West End Girls (2 page)

The second boy flashed his transfer and pushed his way through the crowded aisle, passing the first boy, but not before sliding the transfer into his waiting hand.

The first boy then made his way back up to the driver, through the folks coming on. “Here,” he called out, pretending he couldn't make it any closer due to the crowd, and holding up the transfer for the driver to see in the mirror.

Sinclair turned her head and looked out the window.
Old fool, if he hadn't been paying so much attention to me
,
he would have seen the scam. But, no, he's too busy trying to beg for what he can't have
.

That was another big difference between her and her older sister, Tanqueray. Sinclair was a virgin.

The bus continued to fill with Friday afternoon travelers. Sinclair hated the bus. One day she would ride in a limo. Of that she'd made a promise. She had high goals and plans, spurred on by her mother's dreams for her. Surely her mother would cry if she knew how far Sinclair was from reaching the mark.

“You Debonair's sister, right?” the young man sitting in front of her asked.

She'd not really noticed all the people on the crowded bus. Glancing down at the boy, she figured him for mixed too, as his skin tone was light like hers.

Sinclair knew she had to be mixed with white, although her siblings always told her she wasn't. And when she asked her mama who her father was, Javina never did give a straight answer. For most of her life, until her mother died, that is, every white man that came in that house—repairman, social worker, Mormon—was a “Mr. Maybe.” Soon Sinclair just stopped wondering, but still, it didn't change the fact that she was the only one in her family with fair skin, green eyes, and hair like that.

This boy talking to her had hair like hers too, soft ringlets resting on his shoulder. Along his forearms, he also had tattoos peeking from under his rolled-up sleeve. He had some serious “shinies” in his earlobe. He looked a little older than she was, but then again, she looked older than seventeen, apparently, because of all the old dudes that liked to hit on her.

“I ain't seen him in a minute. Heard he was”—The boy crossed his wrist as if in cuffs.

Sinclair nodded sadly, thinking again about what had gone down in the courtroom earlier that day. The young man stood up and motioned for her to take his seat, his jeans sagging low around his hips, his dark-colored shorts showing when he raised his arms to grab hold of the rail. The jerky bus surely would have thrown him down if he didn't hold on, and that would have been far from cool. And he was cool.

“Where you stay?” Sinclair asked.

Hanging on the rail attached above the pole where she'd been standing, he looked down on her. “My car is at my auntie's house in the
P
. I'm on my way to get it.”

Sinclair nodded, believing him. Why shouldn't she? Everybody's car was somewhere. Debonair's car was parked on blocks on the side of the house.

“How long did he get?” the boy asked. “I heard he was going to court today.”

It was clear that the boy ran the streets and knew a lot more than he'd first let on.

How he know so much about Deb's business, when it was clear he lived in the West End?
Sinclair wondered.

West End boys never wore “beaters” under their shirts. They just let their drawers show, as if somebody wanted to see that mess. They always had bling, and this boy's earslobes could blind you. “Five years. How you know my brother, and you stay in the West End?”

“I didn't say I stay there. Damn! Deb got five years? Well, that's not too bad. I mean, he'll only be on lock like three and a half by the time he's done, if he don't fuck up while he's in there.” The young man grinned, exposing a diamond embedded in his front tooth.

Yeah, he looked like a W.E. thug fo' sho now.
Niggas liked their jewelry over there too, always blingin' and shit. Yeah, this nigga is from the W.E. He's fine though
.
Sho is,
she thought, but quickly regrouped.
You can't be likin' no boy from the W.E., and I'm not,
she lied to herself
. I'm just wondering why he was frontin', that's all.

“Shit you talking? Deb? He's gonna fuck up.” Sinclair chuckled for the first time today. Although she went to a good school, one that wasn't considered high-risk by the state, and lived a daytime life outside of the Palemos, she was still just a naïve round-the-way girl.

The boy laughed. “My name is Finest,” he told her.

“And I'm Sinclair,” she said, smiling back.

