The Girl of His Dreams (6 page)

“Man, nah. She started frontin' on them panties, yo. So I threw her out.”

They laugh, givin' me daps.

“That's what I'm talkin' 'bout,” Justin says, dustin' off the rest of his wings. “If a broad don't wanna put out, then put
her
out.” He licks sauce from his fingers.

“Man, listen,” I say, pullin' out my phone. “There's mad booty out here to bounce up on for me to be beat for some bird who ain't 'bout puttin' in no real work. Sweatin' some chick who wanna play tricks ain't it. I called one'a my other pieces over in the Brick, then went to her spot and gave her the business real right.” They give me more dap.

Justin says, glancin' over toward the door, “I wanna try that hottie right there out.” We all follow the direction of his gaze. And there she is again. Mad sexy as ever!

Luke laughs. “Yo, dawg. I don't mean to burst ya lil air bubble, but that broad's waaay outta ya league, son.”

Justin frowns, shootin' him a look. “Whatchu mean she's outta my league, dawg?”

Luke shrugs. “I'm just sayin', man. Look at 'er. She's mad fly. All labeled up. Real classy type. Chicks like her ain't checkin' for no dudes like you”—he points at Justin, then over at Cease—“or you”—then points at me—“or
you
.”

I shake my head, eyein' 'er on the low. She is over by the salad bar. Two of the older cats who work back in the kitchen peep 'er from behind swingin' doors. One of 'em steps out into the open—he's like twenty-somethin'—and tries extra hard to get her attention. But she ain't payin' him no mind. She tosses her hair to one side, walkin' over toward the cashier.

“Oh, word?” Cease says. “Then who's she checkin' for if it ain't one'a us?”

“Who you think, ninja?” Luke thumbs himself in the chest, laughin'. “Me! I got the kinda swag chicks like her check for, yo. Watch what I tell you when I finally press up on 'er and get them digits. I'ma have her booed up by homecomin', watch.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Justin says, wavin' him on. “I'ma be poundin' that out before you.”

The three of us start laughin' at 'im. “Yo, you delusional. The only thing you poundin' out, son,” Cease says in between laughin', “is ya hands.”

“Eff y'all, mofos,” he says, soundin' like he's gettin' mad tight. “Don't sleep on my skills, fam. Trust me, dawg. I can bag that.”

“Keep dreamin', ninja. The only thing you baggin' is a buncha lies,” Luke says, reachin' for another carton of milk. He opens it, puts it up to his lips, then tosses his head back and guzzles it down.

“Lies nothin', yo,” Justin snaps, leanin' forward in his chair, restin' his arms up on the table. “Man, I ain't gotta lie 'bout jack, yo.”

I laugh. “Man, go 'head wit' that. You stay frontin' on ya woodwork, bruh.”

Cease and Luke crack up.

“Yo, eff y'all,” he snaps, hoppin' up from his seat and grabbin' his tray. “I'm out, yo. You clown mofos not about to stunt me.”

Cease and Luke keep laughin' as he walks off. I can tell I got my boy feelin' some kinda way, but oh well. He'll get over it. But the last laugh is on us when we look over and peep him holdin' the cafeteria door open for the new hottie, then walkin' out wit' her, leavin' the three of us wit' our jaws dropped.

“S
o how you like the school so far?” this brown-skinned dude rocking the new Lebrons asks as he holds open the cafeteria door for me. At first, I felt like dissin' dude and paying him dust, but when I peep Miss Ghetto and her hooker crew giving me the screw face, I decide to give this boy some rhythm. If for nothing else, just to piss 'em off.

I eye dude on the sly. He's extra tall, the way I like 'em, and he's . . .
cute!
But he's kinda nerdy-looking in his rim-framed glasses and Hollister tee and a pair of faded skinny jeans that hang off his hips, but not too over-the-top that it looks nasty. He kinda reminds me of a skater boy. I eye him long and hard, then decide he's harmless enough.

