You know why I go so hard for Dray? ’Cause he goes hard for me. I swear, ever since I was twelve years old, whatever I needed, Dray always came through. We were broken up for, like, six months back when I was a freshman, and he was seeing other girls and whatnot. But he still got me the things that I needed. It don’t matter what those things were, he was just there. I mean, yeah, Pri looks out for me, too. But it’s not the same. She be calling me a ho, and I know she’s my twin and all, but it still hurts. How am I a ho when I’ve only been with one dude my whole life? Dray took my virginity, and he’s still the same nigga I fuck with. For five years. How many hos can say that? You know, that’s the shit I don’t like about bitches. Just because everybody says I’m pretty and I wear nice clothes, it doesn’t mean I’m a ho. But that reputation sticks to you like another layer of skin.
I remember when I was, like, ten, some of Ma’s guy friends would come over and tell me that I’m gonna be “fast” just ’cause I was twitching in my little jeans. What the fuck? I was ten. And they’d say to my mother, Oh, she got a little body on her, so you gotta be packing to keep those boys away. But it wasn’t my mother who was packing. It was Dray. He was the one who kept those boys away. Like that one time in the ninth grade, this dude from over on 6 Mile was going hard, coming to my school, and buying me flowers and shit. He was really cute, so I went on one date with him. But word got around that I slept with him. It got to Dray and he was pissed. I had to swear on my father’s grave that the nigga didn’t even get to kiss me. So Dray had to deal with him for spreading rumors about me. I found out the boy ended up in the hospital for a week. That’s the shit Pri can’t do. But Dray . . . After that, he bought me a diamond necklace and took me shopping. And it’s been D&D all along. Dungeons and Dragons. Sometimes we fight each other, but he fights for me, and I fight for him.
FOURTEEN
“COME ON, FAB! Step up your hair game. You gotta actually look fabulous for people to start calling you Fabulous,” Donna says, standing in front of me with one of her wigs.
I’m sitting on Chantal’s bed as Donna tries to put that hairy thing on me and make my face look plastic again. I keep both my hands on top of my hair and shake my head like a toddler. “No!”
It’s another Saturday night of us getting ready, but this time, I’m the only one going out. By myself. With Kasim. A date. A real date. I’ve been thinking about my mother all day. Would she approve? Would she like Kasim? Would she like what I was wearing? I don’t even know if she would like me wearing wigs, or weaves, as Donna calls them, because I never so much as had braid extensions. Both me and Manman have managed just fine with our own hair—like Chantal and Pri.
My phone buzzes and I quickly grab it. It’s Detective Stevens, and she texts that she’ll be calling me at three o’clock tomorrow. Maybe I will tell her about Kasim. And maybe I will have some information for her. But I shake that thought from my mind, because tonight I don’t want to have any worries.
“Who was that? Kasim?” Donna asks. “I think he’ll like you more with a little more hair on your head.”
I just nod.
“That’s not true. You don’t have to wear any of Donna’s fake hair, Fab,” Chantal says. She’s spread out next to me on her bed, reading a textbook. “She’s trying to make you look like her real twin.”
“I heard that!” Pri says.
I stand up to look in the mirror. When I try to gather my thick braids up on top of my head, it’s a mess.
“Come here,” Chantal says, placing her laptop on her dresser. She punches a few keys, and soon we’re on YouTube, watching a girl do her hair while giving instructions.
“Oh, lord.” Donna sighs. “Chant has been on this natural-hair shit now and she’s gonna try to make you look like Sasquatch.” She plops down on the bed.
The girl in the video has thick hair like mine, and she pats it down with white cream from a jar that she displays on the screen. Then she parts and rolls and twists her hair into a fancy style. Chantal helps me do the same to my braids. When we’re done, my hair looks so good that I could eat it. It’s sculpted like a crown. I look like a goddess. Like Ezili herself, the lwa of beauty.
“Great.” Donna sighs. “Now you look like Rosa Parks. Let’s at least do your face so you look like Nicki Minaj.”
“No!” I say, shaking my head. “No makeup.”
“Dammit, Chantal!” Donna says. “There you go. You got your own twin now.” She grabs her makeup box and wigs and leaves the room.
I don’t know if she was joking or really angry that I liked the hairstyle.
“Ha-ha! You lost!” Pri yells to her. “Chantal and her corny-librarian hairdo won.”
I only add lip gloss to my face. I lick my fingers and smooth down my eyebrows like my mother has done for me so many times. I look clean and decent. But now I have to find a good outfit to match my new hair. I search my mother’s suitcase for one of her dresses—a red one with tiny flowers. It reaches to the middle of my calves, but otherwise, it fits perfectly.
“Oh, no,” Pri says. “Don’t tell me you’re wearing that. Girls will jump you for going out with fine-ass Kasim and looking like a church lady.”
“Leave her alone,” Chantal says. “You look cute.”
“Cute.” Pri snorts under her breath. “As long as it helps you keep them legs closed and hold out for a long time. I mean, a long-ass time.”