Ex-girl to the Next Girl (14 page)

 

 

I got up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom and check on the boys. I couldn't sleep, thinking about my sister. I couldn't imagine her losing that house—she just bought it. I don't care if she wants Malik's help or not, I'm going to call him tomorrow. I walked into Kevin's room—he had left his television on again. I pushed the remote to turn it off when I seen two girls dancing seductively with each other. I checked to see what station it was. I know my baby didn't fall asleep watching this. I know I had programmed Kevin's television to block any inappropriate things. But it was BET. I checked the guide channel. It was a show called
UnCut
. I shook my head in disbelief. I wanted to write them a letter. Before I could begin to think about how I was going to title the letter, I saw a woman that looked like my sister Kianna with pink pasties and a pink-and-white thong. I wanted to pause the television, but I couldn't. I stared intently, waiting to see if this woman that looked like my sister would appear in another scene, and she did. And this scene confirmed that my sister was being a freak in a video. She was in the video with chocolate syrup running down the crack of her ass. The only thing she had covering her butt was a thin thong; another girl was slapping her with an oversized white feather. They were also gliding their bodies on the guy that was rapping. I held my hand over my mouth—I could not believe it.
Kianna, my sister, a video ho. Oh my God,
I thought. I found her number in my cell phone and called her. She answered sleepily.

“Kianna?”

“Yeah, what's wrong? Why you calling me so late? Is everything okay?”

“I just saw your video. Give it up girl, right now.”

“Really? What channel?” she said, excited. I heard her tell her boyfriend to wake up.

“Thanks for telling me,” she said, like it was nothing wrong with being naked in a video.

“Kianna, what are you thinking about? Why are you making pornographic videos?”

“It's not pornography. I got all my clothes on.”

“Barely—how about if Mommy see this? Do you know how disappointed she would be?”

“I'm not killing or stealing. I'm dancing, having fun meeting a lot of interesting people.”

“Kianna, those girls are bisexuals and probably prostitutes waiting to turn your naive ass out.”

“That's not true. Most of the girls I met are in college or they're actresses. They aren't like that, either. It is all for the camera—trust me.”

“Kianna, you are not doing anything else, are you?”

“Like what?”

“Movies? Internet porn? Drugs? Exotic dancing?”

“No, I told you—it's all fun. I get paid—there is plenty of camera people there.”

“Well, I think you should tell Mommy before someone tells her or she stumbles across it.”

“All right, I will tell her. Please don't say anything to Karen. I don't want her in my biz.”

“I won't say anything.”

 

 

My life was coming together, and now I had to help my sister. I called Malik. I knew he would tell me I had a lot of nerve calling him since I haven't been letting him see Kayden.

“Hello, Malik.”

“Kim, what's wrong with little Malik?”

“Nothing—I was thinking if you want, you can come and get Kayden.”

“When?”

“We will talk about that, but listen, I have a question for you.”

“Go ahead.”

“What do you do when your house is up for sheriff sale.”

“Sheriff sale? You haven't been paying your mortgage?”

“No, it's not me. It's Karen—her house is in the newspaper. Is there any way to stop a sheriff sale?”

“Yes and no.”

“Do you know anything or anybody that can help her?”

“Let me make a few calls. I'm going to call you back.”

I opened the yellow pages and started looking for attorneys. The first attorney I called said he couldn't help, the second needed a thousand dollars. I was on the phone with my bank, checking my balance, when Malik called and said he knew what to do.

“Kim, get a pen. Listen, you are going to need her social security and docket number. I know somebody that will represent them. He can stop the sheriff sale. Everything will be okay.”

 

 

Malik saved the day. He knew this cheap attorney whose specialty was foreclosures and sheriff sale. I was so grateful to him. We were talking and communicating like regular people. I even let Malik pick Kayden up from day care. My life was making progress. At my next visit with Dr. Weltz, I will tell her how good everything is going. I even mailed off my graduate school application.

Chapter
23

T
ae called to ask me how it was going. I think she got over not getting the job. I told her my job was going okay, and she said, “Girl, you got to meet my boyfriend.”

“What boyfriend?”

“I met him outside of the gym a few weeks ago. That's why you haven't heard from me. He is so good to me, girl. The one who answered my phone. He asked me to move in with him. And I'm going to.”

“Tae, you just met him.”

“I know, but he is the best thing I ran across in a long time.”

“Girl, slow down. Where was he living at before?” I said, amazed that she was falling for another man so soon.

“With his mother.”

“With his mother—a momma's boy.”

“No, trust me—he's no momma's boy. He is a good dude. You know when it is right. We are signing our lease today. And I have a new job. He got me a job at FedEx.”

“Tae, you just got the car, and Pop-Pop didn't work out. I just don't want you to get hurt or get in over your head.”

“Shonda, you are not going to be the only one happily married. I got to go,” she said. My friend is falling for anyone that pays attention to her.

