Chasing Butterflies (16 page)

Well, I hadn’t.

Not until I came here.

I keep that to myself, though.

I glance down the street again. Those boys have turned the fire hydrant on. And now water is shooting out all over the place, flooding the street. One of the boys grabs one of the girls and scoops her up in his arms as he runs over toward the gushing water with her kicking and screaming and laughing as he gets her soaked.

Everyone starts laughing.

“Dumb hoes,” I hear Sha’Quita mutter. “Who got time gettin’ they weaves wet. I wish a
nucca
would.”

Clickety-click-clack
.

I stare at her.

Thinking, I wish he would, too.

A
few days later, I’m riding in the backseat of an Acura with Omar. He’s in the front passenger seat. I’m sitting directly behind him. And his friend with the long braids, Born Allah Understanding, or Born Understanding-something-or-another (I don’t know, it’s all confusing to me. Grown men calling themselves God. But okay!) is driving, his seat practically lying into the backseat.

I wonder how he can even see the road behind the steering wheel when he looks like he’s ready for bed.

But okay. Not my business.

Still, I’m praying for safe delivery to wherever we might be going. My right hand grips the seat belt strapped over my chest, and I squeeze for dear life as he drives like a maniac. Every so often I lean slightly over to eye the speedometer.

He’s going ninety!

Isn’t this considered reckless endangerment?

Doesn’t he know he’s carrying precious cargo?

Um. Apparently not!

And Omar doesn’t seem the least bit concerned by this Born guy’s aggressive driving. The only thing Omar’s been good about is not letting him smoke.

“Nah, God. Not wit’ my seed in the whip,” I overheard Omar saying when he’d put a blunt-thingy to his darkened lips and was getting ready to light it.

The car’s stereo is blasting so loud that I can actually feel my eardrums vibrating from the treble. I fear they’ll burst open by the time we get to wherever it is we’re going, and I’ll end up deaf. The bass of the music has my body literally shaking. I’m waiting to start convulsing any second now.

I bite into the side of my lip, preparing myself for a full-blown seizure.

Every so often, this Born guy eases up in his seat and I catch him stealing glances at me through his rearview mirror. At one point, I think he winks at me.

But I look away. I can’t be for certain.

Heck, I’m not sure of much of anything these days.

Everything still feels so surreal.

One minute I am in California with Daddy.

The next minute he’s being buried.

Then I’m in New Jersey—or
Jerzee
, as they call it—staying with a man trying to be
my
dad.

I am still so very sick from it all.

I stare out the window watching the world fly by as we zip by all the other cars on the freeway—at least that’s what I think we’re on. A freeway.

I lean up in my seat and tap Omar on the shoulder. He cranes his neck to look back at me. “Yo, what’s good, baby girl?” he says over the music.

I yell over the music. “What’s the name of this highway we’re driving on?”

“The Turnpike,” he says.

Oh.

I settle back in my seat, then catch this Born man gazing at me through his rearview mirror. I frown, shifting my eyes back out the window again. Suddenly, we come to a stop and wait, and then inch forward at a snail’s pace. There’s an accident over on the other side of the divider, in the opposite direction on the turnpike. A tractor-trailer has flipped over and caught fire. And there’s lots of traffic and thick, dark smoke. And flames.

“Oh,
sheeeeit
, God,” the Born man says, turning the volume down on the stereo and tapping Omar on the arm. “Check this out.” He points in the direction of the accident.

“Oh,
sheeeeeit
,” Omar exclaims, sitting up in his seat and letting his window down. He sticks his phone out of the window and starts taking pictures. “Yo, this some wild ish,” he says. “I’ma toss this up on the Gram.”

I roll my eyes up in the back of my head as the volume on the stereo raises back to an unbearable level to the sound of some gangster rap song.

My ears bleed.

My head aches.

Omar and his
God
friend bob their heads to the indecipherable gibberish.

And all I want to do is scream.

* * *

Twenty minutes and six-god-awful songs later, we finally arrive at our destination.

A park.

Mr. Born-something parks his car. As soon as we open our doors and spill out of the car, the mouthwatering smell hits me.

It’s a barbecue.

With lots and lots of cars, and shirtless-bodied men and half-dressed women with tattoos and piercings wearing lots of jewelry. And lots and lots of weaves.

There are clouds of smoke everywhere.

