Chasing Butterflies (14 page)

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Authors: Amir Abrams

BOOK: Chasing Butterflies
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31
“U
mm, Quita, where—”
“
Bish
,” she snaps nastily, after Omar leaves us alone. And all I keep wondering is why he closed the door, leaving me up in here with her and this rancid stench. “Don’t call me
that
. It’s
Shaaaa’
Quiiiita to you. And I don’t care who Omar says you are. You ain’t
sheeeiiit
to me.”
I blink.
“Oh, apologies,” I say meekly. “I meant no harm.”
Lips twisted slightly, she stares me down. “Well, I do. So let’s get a few things straight, right now. You stay”—she points over at the twin bed—“over there on ya side of
my
room. I ain’t ya friend. And I ain’t tryna be ya friend. Stay outta my things. Don’t touch my stereo. And don’t speak unless I speak to you first.”
My mouth opens, but no words form to come out.
This girl acts like
I
invited myself here.
Like being here was on my bucket list of things to do, places to see.
“Okay,” I say softly. I swallow. “But I’m not looking for any problems.”
“Well, don’t start any ’n’ there won’t be none.”
“Fair enough,” I say, exasperated. “Anything else.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Yeah, when my boo comes around, don’t even think about tryna be up in his face. He ain’t gonna be checkin’ for you like that. So don’t play ya’self. ’Cause if you even bat a lash wrong, I’ma beat ya face in.”
I recoil.
My mind quickly starts to tick off a list of adjectives to describe her.
Rude.
Aggressive.
Obnoxious.
Miserable.
Hateful.
Bully...
“No worries,” I assure her. “I’m not here for boys.”
She snorts. “
Mmph
. Whatever. Secondly, my boo ain’t no
boy
, girl. He’s a grown-azz man. Get it right, Cali Girl.”
“My name is Nia. Not Cali Girl,” I correct, keeping my voice even.
If looks could kill, I’d be dead.
In my mind’s eye, I see her pulling out a knife and pressing it up to my neck, nicking the skin, drawing blood.
I swallow the knot forming in the back of my throat.
“
Mmph
. Girl, bye.”
She starts snatching open dresser drawers as if she’s looking for something, then slamming them shut. I feel myself getting woozy from the smell and the heat. Yet she’s fluttering around here like she’s in heaven.
She shoots me a nasty scowl. “So you just gonna stand there, holdin’ ya bags like you scared to put them down?”
Um. Yes. That’s exactly what’s going on here. “No. I was trying to ask you what I should do with them.”
She frowns. “Do I look like a dang bellhop to
you
? Geesh. You’re dumber than you look.”
I cringe.
This fight is not yours, Nia,
I hear in my head.
“I’m not sure where to put them.” Where the roaches won’t get into them.
“Girl, bye. You holdin’ them bags like somebody gonna jack you for ya junk. Ain’t nobody gonna steal that late mess you got up in them bags.” She looks me up and down. “You don’t have nothin’ I want, boo-boo. So you might as well toss them bags down on the bed, or put ’em on the side of—”
“Ooooh, heeeeeeey,” someone says, bursting into the room. The first thing (no, no: the first
two
things) I notice when she steps into the room is that she’s braless under her red tank top. And that she reeks of something strong, almost like a skunk smell. I try to keep from frowning.
The Quita girl sucks her teeth. “Dang, Kee-Kee! Why can’t you knock? You so effen rude!”
They must be sisters, I think.
They both have the same mahogany-colored skin tone and round brown eyes with long, fake lashes.
She scowls. “Quita, you better watch ya mouf ’fore I put my fist in it. You don’t pay no bills up in here.”
The Quita girl rolls her eyes hard. “And neither do
you,
boo-boo.”
“Well, my EBT keeps you fed; doesn’t it? And I don’t hear you complainin’ when I’m lettin’ you cash in so you can get ya knotty, bald-headed-azz head did, do I? So as long as I’m feedin’ ’n’ financin’ you”—she stomps her foot—“don’t do me, ho.”
The two of them go back and forth, calling each other all types of filthy names, and I’m standing here watching it unfold—shocked, frightened, and almost amazed at the level of disrespect, my eyes bouncing back and forth like two tennis balls.
I ease back some.
Quita—I mean, Sha’Quita—opens her mouth to say something else, but the words never make it past her lips before the Kee-Kee lady leaps into the air—well, that’s what it looks like it from here—and smacks Quita, uh, Sha’Quita down to the floor, then stands over her and punches her.
In the head.
In the face.
Ohmygod.
She’s practically foaming out the mouth as she fights Sha’Quita.
I almost feel bad for her.
Almost.
“I keep tellin’ you ’bout ya slick mouth. You like it when I bust you in it, don’t you, Quita, huh,
bish
?”
Whap!
Whap!
Sha’Quita yells and screams for her to get off of her. Everything is happening so fast, my head is almost spinning from it all.