Sinclair had never seen him before, but then maybe that was because, until Debonair went to jail three months earlier, she never came outside much, except to get in the car. Debonair had been pushing her harder than usual on the homework scene and, in her opinion, separating her from the folks she'd grown up with on the block. Every morning he would take her to the BART, so she could get to school in San Pablo, which was more of a white school, with not many black faces being there. Debonair didn't want her attending the school in their neighborhood. He wanted better for her. Mama had wanted better for her. So when Mama died, nearly three years ago now, Debonair worked hard to make sure she got “better.” But since his arrest, nothing better was happening. The summer had been nothing more than hot hell, no money, bill collectors calling, until the phone went off. Tanqueray hadn't done a very good job of managing things, and now there was a threat from Mr. Gold Mouth.

“Where you work?” the boy asked, getting her attention back to the now.

“I don't work. I guess, I'ma be looking for a job though.”

“Really. What you do?”

“Nothing.”

“Shit! You sound like a bum.”

They both laughed.

“Well, look here, I'm about to be up in the
P
for a hot minute, so maybe you and me can discuss your situation. Maybe you can work for me.” He patted and massaged his tight chest, biting his full bottom lip, causing a crease to come up in his cheek.

Sinclair couldn't read his thoughts, so she held back hers. She slid her hand deep into his. “What kind of business you got?” Then she asked again, “Where you stay?”

“The W.E.!” the driver called out, interrupting their conversation as he pulled over to the curb.

Nobody had pulled the cord, but the drivers always stopped in the W.E. It was the same with the
P
. The bus would just stop there, as many drivers took their breaks there before making their way down the peninsula toward the Caltrain station. At the main stop in the
P
, one could always find a bus driver standing around, smoking, or shooting the breeze for a few minutes, maybe even having a little drink or two, with a local. Most of the drivers on this route were black or Latino. Some may have even grown up here before leaving to South Bay to do better for themselves. How ironic that they worked so hard to get ahead of the residents here, only to come back to serve them.

“The
P
!” the driver called now.

The doors opened, and the first group of those in a rush to go nowhere piled off, Sinclair and Finest among them. The driver seemed to not even notice Sinclair as she got off.
Good
.

The boy was walking alongside Sinclair in the same direction she was headed. “You didn't answer my question,” Sinclair repeated.

“I'm a bidnessman. Salesman. I sell stuff.”

“Stuff?”

“Yeah, like movies and shit like that there.”

“Oh, I was thinking . . .” Sinclair's face felt hot.

Finest smiled and looked off. “Nah, it ain't that serious.” He smiled again, reaching under his shirt and patting his chest as he looked around. “Not every nigga just out there slingin' and slammin', you know. Some of us gots goals and shit. Some of us tryin' to rise.”

“Oh, I understand that. I mean, I'm going to college and shit. I'm planning to make big things happen too.” It was the first time in a while that Sinclair looked at her life's direction as a purpose, something her mama had counted on her to do.

“Oh baby girl 'bout to make moves, eh?” he asked, looking back at her.

Again, she couldn't read the expression on his face. Maybe it was because she couldn't read her own heart. She knew his eyes made her belly tingle, and his smile gave puss a purr, but other than that, she really didn't know what do with the effect Finest was having on her. She didn't know where to put her growing feelings about him. She just knew nobody had ever brought these types of feelings up before.

“Well, me too.”

“How much you payin'? I mean, you know, yo' employees? What would I do?”

“I told you, I'll check you later, and we'll talk about my totally legitimate venture. We'll chop it up a bit . . . later.” He looked around and checked out his surroundings. “I don't like to talk about my bidness on the street. Besides, like I said, I have something to do right now.”

“You got a girl?” Sinclair asked . . . on an impulse.

He smiled slyly, again biting his bottom lip. “Why you ask?”

