Chasing Butterflies (17 page)

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Authors: Amir Abrams

BOOK: Chasing Butterflies
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37
L
et it go, Nia . . .
I can’t let it go.
I won’t let it go.
Ho?
She called
me
a
ho
!
I’ve never in my life been called
that
.
Does that girl not know what a
ho
is?
Clearly not!
I’ll show you what a
ho
is.
It’s her!
She is the walking definition of it. I’m not the one dressing all skanky-like, and practically advertising for a good time.
She is.
She’s a billboard for an easy lay; yet she has the audacity to call me some fricking
ho
. In my head, I hear Daddy telling me to just ignore her. That I shouldn’t care what she thinks or says about me.
And I don’t.
It’s the principle.
I’m not a
ho
.
And I don’t wish to be called one, or be referred to as one.
Period.
I’m so dang annoyed.
Very.
And then she tried to humiliate me in front of her, her...
friend
.
What if I would have told him just how nasty she is, and embarrassed her the way she tried to embarrass me?
How she just steps out of her panties and leaves them in the middle of the floor, most times,
stained
.
How she likes sleeping and living in filth.
I bet she wouldn’t like it one bit.
Ugh.
Then, again . . . trashy girls like her don’t care.
He probably knows how nasty she is.
And likes it anyway.
I walk over to the window and peer out, narrowing my gaze.
Mmph
.
I don’t see
her
.
Or him.
She’s probably somewhere on the side of a building or in some raggedy bush with her
boo
doing what nasty girls like her do.
Nastiness.
Having had enough of her nasty attitude and her giving me her stinking butt to kiss, I step away from the window, determined to have it out with her the minute I see her, in private, of course.
Daddy always taught me if I have a problem with someone to address him or her on it in private; not to let it fester or escalate. He always said it was best to find a resolution, but if the problem couldn’t be fixed, then both parties should figure out a way to coexist with the least amount of stress.
Well, guess what?
Sha’Quita is the problem. This I know.
And there’s no fixing her. This I know as well.
Still, I can’t keep letting her think it’s okay to be mean and nasty to me.
I just can’t.
I sit on the edge of my—and I say this
loosely
—bed with my arms folded tight against my chest, staring over at Sha’Quita’s nasty side of the room.
Clothes everywhere.
Bed unmade.
Three opened Red Bull cans on her nightstand.
I tear my eyes away from her clutter, leaning my head back on my shoulders and staring up at the ceiling.
Why, Daddy, why?
I find myself counting the cracks in the ceiling, then staring up at the cobweb that’s dangling from the broken ceiling fan.
“This is crazy,” I huff, pulling my cell from out of my bag. I call Aunt Terri.
The call goes directly to voice mail.
I call again.
It rings four times, then rolls over to voice mail.
I leave a message. “Hi, Aunt Terri. This is Nia. Hope everything is okay. Can you
please
call me?
Please
. I’ve left you three messages and several texts but I still haven’t heard from you. Please call me back. It’s urgent.”
I get up from the bed and pace the room with my cell clutched in my fist, willing it to ring. But it doesn’t.
I call Aunt Terri again. Then check my voice mail, knowing dang well I haven’t missed any calls. But, just in case, I check anyway.
Nothing.
Through my teary-eyed haze, I spot a roach crawling on the carpet. I angrily stomp on it. Stomping and stomping and stomping until I’ve squashed it so far down into the carpet fibers that it looks like a small dark spot.
I plop back down on the edge of the bed, and wait...
38
I
don’t see Sha’Quita until almost nine p.m., talking on her cell obnoxiously loud. “Girrrrrl, he was puttin’ that work in like he was ’bout to do a bid. Uh-huh. I know, right . . .”
She opens her closet door, then kicks her heels off into the closet, then shuts the door. She shoots me a look.
“You know I can’t really talk like I wanna ’cause Miss Nosy is all up in mine . . . uh-huh. I don’t know when she’s leavin’ up outta here. Girl, no. It better not be for the whole summer. I already tol’ Omar she gotta bounce.”
I blink.
“But anyway. I tol’ Supreme wit’ his fine self that I’m in need of some good-good.” She giggles. “Boo, you know I did. You know how I get down, boo. Yassss, bisssh, yassss! I let him know what time it is. Beat this throat up. Oooh, hahahahaha. Right, right . . . you know I take it like a champ. I was built for it . . .”
I bite the inside of my lip.
She’s on the phone a few minutes more before finally ending her call. And when she does, I’m up and ready for her. “Um. Sha’Quita?” I start calmly, since I’m not as pissed as I was earlier. Still, I need to address her. Daddy always told me if you have a problem with someone, address it with him and try to, hopefully, resolve it.