And not just from the grills.

Seems like everyone’s smoking something.

Drinking something.

Or smoking
and
drinking something.

Most of the females here—young and old—look like they’re vying for a spot on a rap video, or some sleazy amateur porn shoot.

Why in the heck would Omar bring me here?

“You a’ight?” he wants to know, looping an arm over my shoulder.

I feel myself shrinking in his embrace, nodding. “I’m okay.” But I’m not.

“Cool, cool. I wanna show you off to all my peoples,” he says, smiling.

But I don’t tell him of my dismay. I simply force a smile. It’s the best I can offer him.

“We gonna chill here wit’ some’a my peeps for a minute, then roll out. But if any of these mofos come at you crazy, you let me know; a’ight?”

My eyes widen.
Crazy
how?

My anxiety-meter quickly rises.

I am so out of my element, and here he is telling me to let him know if anyone comes at me
crazy
.

Why would he bring me around a bunch of potential crazies?

Because he’s half crazy himself!

“Yo, peace to the Gods,” Omar calls out, arms spread out in the air, to a group of guys—young and old, standing in a circle passing one of those nasty smelling blunt-thingies around—as we walk up to them.

For some reason, I’m suddenly panic-stricken.

“Oh,
sheeeeiiiit
,” they say in unison.

“When you get home,
nucca
?” they want to know.

“Yo, I see you still got that big-azz boulder head,” someone says.

Laughter.

And then there’s lots of one-armed hugging and backslapping and hand-dapping.

I step back, feeling so out of place.

“Yo, baby, what’s good? You like snakes?”

I look up into the eyes of a tall, brown-skinned guy with a head full of thick wavy hair.

He’s grinning at me, and I’m looking at him wondering why he’s asking me if I like snakes?

Is he about to pull one out?

My stomach drops down to my feet as I rapidly shake my head. “No. Snakes scare me.”

A short, stocky guy with a thick neck snickers.

And I don’t see what’s so funny about my fear of snakes.

Thick Waves takes a sip of his bottled beer, then says, “Baby, you ain’t gotta be scared. My anaconda won’t bite. Let me ’n’ my mans take you into the woods ’n’ show you a great time enjoyin’ ya body with it.”

I blink.

Ohmygod!

He’s talking about
that
kind of snake.

I crease my eyebrows and politely say, “Um. No, thank you.”

“Nah, baby. I’m only effen with you. Who you here with?”

Before I can open my mouth, Omar is at my side and says, “Yo, fam. What’s good? That’s my seed you tryna holla at. And she’s too young for you,
bra
.”

Thick Waves holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Oh, my bad, fam. I ain’t know.”

Omar grits his teeth, eyeing him. “Well, now you do. So step.”

“It’s all love,” Thick Waves says before he walk-staggers over to his next victim, with his muscled-neck shadow in tow.

“Yo, word is bond. I already see I’ma have ta take somebody’s face off out here,” Omar says, putting his thick arm over my shoulder. He introduces me to everyone in the circle.

“Yo, this is ya seed, fam? Word?”

“True indeed,” Omar says proudly.

I am expressionless. But inside I am frowning at all of this
seed
talk.

Anyway, they all look at me smiling and head nodding, then looking over at Omar. Trying to figure out
how
and from
where
, I’m sure.

“Say word?” someone says. “When ya ugly-azz have to time to plant a seed?”

More laughter.

“Yeah, word is bond, fam. She mine.”

I brace myself for what’s to come next.

Who’s her mother?

But Omar keeps it generic. And, despite the questioning eyes, I’m relieved.

“Damn, yo. She fine as
fu
—”

“Yo, fall back, my Gee,” Omar warns sternly. “She’s off limits.”

“How old is she, fam?” someone else in the now semicircle wants to know. I’m not sure which one of these faceless guys asks this since I’m just here physically.

Mentally, I’m sort of checking out from it all, so their faces start becoming blurs to me.

“Not old enough for you,
muhfuggah
,” Omar says.

The rest of the group laughs.

Omar doesn’t.

“Yo, God,” some guy says. “I’m just effen wit’ you. You know I ain’t no cradle robber. But, uh, check it. As soon as she hit eighteen, I’ma be checkin’ for ’er.”

“And I’ma be breakin’ ya jaw,” Omar says. And although he’s laughing with him, the look in his eye tells me he’s very, very serious.