“Yo, what
dafuq
?!” Omar yells, racing into the room. “Kee-Kee, what the hell, yo?” He tries to pull her off of the Sha’Quita girl, but she refuses to let go. She has her by the hair, wildly punching her. Sha’Quita is kicking and screaming.
I don’t know if I should call the police or run for my life.
It’s like watching a horrible train wreck.
I stay planted, watching the brawl.
Omar is finally able to pry her hands out of Sha’Quita’s hair, snatching her up in the air. “No, get off me,
Oh
. I’ma kill her disrespectful azz!”
“Chill, Kee, damn, yo.”
Sha’Quita is still down on the floor, holding her head and face, crying. Clumps of weave are all over the floor. “I hate you!”
“Well, I hate you, too! So, go ’head, boo! Keep runnin’ ya mouth ’n’ I’ma snatch out the resta ya scalp!”
Omar looks over at me and shakes his head. “Yo, so I guess you’ve met ya aunt Kee-Kee.”
32
I
’m exhausted.
I couldn’t sleep last night.
I spent most of the night up.
Scared to close my eyes.
See. I, um . . .
Last night I experienced the most horrific sighting. In the middle of the night I climbed out of bed, thirsty. So I tiptoed down the darkened hallway, my eyes adjusting to the pitch-blackness, and felt along the kitchen wall for a light switch.
I cut the kitchen light on.
And
shrieked
in horror.
There were
hundreds
and
hundreds
of different size bugs covering the walls, scattering all over the place. They were all over the floor, the cabinets; covered the stovetop, and crawled all over the stack of dirty dishes piling out of the sink. They even scurried out of the overflowing trash can.
They were everywhere.
The whole kitchen was under attack.
Invaded by nasty bugs.
I back-stepped out of the kitchen, then backed into someone standing in back of me.
I jumped.
It was Omar.
“My bad. I heard somethin’.” He scratched himself.
I was too distraught to even care. “W-what are
all
those bugs? They’re
every
where.”
Omar looked at me, bemusement dancing in his eyes. “You really don’t know?”
My skin itched, and I struggled not to scratch. “No. I don’t.”
He shook his head, giving me a sympathetic look. “They’re roaches,” he said.
My eyes widened. Oh, God. “Roaches as in
cock
roaches?”
For a second, I thought I saw a mixture of sympathy and amusement swimming in his pupils. He stifled a chuckle. “Yeah.”
I shook my head, trying to absorb all of this. “H-how does anyone live like this?”
His brow rose. And I immediately kicked myself for how the question came out, and I found myself scrambling with an apology, trying to clean it up.
He rubbed his eyes, then yawned. “You good. Sometimes you gotta do what you can to adapt; eventually, you get used to it, feel me?”
I didn’t. I stood there unable to wrap my mind around ever adapting to what I’d seen. It was horrifying. The rest of the night I sat up in bed, terrified of falling asleep.
When I finally did doze off—after fighting it for a long as I could—it was nearly daybreak.
However, I was rudely awakened, deliriously, to the sound of pots and pans clanking, and cabinet doors slamming.
Someone was in that nasty kitchen, making lots of ruckus.
I rubbed my eyes, sweeping my gaze around the room to catch my bearings.
Sadly, I was still not home.
I was still here, in this nastiness.
I pulled out my cell phone, and glanced at the time.
It was seven a.m.
So, basically, I’d slept for only two hours.
And now it’s a little after eleven in the morning.
I’m finally in the shower.
But I couldn’t actually get in it until after I scrubbed and bleached down the walls and the inside of the tub.
I’ve never seen such filthiness before.
Until now.
So here I am.
With my Speedo water shoes on, standing under the spigot, warm water spraying down on me, scrubbing my skin with my loofah sponge and crying.
The running water muffles my sobs.
It seems like the only place in this cramped apartment where I might be able to have a moment and cry in peace. It’s the only place where it seems I don’t have to worry about prying eyes or ridicule or judgment. So it’s where I’ve allowed myself to get lost under the heavy stream of water, releasing a river of tears.
I don’t know how long I’ve been crying, but when I am done shedding my last tear, my skin is practically shriveled.
I shut off the water.
Reach to pull back the shower curtain.
Then stop.
There’s a noise.
Panicked, I hold my breath.
Listen.
I’m too afraid to peek out to see.
Then there’s a grunt.
My eyes widen.
Ohmygod!
What is that?
There’s another grunt.
And then the bathroom fills with a pungent stench that almost knocks me over.
Someone else is in here.
I cough and gag, then ask, “Who’s in here?” And how did you get in here?
I’m almost afraid to know.
Please, God, don’t let it be Omar.
“Who do you think it is,” the voice on other side of the shower curtain says nastily.
Ohmygod!
No!
Sha’Quita.
“W-what are you doing in here? Don’t you see I’m in here using the shower?” I cover myself with my arms as if she can see me through the curtain.