“I don't,” I tell 'im as he walks alongside of me as I make my way outside toward the parking lot. With no friends here—not that I want any—I'm not beat bein' the new chick sitting in a cafeteria full of fakes, flakes, and wannabe-gangsta boos. So I'm taking it to my car where I can eat my salad and talk and text in peace. Well, that was the plan up until this very second.

“Oh, word? I can dig it.”

“Can you really?”

“Yeah. No doubt. I transferred here in the middle of my freshman year from San Diego.”
Mmmm, a surfer boy. It figures!
“I can't lie. I hated it at first. But then I made a few friends and things got better. It's really not that bad here once you get used to it. I mean, we got our share of troublemakers just like any other school. But there are some real cool kids here, too.”

I look up at him. He has nice skin for a guy. And his waves are sick. He has 'em spinning all around his head. I shrug. “I guess. But I'll never get used to it because I don't wanna be here.” He wants to know where I'm from. “Brooklyn.”

“Ah,
Brooklyn
,” he says tryna mock my accent. “That's wassup. What part?”

Although I'm really from Do-or-Die Bed-Stuy, I tell him Park Slope since that's where we moved to, like three years ago. “Why?”

“Oh, nah. One of my boys is from Brooklyn, too. Crown something.”

“Crown Heights,” I tell 'im.

“Oh, a'ight. Yeah, that's it. So what's your name?”

I frown. “Umm, who you working for, Secret Service? What's up with all the questions?”

“Oh, my bad,” he says, kinda chuckling, putting his hands up. “I didn't know askin' you ya name was a crime.”

Girl, stop. Check ya 'tude. He's only tryna be nice.
I reel in my 'tude, just a pinch. “It's not. And I didn't mean to come at you like that. It's just that”—I shake my head—“I'm not here tryna make friends.”

He laughs. “Whoa, who said I was tryna be
friends
? I'm being
friendly
. Big difference. So unless you plan on going back to
Brooklyn
real soon, you might wanna
try
being friendly back. Otherwise, it's going to get real lonely around here with you giving everyone the stink-face all the time.”

“Lies,” I say, acting like I'm offended. “I'm not walking around doing that.”

He starts laughing. “Yeah, okay. Yes, you do. This is you all day.” He makes a face, twisting his lips up real tight and scrunching his nose up, squinting his eyes.

“Oh my god,” I say, trying not to laugh at his impression of me. “That's so not true.”

He chuckles. “Okay, if you say so. But I know better. Me and my boys peeped you when you walked into the cafeteria earlier. And I see you in the halls. You stay with the skunk face on.”

“The what?”

“Skunk face. You know, your face was all twisted up tight like someone squirted skunk juice on you or something.”

I laugh. “Okay, okay. You got me. But, ewwww...that's so nasty. That's not how I really am.”

“Maybe not, ma. But that's what you show us. Everyone here thinks you're stuck on yourself.”

“Well, I'm not,” I say, defensively. Truth is, I'm far from conceited. I'm convinced. Big difference.

“Then show it. Let us see that you're not.”

I frown. “Wrong answer, boo-boo. That's not what I do. I don't care what these crab-cake hoes and corny busters around here think about me, so it is what it is. They can eat dust for all I care. I don't worry myself about stuff like that. So they can think what they like.”

“True. Still, someone asking you what your name is doesn't have to become a big production, feel me? All it is is someone tryna be nice, maybe get to know you, like me.”

“You know what?” I say, disarming my car alarm. “You're right. My bad. It's Miesha.”

He grins. “See. Was that so hard, Miesha? That's a pretty name. It fits you.”

I smile. And it's the first time I've smiled since stepping foot in this school. “Thanks,” I say, opening my car door. “And thanks for walking with me to my car.” I mean it, too. Truth is, it's nice to finally talk to someone. And, corny or not, he's a
cutie.
He seems really nice, although looks can be deceiving. Still, it really feels good to laugh with someone, a boy.

