

  3

  Don’t even think about calling me crazy

  You know you peeped that lady …

  —BRANDY,“WHO IS SHE TO U”

  I did my best to get my top model on as my stilettos clicked across the floor … but it was hard, especially since Big Country’s tight dorm room was packed from the door to the walls. And the party didn’t stop there. People lined the hallway and spilled into the adjacent dorm rooms. Actually the entire floor was crunk; and Melvin, a.k.a. Big Country “Da Stunna” was the DJ, and his soul mate, Shae, grooved right next to him.

  I did all I could to curb my thoughts about Josiah, especially since Shae and Khya were taking 10th Ward Buck’s advice on how to catch da wall.

  A few minutes into me forcing myself to smile instead of rolling my eyes and slowly walking back toward depression, “Girl, what da hell you ovah here lookin’ like a chap fo'?” floated over my shoulder.

  That was Khya. She stopped her booty from bouncing long enough to step to me and say, “Looka here.” She frowned. “Ain’t no mishaps in dis crew.” She paused, and as Big Country switched the music from 10th Ward Buck to Sissy Nobby, telling us to beat it out the frame, Khya took a few minutes to show er’body in the room exactly what that meant.

  Five minutes after she was done and was fanning sweat from her face, she looked at me and resumed what she had to say. “You see me and Shae tearin’ da wall down, fa’sho'. And you all ovah here bucked up, and ya know we too cute for that. Ya heardz me?”

  What the … I did my best to stop my eyes from blinking. “What did you just say?”

  “She said”—Shae popped her gum as she came over and stood in front of me, doing the Reject dance—“that you lookin’ all shades of crazy standing here”—she twirled her neck—“everybody else is here having fun and you’re doing what?” She pointed to my cell phone. “Holding out for Josiah? Now let’s have some fun and stop sulking over that boy.”

  I can’t believe she said that.

 
“You still sulking?” Khya said before I could respond to Shae. “Oh hell to da nawl, bey-be, we don’t sweat no man.” She wagged her finger. “This is our motto: He’s acting shady, so we bust out crazy. Lump …” she said slowly. “… his … azz … up … and I’m not talking ‘bout putting the hands up. I’m talkin’ ‘bout bustin’ out all his windows, texting all his homies, and telling ‘em he’s the official inch-long minute man.

  “I’m talkin’ ‘bout calling that Precious-lookin’ chick who Jamil cheated on me with and telling her that Jamil was diagnosed with VD. I’m talkin’ ‘bout swearin’ fo’ God to my mama, my daddy, the po’lice, oh, and the judge, that I didn’t mean for the bat to fly outta my hand when I was bashing dents in Jamil’s car and hit that old lady. I’m talkin’ ‘bout teachin’ that mofo not to play with my emotions! I’m talkin'—”

  “A lil crazy.” I patted Khya on the shoulder. “And I’m concerned.”

  “Something you wanna share?” Shae arched her brow.

  “No, I’m good,” Khya sniffed, while throwing one-two jabs in the air. “I’m calm. It’s just, you know … he ain’t have to do me like that. She had four kids, too. Now you know he was wrong. But anyway”—she batted her eyes—“forget Josiah if he’s acting shady.”

  “He’s not acting shady,” I said a little too quickly to even sound believable.

  “Girl, bye,” Shae said. “You need to stop frontin'. He was supposed to help you move in and he’s nowhere to be found.”

  Should I floor her now or later?

  “What?” Khya said, shocked. “Oh, that sounds like he’s messing with Shaka-Locka.”

  “Shaka-who?” Shae stopped in her tracks.

  “Shaka-Locka. That’s the heifer Jamil cheated on me with.” Khya whipped out her cell phone. “Let me call this trick and see if she’s struck again—”

  “First of all you won’t be able to hear a thing in the middle of a party, and second of all,” I snapped, “Josiah’s not cheating on me and especially not with somebody named Shaka-Locka!”

  “I can hear very well, and besides, you don’t know what Josiah’s doing—you haven’t heard from him in months,” Khya said, dialing.

  “It’s only been two days.”

  “Two days?” Shae said, taken aback. “You didn’t tell me that.”

  “Two days, two months,” Khya said as she placed her phone to her ear. “Same difference. And you don’t know if he’s messing with Shaka-Locka or not, ‘cause this here skeezer’s a worldwide ho.” She turned her attention toward her cell phone as the person on her receiver said hello.

  “Looka here, Precious,” Khya said, “are you back to being a trick again? Are you messin’ with my homegirl’s man?” Khya paused. “You know you look like Precious, Shaka-Locka, just live with it. Now, is Josiah over there?” Pause. “Oh you know what I’m talkin’ ‘bout.” Pause. “You gon’ do what?” Pause. “You know I’m ‘bout-it, ‘bout-it—you ain’t said nothing but a word. Ring da alarm! You can bring the whole damn ward if you want to. Matter’fact bring the whole damyum parish!”

  “That’s enough!” Shae snatched Khya’s phone out of her hand and hung up. “This isn’t about you and Jamil!”

  “You’re right,” Khya said with the look of a wild doe in her eyes. “You’re right, I was just making a point.”

  “And what was that?” I said. “ ‘Cause you just scared the bejesus outta me.”

  “The point was,” Khya said, “that we don’t tolerate playboys.”

  “Somebody call me?!” Big Country screamed into the microphone. “Somebody call for a playboy?”

  Shae turned toward Big Country and shot him a long and cold evil eye.

  “Dang Cornbread, I’m just playin'.”

  “Anywho”—Khya cracked her knuckles—“you need to sho’ lil whoady that being played is not your color.”