“Bisssh,
and
?”
Then as if to punctuate her point, she passes gas.
The sound echoes in the ceramic bowl.
Loud and obnoxious, like her.
Ugh!
Oh, God!
She smells awful.
“You think I’m ’posed to hold this ish in? Girl, bye. You was takin’ mad long. And I had’a go.” She grunts again. “I knocked twice”—another grunt—“and you ain’t open ya mouth, so I pried open the door.”
She belligerently passes more gas.
And I swoon from the fumes.
She smells rancid.
And now I’m trapped inside this tiny makeshift gas chamber.
Waiting to die a slow death by inhalation.
I cover my nose with my washcloth, gagging.
“Ohmygod!”
“
Trick
, shut ya meat hole. You act like you ain’t ever fart before. Or take a dump.” She grunts again, then laughs. “Oh, wait. I forgot. You uppity, bougie hoes don’t fart. You
poot
. You don’t shit. You go number
two
.
Bisssh
, boo.”
“This is so freaking gross, Sha’Quita!” I exclaim, struggling to hold my breath.
“Then get out,” she snaps.
I can’t. “Well, can you at least hand me my towel?” I asked, relieved that I’d packed my own bath towels and facecloths.
She sucks her teeth. “Uh, no. If you want it, get it yaself. My name ain’t Hazel. And I ain’t ya maid.”
The small space fills with the stench of fresh poop.
“Can you at least courtesy flush?
Please
?” The request comes out muffled.
“Courtesy flush?” She grunts again. “Uh. Where they doin’ that? We ain’t doin’ no double-flushin’ up in here. You don’t like the smell, hold ya breath.”
She passes more gas.
And my knees buckle.
* * *
Two days later, Omar had this lady Miss Peaches—um, well, he introduced her as his
friend
, but she kept acting like she was his girlfriend or something—take us to Walmart and CVS.
I’d never set foot inside a Walmart my entire life until then.
What an experience.
That’s all I can say.
Anyway, I decided if I had to stay in this apartment for however long, then I needed some things to make my stay halfway bearable.
If bearable is even remotely possible.
But, oh well. I digress.
At CVS, I bought rubber gloves and a box of surgical masks. Then, at Walmart I picked out a portable air conditioner for the window and six cans of roach spray, along with two flashlights—one for under my pillow at night, and the other for my book bag—and three boxes of Combat Gel Baits and Bait Strips.
Oh, and a vacuum cleaner.
Sweeping rugs with a broom is so not it.
But vacuuming up roaches is.
Thank goodness for Google.
I had to search online the best way to kill those nasty little critters.
Miss Peaches kind of looked at me with amusement, while Omar pulled out his money and paid for my supplies. Not that I needed him to. I have my own money. Still, it was generous of him to do so.
I think he might have felt bad for me.
Maybe even a little embarrassed.
But, um, obviously, not enough to put me up in a hotel.
Miss Peaches chuckled, and said, “Good luck, sweetie. Them stubborn-ass roaches ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
I shrugged it off.
I know I can’t kill them all. But my mind is—
and
was—set on decreasing as many as I possibly can for the time I’m here. Once I’m gone, they can breed and multiply and eat through the walls if they want.
What do I care?
But right now, I’m on a mission.
So, here I am—with Omar, be clear—in Sha’Quita’s depressingly dirty bedroom, with gloves on and a face mask strapped to my face, armed with a can of Raid, spraying like a wild banshee, while Omar is pulling out her furniture and vacuuming up dust and dead roaches.
I guess this is our bonding time.
Anyway.
I’m frantically spraying all around the baseboards, near my bed in particular. Behind and around Sha’Quita’s bed—although, I confess, I thought to leave her side untouched since she seems to have some sort of allegiance to insects and bugs.
All I keep wondering is, is this apartment, this bedroom the definition of a trap house?
“Damn, she’s nasty, yo,” Omar says, yelling over the roar and crunch of the vacuum cleaner.
I keep spraying. Never opening my mouth, but I’m wondering why he’s pretending to be surprised at how filthy she is.
Oh, wait.
He’s been locked up forever.
Whatever. It’s in that girl’s genes—nastiness, obviously.
Heck, everyone here seems comfortable living in squalor, but I’m not.
All I keep thinking is, Sha’Quita is going to lose her mind when she walks in and sees that I’ve killed off most of her pets.
I almost want to laugh.
I cut my eyes over at Omar. He’s wiping sweat from his face with a washcloth he carries in his back pocket. I go back to the task of spraying while he pulls out the long dresser.
“Aye, yo, what
dafawwk,
man!” he snaps.
I look over and he’s holding up two pair of dirty panties Sha’Quita had in back of the dresser. “This don’t make no goddamn sense for a female to be this effen nasty, yo.”
I shrug, reminding myself that this is not my problem.
Then I pray for God to deliver me from this hell.

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