CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Still lookin’ for change…lookin’ for a new groove…tired of all da extras…bitch ready to make a move…ain’t tryna be locked down…ain’t tryna take no tests…sumthin’ gotta give…wanna start things fresh…face da future…butta bitch gotta life to live…step in my way…get a face full’a sutures…
“Yo, sexy ma, what’s good? It’s Tone.”
I smile. “Shit, nigga. Chillin’. Wassup on ya end?”
“Coolin’. You know how it is. Yo, you get them papers yet?”
Oh shit, there’s been so much shit goin’ on I ain’t even had time to go through any’a my mail, I think, walkin’ ova to the stack of mail sittin’ up on the kitchen aisle countertop. “You know what there’s been so much goin’ on since I got back here I haven’t even given them any thought. Hold on, let me go through my mail.” I start siftin’ through the pile ’til I come ’cross a letter from the State of California. “Oh shit. I gotta envelope right here from ’em,” I tell ’em, rippin’ it open.
“Well?”
“Hol’ on, hol’ on, let me get it open, first.” Ohmigaawd, my hands are shaken. I pull the letter outta the envelope, and slowly read it. I scream. “Aaaaaaaahhhhh, what nigga, what?! A bitch done passed the exam!”
“Yo, sexy, that’s wassup. That’s what it is, for real—for real. What you gettin’ into tonight, we gotta go out ’n celebrate.”
“True-true. And you know this. Wait. Where you at?”
“Oh, damn, my bad. I’m in Jersey, ma. That’s why I was callin’ you for in the first place. I wanted to link up wit’ you before I bounced. But now we definitely gotta get it in tonight, feel me?”
“Yup-yup; I feel you. Well, I’m free tonight. And you can have’a bitch all night,” I say wit’out thinkin’. I am startin’ to feel overwhelmed. I keep myself from cryin’. Aside from gettin’ my high school diploma, this is the first real major shit I’ve eva accomplished in my life. And it feels real good. No, scratch that. It feels f*ckin’good!
“Cool-cool. That’s wassup. So what time you wanna link up?” I tell ’im ’round seven. “Oh, yeah…and don’t think I didn’t catch that last comment.”
“Uh, what was that?”
“That I can have you all night.”
“Yeah, muhf*cka, to celebrate, not run up in my p-ssy.”
He laughs. “Aaah, there you go. Ain’t nobody say nuthin’ like that. You always thinkin’ the worst.”
“Yeah, whateva. So you sayin’ you ain’t on it for no p-ssy.”
“Nah, never that, ma.”
I laugh. “You’re such a f*ckin’ liar.”
He laughs harder. “Nah, I ain’t on it like that.”
“Nigga, you know you want some more’a this p-ssy; stop frontin’.”
“Aiight, aiight; only if you tryna get it poppin’. Otherwise, nah…you cool peeps, Kat. I dig how you move. You a real thorough type chick; real talk. Any cat would be a fool not wantin’ you on his team.”
“Well, since you so full of compliments,” I tease, “I might give you a lil’ treat and let you eat my p-ssy. But I ain’t suckin’ ya dick and I ain’t makin’ no promises for anything else, muhf*cka.”
He keeps laughin’. “Yo, Kat, you funny as hell. But I got you. So let me get ya address.” I hit ’im wit’ the info and directions, then ask ’im where he tryna take me. He tells me he’s gotta spot in the city he wants to try. Tells me to serve it up real classy.
I have anotha call comin’ in. It’s Chanel. I let the nigga know if he ain’t here at ’xactly seven, it’s a wrap. Let ’im know I don’t wait on no nigga, then click ova. “Hello.”
“What time you comin’ up to da hospital today?”
I decide to go through the rest of my mail while I’m talkin’. There’s mostly a buncha bullshit solicitations and a few bills. I glance up at the wall clock. It’s ten a.m. “I need to be gettin’ my ass in gear soon. I gotta be back here by five.” I share my news wit’ ’er.
“Ohhmiigod, Kat, that’s great. I am so proud of you, boo. So now whatchu gonna do?”
I shrug as if she can see me. “I don’t know, yet. I guess at some point, I’ma have’ta go back to Cali for a minute to see what’s what.”
“Oh cool. Then Zaire can stay wit’ me while you tryna get shit poppin’ out there.”
I frown. What da f*ck?! “Leavin’ Zaire wit’ you? No, da hell I’m not. When I go, he’s goin’, too.”
“Hol’ up, bitch…why you say it like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like, ‘bitch, I ain’t leavin’ my baby wit’ ya nasty, stank-ass.’”