Just then Sinclair heard someone calling out to her. Looking around, she saw her sister Unique and her daughter Apple, who lit up immediately when Sinclair looked her way. Turning back to Finest, Sinclair noticed he had wandered off, as if he wanted to disappear into the element.

As Unique got closer, Sinclair suddenly began to feel as dirty as she probably looked, and it was confirmed when Unique cringed.

“Hey there, you,” Unique said, no doubt, trying to hide her true feelings.

Sinclair knew she looked a mess. Normally she prided herself on looking fly all the time, but pride was slipping with the lack of funds, and so were her looks.

“Hey,” Sinclair exploded, followed by a barrage of words, probably because her head was full of thoughts right about now—Finest and the heat he had caused between her legs; Debonair and all the time he was gonna do in prison; the lights being off; and Gold Mouth—in that order.

Unique didn't come by often now that she lived in the West End. In Sinclair's opinion, Unique acted as if she'd traded up. She'd gotten her Section 8 and had her own place now. So, yeah, she was all that, in Sinclair's mind.

Finally getting a word in, Unique asked, “Who was that? And where is Deb? The lights?”

“Locked up.”

“I thought he'd be out by now. Where is Tanqueray? I thought she said she would be with you in the meantime.”

“I hate that bitch.”

Unique looked at Apple, probably hoping she wasn't taking all this in, but of course, she was. “You don't hate our sister,” she said, aiming her words in Apple's direction.

“Yes, I do. She stole the check.” Sinclair didn't care what her niece might make of what she was saying. She was emotional and believed what she was saying.

“What check?”

“On the first, the money that came to the house. She took the check—I know she did—and cashed it, and I ain't seen her ass since. And I ain't seen no check! Tang said she was gonna take care of business. I guess she meant her own business. Now I gotta get a job!”

“I don't believe that. Where is Tanqueray?”

“How should I know? Thank goodness, I still have food stamps from last month. I hid them before the heiffa got those and sold them, or I'da been SOL (shit, out of luck) fo' sho. But, hey, without any power on . . . got me all doing MacGyver on the stove to make it work and shit. Anyway, she don't care about me, so I hope she's fuckin' dead somewhere!”

Again Unique glanced down at Apple. “No, no, you don't, and yes, she does. Now come on to the house and let's see what's what,” Unique said, spinning Sinclair around by the shoulder and heading toward their family home.

When their mother had died, she left the house to her four surviving children—Debonair, the eldest and only remaining boy after Larry, the first-born son, was killed; Tanqueray, the eldest girl; Unique; and herself. The house was the only home Sinclair knew. She didn't care about the ins and outs of it, whether they owned it, or what repairs it might have needed. It was her home, and now her comfortable home situation felt threatened by Tanqueray's mismanagement of finances. Forget what the judge had said about Debonair and his drug dealings. That was a lie anyway. Debonair was caught up with bad people, which was clear by Gold Mouth asking for money. Debonair probably didn't even owe that fool anything, Sinclair mused, while strolling to the house with her sister and niece. Maybe if Tanqueray had been around more, Sinclair would have trusted her more. But, no, she was too busy being messed over by some dude. Again! At least, that's what Debonair had said.

Sinclair remembered the last conversation Debonair and Tanqueray had over the phone. Debonair told her, “Tang, you need to come home and take care of Sinclair like Mama wanted you to, instead of always chasing that money. I'm not asking you to be Mama, just act like one . . . Fuck you too, bitch! Don't worry 'bout my life! Hello? Hello?”

“So tell me exactly what went on in court today. I can't believe nobody called me. I would have gone,” Unique said.

Unique was so removed from their problems now, Sinclair thought she was lying.

“Oooh, look at that baby, how big she's gotten,” Ms. Mathison called to Unique, instantly dispelling the myth Sinclair had created about Unique not being remembered or thought about in the neighborhood.

Sinclair wondered if she would be remembered once she left to go to college. As they approached the gate of the family home that sat in the middle of the block, Sinclair thought,
Nobody is gonna remember me, 'cuz I'ma go away and not look back.