“I’ll holla at you cats later,” Omar says. And then his attention is on me. “You hungry?”

Then, as if on cue my stomach growls, and I nod. “Yes.”

“A’ight. Let’s go see what’s poppin’ over on the grill.”

Someone with really big arms covered in tattoos walks up and greets Omar, embracing him in a big hug, then steps back.

“Yo, who dis pretty young thing?” he says, practically leering at me with his tongue wagging out of his mouth.

“Nah,
nucca
, fall back,” Omar says protectively, pushing the guy backward in the chest. “She’s my seed, yo.”

“Oh, damn, big homie,” he says, seemingly shocked. He looks at me. Narrows his stare, his eyes glinting recognition of some sort. He looks back at Omar. Then points over at me. “Wait. She looks like . . .” He shakes his head. “Nah. Hol’ up.” He points at me, then at Omar. “Monica’s ya BM?”

BM?

I don’t have time to decipher the acronym since my heart jumps at the sound of hearing my mom’s name.

He knows my mother?

“Word is bond,” Omar says. “She me ’n’ Monica’s.”

“Girl, c’mere ’n’ give me a hug,” he says, wrapping his big arms around me. “Ya moms was my heart. Word is bond. I was tryna bag that, but this ugly mofo is all she had eyes for.”

Omar laughs. “Yo, don’t hate, nucca.”

Big Arms frees me from his embrace and eyes me, smiling. “Damn, Monica spit you out lookin’ just like her.”

I smile nervously. “Thanks.”

“Man, I’ll get up,” Omar says, giving the guy another brotherly handshake and one-armed hug before ushering me off by the elbow.

“How does he know my mom?” I ask as we walk toward the long rows of tables where the food is.

“He was my mans back in the day. He was wit’ me the day I met ya moms.”

Oh.

“How old was she again?”

“Fourteen,” he says. “But she had a body like an eighteen-year-old. E’ery cat from around the way was tryna get at her; word is bond.”

“For real? Why?”

“’Cause she wasn’t a hood chick,” he says, stepping in back of the line. “Ya moms was mad classy.”

I take him in.

White tank top. True Religion jeans. White Jordans. Neck draped in gold. A body covered in tattoos.

And still . . . she fell for a boy/man like
him
.

“H
eeeeeeeey, boooooo,” Sha’Quita says in her annoying singsong voice.

I glance over to see whom she’s talking about.

It’s a boy.

He’s tall, real tall.

Maybe like six-four or more.

Lean.

Muscled.

Smooth, dark chocolate skin.

Dreads.

Half-sleeve tattoos on both arms.

He walks up and scoops her in his arms. He’s wearing designer jeans, designer T-shirt, designer sneakers, and a NY Nets fitted cap pulled down over his eyes. “Yo, what’s good, babe? How you?” He glances over at me and stares. Then he grins crookedly.

I shift in my seat on the hard step.

In the same spot I always sit.

At the bottom of the stairs.

I shift my gaze from his.

The heat index all of sudden seems to rise.

Hotter.

“Ooooh, I’m good now, boo,” Sha’Quita coos, brushing up on him. “And I’ll be even better when you stop playin’ ’n’ let me get a taste of that meat juice.”

I frown.

He laughs. “Yo, Quita, you wild as
fawwk
, yo.”

“Uh-huh. But I’m real, boo.”

He steps back, still looking over at me. “Yeah, a’ight, man. You stay talkin’ that ish. Yo, who’s the li’l cutie over there?”

Sha’Quita sucks her teeth. “Boy, bye. That ain’t nobody.”

I blink.

How dare she dismiss me, like I’m insignificant!

“Oh, word?” Dark Chocolate says, scanning me with his eyes. “Well, she looks like a whole lotta
something
to me. Yo, what’s good, cutie?”

I swallow. “Hi,” I say softly, giving him a half wave.

“Yo, you ain’t gotta be shy, ma. I don’t bite.” He grins. “Unless you tryna get bitten.”

Sweat starts rolling down the center of my back. I shift my eyes from his. Take in his white Gucci belt, the waistband of his Ralph Lauren underwear; the intricate design of his tattoos; anything except his blazing gaze on me.

What is going on here?

Stop
, Nia! Stop!

This is so not like you.