So this is what I’m going to do.
Address it.
“Can I have a word with you?”
“Um, no, you may not,” she says, drawing in a sharp breath. “I’m about to watch my show ’n’ I’m not ’bout to have you irkin’ my soul wit’ ya dumbness.”
Her soul?
She’s joking, right?
This girl’s soulless.
I have to bite the inside of my bottom lip to keep from laughing at her.
If I weren’t so agitated, I probably
would
laugh in her face. The absurdity alone is hilarious. Instead, I settle for saying, “I won’t take up much of your time.” I make sure to keep my tone even. Non-combative. “I just want to have a few words with you. It’ll only take a couple of minutes.”
She twists her lips and gives me a funny look. She stares at me long and hard.
My stare is fixed on hers.
She’s not backing down.
And this time, neither am I.
We can play this stare-down game all night. I’m not the one trying to rush off to watch some brainless reality show.
She narrows her eyes, then makes a show of checking her watch, tapping a finger over the face. “You’ve got two minutes fifty-seven seconds,” she says tersely. “And not a second more.”
Daddy has always said there’s no arguing with stupidity or ignorance.
Sha’Quita is both, so I’m basically damned if I do, damned if I don’t.
I decide to take my chances. “Without getting defensive and turning this into a big production,” I say, calmly, “I want to know why you feel it’s okay for you to talk to me disrespectfully?”
She scoffs. “Girl, bye! If I
disrespected
you, you’d know it. hon. Okay? What, would you like me to stand here ’n’ bleed for you? Trust. I’m real wit’ mine.”
Real?
Umm. Definition, please.
I take a breath to calm my rattling nerves. “Okay. Let’s be
real
then,” I say, mindful to keep my tone light. “You don’t like me, do you?”
She stares at me. “No.”
“Why?”
She tilts her head. “Does it matter?”
No, it doesn’t. You add no value to my life. I shake my head. “Not really.”
“
Mmph
. Then why you ask?”
“Because I want you to know that I’m okay with you
not
liking me. But what I’m
not
okay with is you trying to bully me. And embarrass me any time you get around one of your friends.”
She frowns. “Girl, bye. You effen crazy.”
I sigh. It’s clear nothing will get resolved.
As Daddy has always said, “Nothing changes if nothing changes.”
“I didn’t ask to come here, Sha’Quita. And I didn’t ask to come disrupt your life.”
Hand on hip, she’s preparing for confrontation. “And why exactly are you here again? ’Cause the last I heard nobody else wanted you ’n’ you had no other place to go.”
I choke back a cry.
This girl is heartless!
Unshed tears burn the back of my eyes and make my forehead ache.
“I’m h-here because
my
father died.” A lump catches in my throat.
She shrugs. “Well, I don’t have one of them, so can’t relate.”
I blink.
She tilts her head, eyeing me. “What, what you want? A hug? A biscuit?”
I feel my face growing hot. I take a deep breath, willing my tears back. “No, Sha’Quita. I don’t want anything from you.”
She huffs. “Well, good. ’Cause I ain’t got nothin’ for you.” She steps out of her teenie-weenie shorts. Then removes her shirt. Then unsnaps her bra. “All you are is a sympathy case, boo-boo,” she says as she’s walking over to the air conditioner, shutting it off. She turns to me. “So if you lookin’ for a Hallmark card, don’t. I ain’t handin’ out no pity.”
“I’m not looking for your
pity
, Sha’Quita. And I’m not
asking
you to feel sorry for me. I’m doing a good job of that on my own. But what I am asking
you
for is some respect. Not once have I called you names, or been condescending or threatening to you. But you—”
“
Threatening
you? Girl, bye! I ain’t ever threaten you. Trust. If I did, you would know it.”
I pin her with a hard stare. “Well, I’ve
felt
threatened.”
She huffs. “Well, that’s too bad. I don’t care what you’ve
felt.
That’s on you. My name ain’t Willy Wonka, boo-boo. I don’t sugarcoat nothin’.”
I frown. “Are you jealous of me?” The question comes out before I have a chance to process it.
She laughs sinisterly, standing in all of her nakedness. “Jealous? Ha. Of
you
? Girl, puh-leeze! I ain’t ever been jelly of no basic
bissh
. Look at you ’n’ look at me. I’m
e’ery
thing you wish you could be.”
I blink once.
Twice.
Three times.
Trying to see in
her
what it is I’m supposed to want to be.
Fake hair. Fake nails. Fake lashes. Fake eyes.
Yeah, she’s as real as it gets.
And everything I aspire to be.
Ha.
This girl is more than delusional than I ever imagined.