 

 

Me and Riddick were walking the floor. We were supposed to walk the floor every hour, just to make sure inmates were where they belonged. There was a prisoner Jones peeing in his cell. He didn't bother to turn or hide his dick when we walked by. He exposed himself to us. I turned my head and kept walking.

“Um, you got a fat ass,” he said as he shook his dick dry a few times while looking at us.

“Niggah, please. Don't disrespect me,” Riddick said as she stopped in front of the cell.

“Ain't nobody talking about
your
fat ass, Riddick,” Jones said as he fondled and held his dick at her while still looking at me.

“I'm talking to her,” he said with a dirty smirk. I continued to walk, but Riddick stopped. I got three cells away when I heard her scream and she was wiping something gooey from her face. Inmate Jones had ejaculated right in her face. I called for backup, and all these guards came and opened the cell and began to beat his ass. They dragged him out of his cell and took clubs out and began to hit, kick and punch him. Riddick was more embarrassed than anything. But thinking on her feet, she said he was stroking his dick at me.

“Wasn't he, Robinson?” I stuttered yes. After they beat him viciously, the inmate couldn't open his eyes—they were sealed shut. He had big lumps on his cheek. Then they dragged him out of the cell and a bloody trail followed him down the hall. They put him in the hole. We had to file a report. I was a little disturbed after that—I never seen anybody get beat that bad.

When it was time to go, I was so happy to get in my car and leave. I started my car. I was letting it warm up when it cut off, so I put my foot on the gas and tried to start it again. It started right up. I revved the engine a little and went to pull off. My car shut off the second I put it in drive. This time it went a little further, then cut off again. I saw lights coming toward me.

“What's wrong?” Hicks said.

“I don't know—my car won't start.” He pulled over, his car still running.

“Do you have gas?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said as I checked my gas gauge. He popped the hood and then walked over to his car and got a flashlight.

“When's the last time you had your plugs changed?” he asked. I got out of the car and walked toward him.

“I don't know.” I said as I peeked under the hood with him.

“I think your plugs are done. They are getting a little juice. You're not going to make it home, though. I can give you a ride.”

“That's okay—I'll call my husband,” I said. He closed my hood and said okay. He was getting back in his car. I called Malik twice—his answering machine came on. Instead of being stranded, I took Hicks up on his offer and got in his car. He must spend all his money on tricking his car out. He had a television and big speakers and his car sounded like a truck purposely so it could go faster.

“Thank you—I appreciate this. I don't know where my husband is,” I said so he can know it wasn't nothing jumping off.

“So how you like the job so far?” he asked.

“So far, it's cool. It is just a little more intense than I thought it would be. A lot more.”

“Yeah, this job is not for the weak-hearted. You just got to keep your cool and just remember the inmates are human. I mean, of course, you get the talkers and the mentals. Everybody wants to blame something on their mother or their momma's boyfriend that fucked them while they was little. I have seen some shit, trust me. Niggs talking through toilets, gay dudes being the most popular dude on the unit, and then you got dudes that just made a mistake and you have to treat them all right.”

“Yeah, I noticed that a lot of people don't be doing that.”

“Yes and no. I just know I do what I got to do for me and mine. And it's a lot of perks to the job. It's a lot of ways to make money. You just got to know how.”

“Yeah, I heard you can get all the overtime you want.”

“Overtime is not as sweet as it used to be. A lot has changed.”

“Why?”

“Something about budget cuts when the new warden came in. I don't really know, but like I say, it's other ways to make money.”

We pulled up to my door. I was glad Malik didn't come home yet. It would have been hard to explain why a guy was bringing me home.

“If you ever need anything, and you need to make some money, let me know.” I said okay, not knowing exactly what he meant.

“Well, I'll talk to you, but you can make an extra five hundred a week—trust me.”

“Okay, I will. Thank you for the ride.”

 

 

Omar was chilling on my sofa. Doing what bums do, absolutely nothing. An empty McDonald's French fry container and split-open bag was spread across the table. Salt, pepper, and a ketchup packet. I was tired of him leaving shit around, so I said something.

“You think you can clean up after yourself?” I said as I opened my mail. I walked into the kitchen and popped some popcorn.

“I'm going to do it,” he said.

“Could you do it now?” I asked. Omar didn't budge. I looked in the refrigerator and he had put a ginger ale container with just a swallow in it. Ooh, I was so tired of his ass. I threw it in the trash.
Wait to Malik comes home,
I said under my breath.
This bruh got to go.

 

 

Malik came in the door and went straight up the steps. He didn't say hi, baby, or nothing. I walked behind him. I didn't know what was going on with him. I went upstairs to find out. When I reached the top of the steps, I heard the door slam closed. Okay, I thought. I opened the door. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, taking his shoes off. And then he fell back on the bed.

“Malik, what's going on?” I asked.

“I got fired.”

“What?”

“Yes, fired.”

“Why?”