“No, she ain’t tryna get bitten, boy,” Sha’Quita huffs, grabbing him by the arm, stopping him from walking over toward the steps.

And, unbeknownst to her, freeing me from further uneasiness.

“She ain’t even ya flava, boo. She ain’t ’bout that life.”

What
flavor
is that?

And what life am I
not
supposed to be about, I wonder, eyeing Sha’Quita.

But she’s too busy ogling Dark Chocolate to see that I’m staring her down.

I struggle to keep from rolling my eyes at her.

I take a deep breath instead, catching the eyes of Dark Chocolate.

He grins at me. “I can’t tell,” he says, licking his lips. “Word is bond, yo. From here she lookin’ real right. I don’t know what
you
talkin’ about, man. But give me a day wit’ cutie ’n’ I’ll make her all ’bout this life, straight like that, real talk.”

He’ll
make
me about what life?

“Boy, bye. Since when you start checkin’ for cornball hoes?” I frown. “Cali Girl, ain’t ready.”

“Oh, you from Cali, huh, cutie?”

My mouth goes instantly dry.

I forcefully swallow back the sawdust that has somehow formed and gathered in the back of my throat.

“Yes.”

“Oh, word? What part?”

“Long Beach,” I tell him.

Sha’Quita laughs. “Yeah, wit’ them uppity white-actin’ blacks. Can’t you tell she an Oreo?”

I raise a brow. Open my mouth to say something but—

“You wildin’ for real, yo,” he says. “E’erybody ain’t gotta act all hood to be black. You ignorant as hell for lettin’ that come outta ya mouth, yo.”

“
Nucca
, don’t even try’n play me. I ain’t ig’nant ’bout nothin’. And I ain’t
actin’
hood, boo.”

“Nah, yo, you
are
hood.”

She says this as if being
hood
is something to celebrate and be proud of. Well, um. Then again, I guess it is if you don’t have anything else going for yourself.

I sigh, deciding not to entertain her ridiculousness. I’m learning she is always looking for a reason to attack me, so I’m not giving her the satisfaction.

Not today.

And not in front of her
boo
.

Or whoever he is to her.

“
Annnnny
waaaay,” she says, swinging her hair. “Where you been at, bae? You been MIA mad long. Oooh, I missed you, boo.”

He laughs. “Yo, that’s wassup. Yeah, I was ghost for a minute. Mom dukes dragged me down to Georgia for a family reunion.”

Georgia?

Did he say
Georgia
?

Yes.

He did.

My ears perk up. Aunt Terri comes to mind, and it dawns on me that she still hasn’t gotten back to me. I let it go—for now. I reach into my bag, pulling out my cell, and checking my phone. There’s still nothing from her. No missed call. No text message. Nothing.

I drop my phone back in my bag.

Still, I want to jump up and ask him what part of Georgia, but my nerves won’t let me.

So I keep my mouth shut.

“Ooh, you were out there wit’ them ashy-lipped, dusty-foot, biscuit-heel bumpkins,” Sha’Quita says, laughing.

Dark Chocolate shakes his head, laughing. “You stoopid, yo. But yeah, some of ’em were mad dusty; word is bond. But it was all good. We had that loud on deck. So I stayed smoked out the whole time, feel me?”

“Oooh, I know that’s right,” Sha’Quita says, giving him a high-five. “Put ya lighters up, yassss, yasssss!”

“No doubt. You already know.”

“Yasss, boo, yassss. And them Fireballs on ice.”

He laughs.

I’m lost as to what it is they’re talking about.

Loud?

Fireballs?

I am clueless.

I open my journal and write.

“Yo, what’s good cutie? What you over there writin’?”

I look up from my journal. Dark Chocolate is staring at me.

“You write songs?”

I shake my head. “No. I—”

“Boy, bye. Cali Girl ain’t writin’ no songs.”

She lets out an annoying cackle, sounding like a wounded hen.

I don’t see the joke.

But she can
hahaha
all she wants.

“Cali Girl over there drawin’ imaginary friends.” She keeps laughing.

My frown deepens.

I’m so sick of her.

I take another deep breath.

Remind myself that this girl is . . .

Trifling.

Troublesome.

And I would go on if—

“Man, you dead wrong, yo,” her friend says. “That’s that dumbness, for real for real.”

Sha’Quita punches him. “Boy, I know you ain’t even tryna call me dumb.”

