I catch him by his trunks and pull them way up, almost to his neck, until he has the worst wedgie ever. He gives a high-pitched scream. I let go, and he falls on the grass, his trunks so far up his butt it looks like he’s wearing a thong. That’s what he gets.
Kenya brings DeVante to me, holding his arms behind him like he’s under arrest. “Apologize,” she says.
“No!” Kenya yanks on his arms. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry!”
She lets go. “Better be.”
DeVante rubs his arm with a smirk. “Violent ass.”
“Punk ass,” she snips back.
He flicks his tongue at her, and she goes, “Boy, bye!”
This is flirting for them, believe it or not. I almost forget DeVante’s hiding from her daddy. They act like they’ve forgotten too.
DeVante gets me a towel. I snatch it and dry my face as I head to the poolside loungers with Kenya. DeVante sits beside her on one.
Ava skips over with her baby doll and a comb, and I naturally expect her to shove them into my hands. She hands them to DeVante instead.
“Here!” she tells him, and skips off.
And he starts combing the doll’s hair! Kenya and I stare at him for the longest.
“What?” he says.
We bust out laughing.
“She got you trained!” I say.
“Man.” He groans. “She cute, okay? I can’t tell her no.” He braids the doll’s hair, and his long thin fingers move so quickly, they look like they’ll get tangled. “My li’l sisters did me like this all the time.”
His tone dips when he mentions them. “You heard from them or your momma?” I ask.
“Yeah, about a week ago. They at my cousin’s house. She live in like the middle of nowhere. Mom’s been a mess ’cause she didn’t know if I was okay. She apologized for leaving me and for being mad. She want me to come stay with them.”
Kenya frowns. “You leaving?”
“I don’t know. Mr. Carlos and Mrs. Pam said I can stay with them for my senior year. My momma said she’d be okay with that, if it means I stay outta trouble.” He examines his handiwork. The doll has a perfect French braid. “I gotta think about it. I kinda like it out here.”
Salt-N-Pepa’s “Push It” blasts from the speakers. That’s one song Daddy shouldn’t play. The only thing worse would be that old song “Back That Thang Up.” Momma loses her damn mind when it comes on. Really, just say, “Cash Money Records, takin’ over for the ’99 and the 2000,” and she suddenly becomes ratchet as hell.
She and Aunt Pam both go, “Heeey!” to Salt-N-Pepa and do all these old dance moves. I like nineties shows and movies, but I do not wanna see my mom and auntie reenact that decade in dance. Seven and his friends circle around them and cheer them on.
Seven’s the loudest. “Go, Ma! Go, Aunt Pam!”
Daddy jumps in the middle of the circle behind Momma. He puts both hands behind his head and moves his hips in a circle.
Seven pushes Daddy away from Momma, going, “Nooo! Stooop!” Daddy gets around him, and dances behind Momma.
“Uh-uh,” Kenya laughs. “That’s too much.”
DeVante watches them with a smile. “You were right about your aunt and uncle, Starr. They ain’t too bad. Your grandma kinda cool too.”
“Who? I know you don’t mean Nana.”
“Yeah, her. She found out I play spades. The other day, she took me to a game after she finished tutoring me. She called it extra-credit work. We been cool ever since.”
Figures.
Chris and Maya walk through the gate, and my stomach gets all jittery. I should be used to my two worlds colliding, but I never know which Starr I should be. I can use some slang, but not too much slang, some attitude, but not too much attitude, so I’m not a “sassy black girl.” I have to watch what I say and how I say it, but I can’t sound “white.”
Shit is exhausting.
Chris and his new “bro” DeVante slap palms, then Chris kisses my cheek. Maya and I do our handshake. DeVante nods at her. They met a few weeks ago.
Maya sits beside me on the lounger. Chris squeezes his big butt between us, pushing both of us aside a little.
Maya flashes him a stink eye. “Seriously, Chris?”
“Hey, she’s my girlfriend. I get to sit next to her.”