“No sweat. It was my pleasure. By the way, I'm Justin.”

“Cool,” I say, staring at his hands. He has nice hands with long fingers and his nails are neatly trimmed. He tells me he plays basketball. That he's their something
forward
. Whatever that is. Yeah, I like watching the boys hooping it up. But I can't tell you jack about who plays what position. That's not what I'm there for. When I go to the courts, I watch basketball for one thing, and one thing only. To get my peep show on, watching them hard, sweaty bodies run the ball up and down the court.

“Maybe you'll come check out some'a my moves when the season starts.”

I run my hands through my hair, then twirl a strand of hair through my fingers. “Maybe.”

He grins. “That's wassup.” I'm surprised when he holds my car door open while I get in and slide behind the wheel. I crank the engine and roll down the window after he shuts my door. Most boys wouldn't have done that much.

I smirk. “Uh, don't get gassed. If I come check for you, it won't be to make goo-goo eyes over you.”

“That's cool,” he says, laughing as he leans into my car. “So what class you have next period?”

I tell 'im Afro Studies.

“Oh, word? With Mr. Nandi?” I nod. “Cool-cool. I'm in that class, too. Wait. I didn't see you there yesterday.” I tell him I didn't go. That right after lunch period I left. Yup. First day of school and I cut classes. Puhleeze. After that booga bear, what's-her-face—Miss Ghettolicious—stepped to me, I was in no mood to go back up in that school. So, I dipped. He tells me all about the class, and what's to be expected. I thank him again.

“So, you not rollin' out, are you?”

I shake my head. “No, not today.”

He smiles. “Good. I'll see you in class, then.”

I smile back at him. “Yup. I guess you will.” He walks off and I eye him through my rearview mirror as he zigzags his way in between parked cars back into the school.
He isn't my type, but it'll be nice to have at least one person I'm cool with. And it doesn't hurt that he's on the basketball team. And he's kinda cute, too.
When he is no longer in my sight, I pull out my phone, and start texting Mariah while I eat my salad. We go back and forth for about ten minutes before she has to go to her next class. I glance at my watch. It's eleven-twenty. My lunch period is over in ten minutes. I sigh, flipping down the sun visor, then fishing through my bag for my cherry-flavored lip gloss. I glide some over my lips, then press my 'em together while brushing down my bangs.
Boo, you just too cute for this whack-azz school!

 

By the time I get to last period, there's a rumor spreading around the school like a wildfire that I had sex out in the parking lot with three boys from the basketball team.
Are you effen kidding me?

“I told you that trick was nasty.”

“They said she gave it up like a porn star in the backseat of her car.”

He was the only one I was outside with.
I knew I shoulda igged him
. Whatever.

Now I'm sitting in my Algebra III class smoking-pissed. I'm so heated right now I can barely see straight. Someone in back of me disguises their voice and says, “Smut on deck.” Then there's laughter. It's a dude's voice. I glance over my shoulder. There are a few dudes—all rocking dreds—huddled in a corner on the right side of the room, looking over at me. One of them—a dark-skinned boy with juicy red lips—flicks his tongue out and that's all it takes for me to go off.

“Boy, don't you ever disrespect me, sticking your nasty tongue out at me!” I snap, jumping up from my seat and throwing my Algebra book across the room at him. “I will beat the black off you!”

Mr. Evans, this old rickety-crickety dude with a buncha wrinkles and a shiny bald head, quickly turns from the chalkboard. “What's going on? Mr. Richardson, get back in your seat this instant. Or see yourself down to the vice principal's office. Outbursts are not allowed in this class.”

“Well, tell that ho over there that,” he answers, pointing over at me. “She's the one throwing books across the room. And she'd better be glad she missed.”

