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She rolls ’er eyes. “Whateva, tramp. Pass me da damn blunt.”
We go back ’n forth for a few rounds, draggin’ each otha for filth, laughin’ and whatnot ’til Eric Roberson’s joint “Dealing” starts playin’. Wit’out any thought, we shut the fuck up and go into our own lil’ zones, bobbin’ and puffin’. I’m sure ’er horny ass is imaginin’ ’im wit’ them big, juicy lips swallowin’ up ’er titties. I’m stuck in mine, wonderin’ if I should give the nigga Alex a go, or cut the nigga off now ’fore shit gets too hectic.
TWO DAYS LATER, CHANEL IS BACK UP AT THE HOSPITAL WIT’ ME. I just finished talkin’ to the doctor ’bout the baby’s progress. And so far he’s doin’ good. The doctor is optimistic he’ll make it through this. But, for now, he is still in ICU. And on some real shit, a bitch can’t stand seein’ ’im and all them otha lil’ babies in incubators wit’ all kinda tubes comin’ outta ’im. They are so tiny ’n fragile. The shit is really fuckin’ my nerves. I stare at ’im. Feel myself gettin’ all choked up.
What am I gonna do?
Bitch, you was poppin’ mad shit ’bout ’im goin’ into foster care. ’Bout you not bein’ beat. Now ya confused-ass standin’ here switchin’ it up. Ho, make ya mind up.
My mind is made up. I can’t let these muhfuckas take ’im. I can’t do it.
“Oh, bitch, puhleeze. And you think you can raise ’im? Get real.
“Do you have any idea what you wanna name ’im?” Chanel asks, cuttin’ through my thoughts.
“Huh?
“Hello, hello? Anybody home? I asked whadaya gonna name ’im?”
“Fuck if I know. All this shit is new to me.” On some real shit, I really haven’t thought the shit all the way through. It feels like shit is movin’ type-fast for a bitch. I’m torn…okay, okay, and fuckin’ scared to death. I don’t know the first thing ’bout carin’ for a baby. Shit, who knows if it’s sumthin’ I even got in me. All I know is, from the moment I laid eyes on that lil’ boy, he’s been on my brain, heavy. And I can’t turn my back on ’im.
“Well, you need to think of sumthin’, soon. We can’t keep callin’ ’im ‘baby’. Our lil’ man needs a name. I’m gonna start lookin’ through some baby books for a name.”
I grin. “Oh, he’s our lil’ man, huh?”
“Damn straight ’cause you know I ain’t tryna stretch my snatch all outta shape tryna pump no babies outta it. So we gotta share ’im.”
I laugh. “Girlfriend, as much mileage that kat-box of yours got on it, it really ain’t gonna be that much stretchin’ goin’ on. You real loosey-goosey wit’ yours, boo. All you gotta do is squat down low and a baby’ll drop right out wit’ ya big-pussy self.”
She laughs. “Whateva, tramp. Shut ya cum-trap and come up wit’ a name for our baby. And da shit gotta be fly.”
I laugh wit’ ’er. “Yeah, you right. I don’t—
”
“Umm, ’scuse me. Are you Miss Rivera?” I turn in the direction of the voice. There are two chicks—one black, the otha white—standin’ wit’ notepads. The black chick is the one talkin’ to me. She has a real strong face, mannish-like. And ’er short blonde ’fro ain’t helpin’ matters. I look ’er up ’n down. Take in ’er cheesy makeup job. The ho got on foundation that is two shades lighter than ’er neck wit’ a buncha eyeliner ’round ’er eyes. She’s a makeup artist’s nightmare. I glance down at ’er footwear. Cheesy patent-leather heels; mmmph, a Payless booga.
“Who wants to know?”
“I’m Samantha Hillinger-Brown, and this is my colleague, Dana Movella.” I glance at the white chick. The first thing I peep are a pair of white seashell earrings danglin’ from ’er lobes. She’s all dolled up in ’er Sunday best; a purple dress wit’ large white polka dots. All the bitch needs is a pair of white gloves and a Bible. “We’re with Child Protective Services.” She extends ’er hand. I glance at it, raisin’ my brow. She quickly puts it down.
“And?”
“We’re here on the matter of Baby Rivera.”
Okay, now a bitch’s radar kicks up a notch. “What’a ’bout ’im?”
“We understand your mother had been on life support until he was delivered. And we understand the father is a person of interest in her death.”
“Yeah, that’s right. What does that have to do wit’ me, or you?”
“Well, now that he’s born we need to begin planning for—”
“Oh, no, Sweetie,” Chanel cuts in, shiftin’ ’er handbag from one hand to the otha. “We don’t need no plannin’ committee. We got this. So thanks for ya interest. But you can go hop scotch on back ova to ACS. He’s in good hands.”
“And you are?” Sam the Man asks.
“I’m his aunt.”