  “Pause.” I gave them the gas face, turned to Khya and gave her the warning eye. “Back up, for real, though. ‘Cause, yes, I love my man, but if he was playing me, which he is not, then I would leave him alone. Puhlease, believe I am not on it like that, okay? So shut it down. And for your information, not that I owe you an explanation, but me and Josiah are fine and he doesn’t toss me shade.”

  Khya wiggled her neck. “That’s what I said about Jamil—”

  “Fail.” Shae frowned. “We are not going there again, Khya. It’s not about you and Jamil.”

  “And it’s not about me and Josiah either.” I rolled my eyes. “Okay, so back up and go enjoy lil Ricky Ross over there.” I pointed to Big Country.

  “Dead,” Khya snapped. “Now apologize to Shae for getting her all hyped up, ‘cause Ricky Ross is a trade, ya heardz me? A hottie. So don’t be comparing him to Big Country. We came here to pass a good time and y’all trippin'. Trippin’ hard too. You don’t need to be gettin’ Shae all excited, like she about to be a rapper’s wife. It ain’t gon’ happen, you will never be on one of those Housewives shows—”

  “You can stop now, Khya,” Shae said.

  “I’m taking up for you, Shae, and I’m just sayin’ that Big Country better stick to these lil dorm-room parties and playing the bass drum in the band. Trust.”

  “Whatever.” I sucked my teeth. “All I’m saying, Shae, is that your rah-rah about Josiah is a dead issue.”

  Shae chuckled in disbelief. “The only reason I’ma let you live, Seven, is because we’re best friends, but you don’t have too many more chances to come out the side of your neck, ‘cause the next time it’s gon’ be a problem.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” Shae turned and walked away.

  Khya looked me over. “You know you’re wrong.”

  “Oh, now it’s all my fault?” I stabbed my index finger into my chest.

  “Pretty much.”

  I twisted my lips to the side. Dang. I glanced over at Shae, who was a five-foot-three, size-six, mocha-colored human AK-47, who stayed loaded at all times. Disguised only by her big button brown eyes, full smile, and micro-braids, as sweet and innocent to those who didn’t know her. But if you knew her, and especially if she was your bestie, you knew that Shae was the embodiment of keeping it real. Anything she had to say she said it to your face, whether you liked it or not. To love Shae was to know that she didn’t play and that she would fight for you to the end.

  But that didn’t mean I always wanted or welcomed her opinion.

  Ugg! I hated when she was mad with me.

  I could tell that I really hurt Shae’s feelings by the look on her face. Dang, I hated apologizing. I looked at Khya and frowned.

  “You too cute for frowning. Now apologize to Shae, ‘cause you Flava Flav stank-azz-ugly wrong.”

  “You being a lil extra.”

  Khya twisted her lips. “I’m not being extra. You so wrong you got yo mama twisted.”

  “What?”

  “Seven, follow me here,” she said slowly. “You are … Chris-beat-'em-down-Brown-before BET-gave-him-back-his career wrong.”

  I hesitated. “Dang, was it that bad?” I said, feeling guilty as ever.

  “Okay, maybe it wasn’t that bad, but still.” She pushed me slightly on the shoulder. “Now let’s go. Apologize. So we can get this party poppin’ again.”

  I walked over to Shae like a stray puppy with her tail tucked between her legs. “Shae.” I chewed the corner of my lip and leaned from one foot to the next—something I used to do when I was five, after we had a fight on the playground. “I’m sorry.” I pinched her cheek. “You forgive me? I was trippin'. My fault. I love you, you know that.”

  “Umm hmm,” she said, still looking pissed. “And I guess I shoulda fell back when you asked me to.” She seemed to be giving in.

  “So you forgive me?” I whined.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “I’ll let you go first the next time we jump rope,” I said jokingly.

  She looked at me seriously and said, “You my homegirl, like my sister, and you kn
ow that. And you also know we’re not in first grade and we’re not in high school screamin’ ‘ballin.’ We’re in college—it’s time to grow up and not let boyfriends, love, or anything else stop us from having a good time.”

  “True,” I said, “and I’m sorry for trippin'.” We started to hug.

  “Sniff, sniff,” Khya said as if she were crying. “Group hug.”

  “Awwl,” we said, opening our embrace and letting Khya in. “We love you too, Snuckums,” I said to Khya and we all fell out laughing.

  After a few moments of hugging, I convinced myself that I was straight buggin’ because there was no way I needed to let Josiah’s texts—or lack of—control my mood and stop my groove—so I started to get my party on.

  “Hold it,” Khya said in the middle of our dance, “is that—” She looked at Big Country. “Is that Baby Boy da Prince?” she said, excited. “Oh hell yeah!”

  A moment later the entire party, including me and my crew, were going crazy over this jam. The dudes were holding their iced chains by the humongous iced-out charms and waving ‘em in the air. All the girls were doing a soft bounce and everybody chanted, “I’m so fresh, I’m so clean … the bundle in my jeans and it’s real homie … Naw meen …”

  Finally, I was feeling this party. The music was hot and everybody in the place was straight. We continued our chant, “Naw meen … Naw meen …” until sweat formed streams of water over our faces and necks.

  “Awwl, suckie-suckie now,” Big Country shouted into the mic. “Y’all ready to get crunk?!”

  “Yeah!” everyone screamed in unison.

  “All right, let’s bring it on, ‘cause this is how we do it in the Boro!” Big Country cupped his hands around his mouth, leaned back, and shouted, “Mur … frees … boro, No’th Cacki-lackie, baby! The Dirty-Dirty. Here’s to sharing a lil bit of what we got with you, Stiles U!”

  The entire crowd was hyped as Big Country mixed one jam into another. We were all jamming and waving our arms in the air … and then it hit us all at the same time … this fool was straight-up playing country music. Not downsouth rap or DC Go-Go, I mean the real deal: Kenny Rogers and Willie Nelson. Those dudes.