“No,
you'd
better be glad I missed,” I say, sitting back in my seat. “ 'Cause the next time I won't. And, trust me, little boy, the
only
ho in the room is
you
with ya crusty looking self. Effen critter. You don't know me. None of you do. So keep my name outta ya mutha-effen mouths. Period.”

There are a few ooohs and aaahs floating around the room. He starts going in on me, and I give it right back. I call him all kinda nasty names. “Now eat the back of my—”

“Miss Wilson, enough,” Mr. Evans snaps, slamming his hand on the desk. “Your vulgar mouth is unacceptable. I will not have this filthy talk in my classroom. And, Mr. Richardson, you know better. Do I need to throw the both of you out of here?”

The boy stares me down. And I give it back. “Nah, I'm good,” he says, shifting in his seat. “My bad, Mr. Evans.”

“Now, let's get back to work. Mr. Richardson, give me the definition of the Pythagorean theorem.”

“C'mon, Mr. Evans, it's only the second day back in school. Let me get back to you on that. My brain is still on vacation.”

Mr. Evans eyes him. “Vacation or not, you should
know
this. It was learned in Algebra One, young man. So you
and
your brain had better be here tomorrow, or you'll be spending your time in detention.”

“A'ight, a'ight, I got you. It's A-square plus B-square equal C-square.”

Oh my god! What a coconut head
. I roll my eyes up in my head.

“Mr. Richardson, that is an example.
Not
the definition. Someone else? You”—he points at me—“Miss Wilson. Give me the definition.”

Ugh! Old stank buzzard just had to call on me! Mmmph.
I shift in my chair. I'm soooo not interested.

“She prolly don't even know herself,” some idiot remarks.

I shoot another look over at Critter and his cornball crew, then bring my attention to the front of the room. “Pythagorean theorem is the square of the hypotenuse—C—of a right triangle is equal to the sum of the square of the legs—A and B. The example: C-square equals A-square plus B-square.”

Mr. Evans nods. “Very good. Now go pick up that book you threw across the room. And don't let it happen again.”

“I got her,” one of Crispy Critter's crew members says, getting up from his seat and picking up my book over in the corner. He's a short, stocky dude with shoulder-length dreds. He has a thick neck and is built like a wrestler.
Mmmph, he'll probably be a fat, pudgy cow in two years.
Mr. Evans keeps his eyes on him—eyeing him over the rim of his glasses—as he walks over toward me with a smirk on his shiny face.
Ol' ugly grease monkey!
Now the street chick in me tells me to get up and face off just in case he tries to molly-whop me upside the head with that thick-azz book. But I sit and am still.

Mr. Evans must have read my thoughts. “No. Bring
me
her book, Mr. Sweeney, and go back to your seat. And, Mr. Richardson,” he says, eyeing Critter, “not another word out of you. Now, the rest of you open your books to Chapter One. Equations and Functions review.” Thick Neck hands Mr. Evans my book, then glances over and winks at me. I roll my eyes, turning my head.

I swear. Boys make me sick! And that's exactly why I dog 'em!

As soon as the bell rings, Mr. Evans calls me up to his desk and hands me my book. “Miss Wilson, I understand you are new to this school and might be having some difficulty adjusting to being here. If that is the case, I recommend you speak to your guidance counselor or the vice principal. Lashing out at other students isn't going to solve anything. In fact, all it's going to do is get you into trouble. Do I make myself clear?”

“Listen, Mr. Evans. No disrespect, sir. But don't do me.” He raises his left brow, gives me a confused look. Whatever. “I don't know how y'all do it here, but I'm not having it. That boy came outta his face and disrespected me. And where I come from, that's a no-no. Then to top it off, you didn't check him. And then someone else said something slick on the sly and you didn't get at him, either. But you wanna lecture me. Oh, no thank you. Save the speech, sir. I'm here to do what I gotta do, that's it. So from here on out, I'ma ignore the ignorance in the room. But the one thing I won't do is go running off to some principal's office tattling. That's not what I do. I handle it my way.”