He just did.

Didn’t he?

“You are dumb, yo,” he says, plucking her in the head. “Wit’ ya bald-headed azz.”

“Owww, boy! You play too much. Don’t even try it wit’ ya pumpkin-head. I know you ain’t even tryna come for me wit’ that oversized globe up on ya shoulders.”

He laughs. “Yo, I know you ain’t even talkin’ about nobody’s head wit’ them Nefertiti edges you got. You mad ugly tryna slick them shits down. What you usin’, Crisco outta the can?”

I chuckle to myself.

She is always in the mirror with that dirty toothbrush, trying to brush down those edges and slicking them down with gel, like she has baby hair.

“Oh, I know you ain’t even tryna call my hair nappy, boo-boo.”

He laughs. “I just did. Straight-up steel wool, yo. Word is bond, fam. You look like you stepped off the set of
Roots
, lookin’ like Kunta in drag.”

Oh, noo! Not
Roots
!

Not
Kunta
!

Daddy made me watch
Roots
with him on DVD two summers ago.

And I fell in love with that seventies miniseries.

Even if it is old, I think everyone should watch it, especially kids my age. It was so, so good.

Sha’Quita sucks her teeth. “Ooh, you tried it, boo-boo. Wit’ ya ugly-azz moms.”

I look at her and hear Shug Avery’s voice from
The Color Purple
as she says, “You sho’ is ugly . . .”

Oh, how I love that movie.

Daddy took me to see the play, too.

But the book is
soooo
much better.

It was one of my selected readings in my AP English class last year.

And that part is still one of the funniest lines to me.

I have to bite my tongue to keep from falling out in laughter.

At Sha’Quita.

“Aye, yo. Fall back on the moms jokes, yo. You know you don’t want it, man.”

“No,” she snaps, “you don’t want it! You know how I do, boo-boo. It’s whatever.”

Dark Chocolate laughs. “Oh, so you really wanna play the moms game, huh? A’ight, I got you, yo. Least my moms ain’t runnin’ ’round lookin’ like one of the Hobbits.”

“Oh no. Try again, boo-boo. At least my moms doesn’t look like a gorilla. Tell her to get up off her knees ’n’ stop takin’ back shots in alleyways.”

“Womp, womp, womp. You mad corny for that, yo. But, uh, when’s the last time ya moms changed her drawz, yo? Or brushed that one wooden tooth?”

“’Round the same time yours changed hers,” Sha’Quita snaps.

“You a lie. Ya moms smells like spoiled clam juice, yo. She a walkin’ fish market. She got flies and gnats all up in that funk-box. That booty rotten, yo. She straight garbage truck trash.”

“Oooooh, I hate you!” Sha’Quita screams, laughing. “I wanna fight you, punk!” She tries to hit him, but he blocks her.

I watch the exchange between them, wondering if this is the
boo
she’s
warned
me to not look at.

He keeps laughing. “Ya mouth’s real slick, yo.”

“And it stays wet, too, boo.” She licks her lips. “Pound these tonsils ’n’ let me show you.”

Ohmygod!

Is she implying what I think she is?

My frown deepens.

He shakes his head. “Yeah, a’ight. I’ll take ya word for it, yo.”

“Oh, don’t be
scurrred
now, boo. This neck work will make you drop to ya knees.”

Stuffing my journal in my bag, I stand.

Brush the back of my shorts.

I decide I’ve heard enough.

“Yo, you rollin’ out, cutie?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

“Oh, a’ight. Keep it sexy, ma.”

Ohmygod!

Did he just call me
sexy
?

No, silly. He said
keep
it
sexy.

I swallow. “I will. Thanks.”

He grins. “No doubt, ma. You need to come down to the courts ’n’ chill one day. Tell ’er, Quita.”

Sha’Quita grunts.
“Not.”

He gives her a look, shaking his head. “Yo, Quita; word is bond, yo. Stop frontin’. Bring her down to the courts wit’ you.”

She smacks her lips. “Boy, bye. Don’t be tryna plan my life. You know I travel light.”

I keep from rolling my eyes.

I open my mouth to speak, then close it.

It’s so not worth it.

I climb the steps up to the apartment building, swinging open the door.

The last thing I hear before the glass door shuts behind me is, “I can’t stand that corny
ho
.”