“Um, no? Besties before testes.”
Kenya and I snicker, and DeVante goes, “Damn.”
The jitters ease up a bit.
“So you’re Chris?” Kenya says. She’s seen pictures on my Instagram.
“Yep. And you’re Kenya?” He’s seen pictures on my Instagram too.
“The one and only.” Kenya eyes me and mouths, He is fine! Like I didn’t know that already.
Kenya and Maya look at each other. Their paths last crossed almost a year ago at my Sweet Sixteen, if you can consider that path-crossing. Hailey and Maya were at one table, Kenya and Khalil at another table with Seven. They never talked.
“Maya, right?” Kenya says.
Maya nods. “The one and only.”
Kenya’s lips curl up. “Your kicks are cute.”
“Thanks,” Maya says, checking them out for herself. Nike Air Max 95s. “They’re supposed to be running shoes. I never run in them.”
“I don’t run in mine neither,” Kenya says. “My brother’s the only person I know who actually runs in them.”
Maya laughs.
Okay. This is good so far. Nothing to worry about.
Until Kenya goes, “So where blondie at?”
Chris snorts. Maya’s eyes widen.
“Kenya, that ain’t—that’s not her name,” I say.
“You knew who I was talking about though, didn’t you?”
“Yep!” Maya says. “She’s probably somewhere licking her wounds after Starr kicked her ass.”
“What?” Kenya shouts. “Starr, you ain’t tell me about that!”
“It was, like, two weeks ago,” I say. “Wasn’t worth talking ’bout. I only hit her.”
“Only hit her?” Maya says. “You Mayweathered her.”
Chris and DeVante laugh.
“Wait, wait,” Kenya says. “What happened?”
So I tell her about it, without really thinking about what I say or how I sound. I just talk. Maya adds to the story, making it sound worse than it was, and Kenya eats it up. We tell her how Seven gave Remy a couple of hits, which has Kenya beaming, talking about, “My brother don’t play.” Like he’s only her brother, but whatever. Maya even tells her about the Thanksgiving cat thing.
“I told Starr we minorities gotta stick together,” Maya says.
“So true,” says Kenya. “White people been sticking together forever.”
“Well . . .” Chris blushes. “This is awkward.”
“You’ll get over it, boo,” I say.
Maya and Kenya crack up.
My two worlds just collided. Surprisingly, everything’s all right.
The song changes to “Wobble.” Momma runs over and pulls me up. “C’mon, Munch.”
I can’t dig my feet in the grass fast enough. “Mommy, no!”
“Hush, girl. C’mon. Y’all too!” she hollers back to my friends.
Everybody lines up on the grassy area that’s become the makeshift dance floor. Momma pulls me to the front row. “Show ’em how it’s done, baby,” she says. “Show ’em how it’s done!”
I stay still on purpose. Dictator or not, she’s not gonna make me dance. Kenya and Maya egg her on in egging me on. Never thought they’d team up against me.
Shoot, before I know it, I’m wobbling. I have duck lips too, so you know I’m feeling it.
I talk Chris through the steps, and he keeps up. I love him for trying. Nana joins in, doing a shoulder shimmy that’s not the Wobble, but I doubt she cares.
The “Cupid Shuffle” comes on, and my family leads everybody else on the front row. Sometimes we forget which way is right and which is left, and we laugh way too hard at ourselves. Embarrassing dancing and dysfunction aside, my family’s not so bad.
After all that wobbling and shuffling, my stomach begs for some food. I leave everybody else doing the “Bikers Shuffle,” which is a whole new level of shuffling, and most of our party guests are lost as hell.
Aluminum serving trays crowd the kitchen counter. I stack a plate with some ribs, wings, and corn on the cob. I scoop a nice amount of baked beans on there somehow. No potato salad. That’s the devil’s food. All that mayonnaise. I don’t care if Momma made it, I’m not touching that mess.
I refuse to eat outside, too many bugs that could get on my food. I plop down at the dining room table, and I’m about to go in on my plate.