I laugh. “Chanel, that’s not how I meant it. I’m sayin’…”
“Well, I don’t know what you sayin’. But I know how da f*ck it sounded.” I can tell I done hurt ’er feelin’s. “Like a bitch ain’t shit. She good enough to be up at da hospital when ya trick-ass is whiskin’ all ova, but not good enough to take ’im when he gets outta da hospital. What kinda shit is that?”
Ohmiigaaawd, this lil’ nigga got bitches beefin’ ova ’im already. And da nigga ain’t even slingin’ dick, yet. “Girl, I’m sorry. You know that’s not how I meant it. It’s just that while he’s a baby I don’t wanna have’ta leave ’im alone wit’ anyone unless I really, really have’ta.”
She grunts. “Mmmph. You didn’t even want his ass; now all’a sudden you wanna be all protective ’n shit. Bitches kill me.”
I take a deep breath. “Look, bitch. I said that’s not how I meant it. I apologize for it comin’ out like that. If you wanna keep draggin’ da shit out, then…” I stop in midsentence when I get to a letter from Child Protective Services in New York.
“Hello?”
“I’m still here,” I say, rippin’ the letter open.
“Well, finish what da f*ck you was sayin’ so I can continue cussin’ ya funky-ass out.”
“Ho, f*ck you. I ain’t thinkin’ ’bout ya ugly-ass right now. I got a letter from CPS.”
“Well, what it say, bitch?” I read the letter. Tell ’er it says that all allegations against a bitch have been unsubstantiated. That no case will be opened against me. “Now, that’s what da f*ck I’m talkin’ ’bout!” she yells into the phone, forgettin’ ’bout the mini-beef she was tryna set off. “We one step closer to bringin’ our baby home. And, bitch… Be clear. I will be takin’ ’im, too!”
I laugh, then almost faint when I come ’cross anotha letter. This one’s from Brooklyn’s Family Court. I scream into the phone. Ohmiiimuthaf*ckin’gaawd! Today is my muthaf*ckin’ day, I think, tearin’ the shit open. “Ohhhhhhhhhmiiiigod, ohhhhhmiiiigod, Chanel!”
“Whaaat da f*ck happen? What is it?”
“Bitch, f*ck all that one-step-closer shit; we at the muthaf*ckin’ finish line. I gotta court hearin’ at Family Court August third at nine a.m.”
“Biiiiiiiiiiitch, ohhhhhhhhmiiiimuthaf*ckin’god, we gotta celebrate!” Chanel screams into the phone. “I knew them bitches couldn’t stop ya flow.”
“You got that right,” I say, grill-cheesin’ hard. “A creamy bitch always rises to da top; thought them hoes knew.”
“I know that’s right. Oh, wait one damn minute. Why da f*ck am I all coochie-coo-coo wit’ you, bitch, when I’m ’posed to be mad at ya ugly-ass.”
I bust out laughin’. “Bitch, we can beef later. You already know I’ma say some otha shit, so save bein’ mad ’til then. Right now, we got otha shit to do.”
She laughs wit’ me. “Bitch, I hate e’erything ya ho-ass stand for.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah…I love you, too, hooker.” We go at it a few minutes more, then disconnect.
It’s not ’til a bitch is in the shower that it really hits me that all this shit is really happenin’ to me, and for me. I stand under the water and f*ckin’ cry like a baby, excited, nervous, and over-joyed—feelin’ like the change I’ve been hopin’ for is finally gonna come.
Once I’m showered, dressed and ready to walk out the door, I open my front door just as the doorbell rings. It’s a delivery man. “Delivery for a Miss Rivera.”
“That’s me,” I state, starin’ at the white box under his arm. He hands me a clipboard to sign for it, then hands me the box. He tells me the tip has already been taken care of. I thank ’im, then shut the door. I pull apart the red ribbon wrapped ’round the box, then lift up its cover. Two dozen beautiful pink roses are inside along wit’ a card. I pick up the card and read it. AYE, YO, ON E’ERYTHING, I’M THINKIN’ ’BOUT YOU E’ERYDAY, AND MISSIN’ YOU MORE. YA FUTURE MAN!
Nigga, puhleeze, I think, takin’ the roses and placin’ ’em in a vase, then sittin’ ’em on the coffee table. Outta sight, outta mind.
The minute I come downstairs, Chanel eyes me, talkin’ shit. “Bitch, I hate you,” she says, rollin’ ’er eyes at me. After meetin’ me up at the hospital, she decided she was comin’ back to my spot to chill, even after I told the bitch I had shit to do tonight. She claimed she needed a break from bein’ in Brooklyn, talkin’ ’bout Divine is gettin’ on ’er nerves; that the nigga is smotherin’ ’er. I was like, “Bitch, puhleeze. Ya ass is full’a lies.” But, she’s my girl, so here she is.