“All they said was that Mr. Rhome was retiring. So that's it—no severance package, no benefits.”

“Baby, you will get a new job,” I said as I tried to console him.

“I hope so.” he said.

“You will.”

Malik was in such a funk. He didn't see this coming. His job hardly gave him any notice, and he was a loyal employee. That just doesn't make any sense. I decided I wasn't going to mention Omar's dirtiness. Right now it seemed petty, and I didn't want to put any more pressure on Malik. Maybe I could deal with Omar for a little while. It will go by fast. I got to be there for my man.

I
have been advised not to mention or reminisce about Erick. Nobody wants to hear anything about him—if I say “Er,” before I get the “ick” out, they stop me. Everybody hates him now. But for some reason I still got love for this stupid motherfucker. I don't know why love is not fair. I'm flip-flopping every other minute. I love him, I love him not. He wasn't doing everything right—that's why I left him, is what I try to tell myself. I wasn't sure about him. Because I have been talking about him all the time, telling anybody that would listen to all of our problems. I even been talking to Mrs. Meyers, and I can see it in her eyes—she wants me to shut up. But I can't let go. It's, like, me knowing he has someone else makes me want him back even more. I don't know why. I thought I could always count on my family to cosign with me. But even Aunt Connie said, you can't be playing with people's emotions. I wasn't playing with him. It was just, when I was with him I didn't know what I wanted. I'm lost—one day I want him and the next day I don't.

I went to pick up my class from lunch. I had got a movie for them to watch, and after that I had copied three packets of work. That would keep them busy. I didn't feel like teaching a lesson. The kids ran when I said walk down the hall. I heard over the loudspeaker that Mark Coleman had an early dismissal—he ran toward the room and got his books.

“Ms. Clark, you have flowers on your desk.”

“I do?” I said as I walked into the classroom. Maybe they were from my baby. The flowers were azaleas, lilies, and roses. I told the students to get in their seats. I snatched the small note card off the flowers. It read:

I didn't have any idea who could have sent the flowers. I guess somebody cares about me and knows how hurt I am. It definitely wasn't Toya or Aunt Connie. Neither of them would have sent flowers. I balled the card up and turned on the movie. While the students watched, I plotted out how I was going to get my man back.

 

 

I just dismissed my students. As soon as I got in my car, I called him. I hung up each time. I'm just an idiot when it comes to love. I have to stop calling him. He's not stupid—I know he probably suspects it's me. Calling from block numbers so I can hear his voice is getting old. But I love him—I have to get him back, I have to. He is so much better at this than me. It's like he doesn't care, or maybe that's the problem—he never cared. I try not to care, but it is so hard.

I'm going to call him just one more time and say, listen, we need to talk. I called—the phone rang once, then it rang again. Then someone picked up the phone and it wasn't Erick. It was a woman's voice. “Hello. Hello,” she repeated. She then took a deep breath and said hello again. I hung up before she could say hello one more time. My heart dropped to my ankles. Who was answering his telephone? Erick had crossed the line. So what if we were broke up—he had someone answering his telephone already. Who is this girl staying over, spending the night, and she gets to answer the telephone, too? Oh hell, to the no. What is wrong with you? I said to Erick, as if he was standing near me. You know he barely let me answer the phone. Now he's going to let this woman he knew a month or two answer the phone like she's his woman? I can't believe this. Who is she? What does she have that I don't have? I don't know. Maybe he was always dealing with her all along. That's it—no more. Fuck him—he has a girlfriend, it is apparent he is doing what he wants, and he must be happy, because he hasn't called me. He hasn't called me one time to ask how I was doing or how my day went. He wants to act like I don't exist, then he won't exist to me, either. I took every picture we had together and put them in a shredder.

 

 

Last night I cried myself to sleep. I really still love Erick, but I'm going to get over him. I need to go shopping and in order to do that, I need money. I'm going to get my taxes done. Shopping will definitely take my mind off Erick Alton King. I will buy new clothes, makeup, and I'm going to meet someone new.

 

 

I called my Aunt Connie to ask her what was the place she used to do her taxes. I then called Toya. She picked up the phone, cussing Nate out. Then she said, “Hello,” like she was mad someone was calling.

“What's wrong with you?”

“Nothing. What's up?”

“Can I use your Monet for my taxes?”

“Tony using Monet. I'll let you use Destiny. How much you going to give me?”

“I'll give you three hundred.”

“Tony said he going to give me six hundred.”

“I'm not giving you six hundred. I would only be making an extra five hundred. In that case it would not be worth it. I can only give you three-fifty, okay?”

“All right. Come get her social security card.”

“I'll be there—are you going to be home tomorrow?”

“I have to go to the doctor tomorrow to get my ultrasound—they goin' to tell me how many months I am.”

“How come you don't know?”

“Easy—I think I'm, like, six months.”

“That far?”

“Yeah, I'll tell you what they say.”