39
“O
oh, you do me right, boo . . . yess . . .”
And then I hear grunting.
Over the hum of the AC.
Then the sound of, of...
Something squeaking.
Wait.
Am I dreaming?
Hallucinating?
“Mmm, yes, right there... ooh, get it, get it . . .”
No, no, no. I must be hearing things.
I still my breathing.
Listen.
More grunting.
More groaning.
Low and throaty.
I don’t realize I’ve been holding my breath until I finally inhale.
And then I smell it.
Their excitement.
Ohmygod!
It’s disgusting!
My eyes snap open.
I blink several times, my eyes slowly adjusting in the dimness of the room.
I see movement over in Sha’Quita’s bed.
Two bodies.
Two silhouettes.
I can’t believe this!
I’m literally mortified.
She’s doing and saying all kinds of things fit for a porn star, and I refuse to be subjected to this nastiness. Yet, instead of running for the door, I reach up under my pillow and pull out my flashlight, shining it over on them.
Why, I am not sure.
“Umm, do you mind?” I say calmly.
“
Bish
,” she hisses, “get that flashlight off of us.”
“Nah, let her watch,” the guy says, his voice low and gruff.
I frown, quickly shutting the light off.
“This ho stay disruptin’ my life,” Sha’Quita mutters, then grunts. “I’ma be glad when she leaves. Nosy-azz. What,
trick
, you want some, too?”
The guy grunts, too. “Let her. I got enough for her, too.”
“Nucca, shut up!” she says low. “She ain’t gettin’ none’a this good-good.”
“I’m trying to sleep, Sha’Quita.”
“Then go to sleep,” she snarls.
“I can’t. What you’re doing is so disrespectful.”
“No, you tryna blow up my spot ’n’ eff up my groove is disrespectful. If you don’t like what you hear, or see . . .
Or smell.
“. . . then get the hell outta my room.”
Say no more.
I snatch off the covers and swing my sock-covered feet over the bed, then turn my flashlight back on toward the floor, sweeping the light back and forth over the rug.
When I am satisfied that there aren’t any roaches camping out inside of my shoes, I slip my feet inside and glance at the time on my phone.
Two-freaking-thirty-eight in the morning!
“This is freaking ridiculous,” I mumble, grabbing my book bag and storming out of the bedroom, leaving the door wide open.
Flashlight in hand, I make my way down the darkened hallway. There’s a glow coming from out of the living room from the television. Someone must be up, I think. I hope.
Then how did that nasty girl sneak that boy in?
What does it matter, Nia.
He’s already inside the room, and inside . . .
her.
Ugh!
I walk into the living and frown.
The sofa is pulled out into a bed.
And Omar is stretched out in a pair of basketball shorts, snoring.
And
smelling!
Ohmygod!
The room reeks of alcohol and marijuana.
Through a veil of tears, I stand in in the middle of the living room, flabbergasted.
I can’t stay here. I just can’t.
But where else can I go?
Nowhere.
I pick up the blanket that’s been tossed on the floor and cover Omar with it.
I glance over at the flat screen.
An episode of that show
Power
is on.
I’ve never watched it, but Crystal has. All through season one she kept bugging me to watch it with her. But after the third episode it became clear to me that she only watches it because she likes the main character, Ghost—I think, or something like that.
She thinks he’s cute.
I swallow, feeling a panging in my chest.
I miss my friends.
Angling my flashlight, I shine it on the loveseat that’s catty-corner on the other side of the living room, then let out a sigh of relief when there are no creepy crawler sightings. But my relief is short-lived. I stiffen and stifle a scream when I see a small army of roaches crawling up and down the wall.
I reach into my book bag and pull out my can of Raid. Being here, I have to stay armed with a can. I’ve already gone through eight cans in less than a week. And who knows how many more cans I’ll run through before I leave this god-awful place.
This—this . . . hellhole.
Holding my breath, I coat the wall with it, watching roaches drop left and right. When I am done, I take up space on the sofa, book bag clutched to my chest, the can of roach spray gripped tightly in my hand, and wait for a new day.
An hour goes by.
I’m still waiting.
Idly.
And I am getting sleepy.
I fight back a yawn. Then I look over at Omar, who is sleeping, peacefully, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. As if there are no roaches swarming all around him. As if
this—
this existence—is his very best.
I ponder on the idea.
Wonder if he thinks this is the best he can do. If he thinks this way of being is as good as it’ll ever be for him.
Smoking and drinking and running the streets (if that’s what he’s doing) and sleeping on someone’s sofa bed.
My eyes are getting heavy.
The yawn comes.
Loud and wide.
I can’t fight it anymore. I am too tired.
Finally, I give in, and close my eyes.

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