“Ugh, bitch. What I do now?” I ask, playin’ dumb. But I already know what it is. The bitch is gaggin’ ova my wears. I’m wearin’ a simple, but stylish black Hervé Léger strapless dress I scooped up in Bloomingdales a few weeks ago. I usually don’t f*ck wit’ new designers, but I tried this piece on and loved how it wrapped ’round my curves like a band-aid. So I snatched it up.
“That bitch.” She points to my Dolce & Gabbana evenin’ bag. Well, I guess it ain’t da wears she’s illin’ ova. “Ohhhhmiigod, it’s siiick. When you get that? And how much, bitch?” I tell ’er it’s a twenty-seven-hundred dollar limited edition. She sucks ’er teeth. “For a bitch who ain’t workin’ and ain’t trickin’ a nigga up off’a his paper how is you affordin’ all this high-end shit?”
“Layaway, boo,” I say, laughin’.
“Bitch, puhleeze. Layaway my ass; it’s time you put a bitch on to how you really makin’ it pop.”
I roll my eyes up in my head. “Ho, we ain’t got time for no financial report. My date’ll be here soon. Anyway, I told ya dizzy ass to stop givin’ out discount p-ssy and you might be able to bubble-up.”
She flicks her hand at me, floppin’ back on the sofa. “Whateva.” She puts ’er bare feet on top of the coffee table and starts flippin’ through the latest issue of Jet. “So what’s up wit’ this nigga you runnin’ off wit’?”
I’m in my powder room, applyin’ lipgloss ova my painted lips to give ’em a sweet, juicy candy-apple look. I peek my head outta the door. “I ain’t runnin’ off wit’ da nigga. He’s a dude I met out in Cali. The nigga’s cool and he’s ’bout that paper; that’s it.”
“Mmmph…ya’ll f*ck?”
I’m glad the doorbell rings. Right on time, I think, glancin’ down at my timepiece. “Answer da door, nosey, instead of askin’ me a buncha damn questions, puhleeeze.”
“Yeah, okay. But don’t think I’ma forget. I still wanna know if you f*cked da nigga. And if da dick was good.” I hear ’er open the door. “Come in,” she says, lettin’ ’im in.
“Wassup, ma?”
“And you are?”
“Tone,” I hear ’im say in his smooth, silky voice, “and you?”
“Single, and still lookin’.”
I crane my neck outta the bathroom, rollin’ my eyes. “Tone, don’t pay ’er ass no mind. That’s my girl, Chanel. She used to be a clown ’til they revoked ’er happy pills.”
He laughs. “It’s all good.” He looks ’round. “Yo, nice spot.”
“Thanks. Have a seat. I’ll be ready in a sec.” I finish up what I’m doin’ then walk into the livin’ room.
The muhf*cka does a double-take, standin’ up. “Daaaaamn, you look good, ma.” He walks up on me and gives me a hug. “And you smell even better.”
I allow myself to get lost in his strong arms, inhalin’ his cologne. “Thank you. Mmmm, you don’t smell too bad ya’self. What you have on?” He tells me it’s Bulgari. Yeah, this nigga tryna get some p-ssy. I check out his wears. I can’t front the nigga is lookin’ mad sexy in his custom-fit Armani suit. And his accessories are settin’ the shit off. Black Louis belt and black Ferragamo loafers; the nigga’s lobes and neck are blingin’ on high. I peep Chanel eyein’ ’im on the sly, and grin.
“Aiight, hooker, we out.”
“Ya’ll kiddies have fun,” she says, gettin’ up off the sofa.
“Nice meetin’ you, Chanel.”
She smiles. “Oh, da pleasure was all mines.” She waits for ’im to walk out the door, then pulls me by the arm. “Bitch, that muthaf*cka is fiiiiine as hell. If you ain’t f*ckin’ ’im, hand ’im ova to me ’cause I damn sure will.”
“Bitch, puhleeze. Who won’t you f*ck?”
“Ya ugly-ass,” she says, laughin’.
I laugh wit’ ’er. “You’se one lyin’-ass ho. Don’t smoke up my shit eitha.”
“Bitch, you can’t smoke, remember. You ’bout to be a mommy.”
“Whateva,” I say, walkin’ out and shuttin’ the door behind me. Tone gets outta the car and walks ova and opens the passenger door for me. He waits for me to get in, then shuts it.
As soon as he gets in the car and pulls outta my driveway, he looks ova at me—lickin’ his lips. “Listen, I think I’ma take you up on that offer.”
I tilt my head. “What offer was that?”
“Havin’ you out all night.”
I smirk. “Oh, really. You wanna eat this p-ssy tonight?”
He grins, takin’ my hand and kissin’ the inside’a my palm. “What you think?”
I reach ova and grab at his dick. The shit is thick and hard. “Mmmmm…I think you need’a get ya eyes back on da road ’fore we end up tossed upside down in a ditch.”