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“Can we have your name?”
“It’s Aunt,” Chanel says fuckin’ wit’ ’em. “A-U-N-T.”
I tilt my head. “So the only plannin’ there’s gonna be is what color I’m gonna paint his room.”
“Well, here’s the thing, Miss Rivera,” Miss Sunday’s Best says. “We’re here in the interest of the child. We’ve received several calls from concerned parties on behalf of the infant.”
“Concerned parties like who?” I ask, lookin’ ’er dead in ’er blue eyes.
“Well, I’m not at liberty to disclose who the parties are. However, we’d like to discuss with you some concerns…”
Right at this moment, I ain’t tryna hear shit this ho is sayin’. And although I wanna drag this bitch for filth, I know I gotta keep it cute. So I force myself to keep my mouth shut and pay attention. The bitch starts talkin’ ’bout allegations. Someone called in and told ’em that a bitch sells drugs and sits ’round blazin’ all day; that a bitch is aggressive and violent; that I assaulted my grandmother and attacked my aunts; that I get drunk and fuck a buncha men.
I blink, blink again.
“You wait one damn minute,” Chanel snaps, pointin’ ’er finga at ’em. “That’s a buncha bullshit.”
“And that may be so,” Sam the Man says. “But we still have to follow up with every call received. Our priority is for the safety and well-being of the child.”
“Hmmm,” I say, twistin’ my lips up. “And so it should be. So know this. I don’t have shit to hide. So you can ask me whateva you want. Bottom line, I have my own money, and my own home. I don’t sell drugs; neva have, neva will. And I don’t do ’em.” Okay, yeah a bitch blazes, but that ain’t none’a these hoes’ business. Besides, Kush ain’t no damn drug any-damn-way. I continue wit’ my story. “And in terms of bein’ aggressive or assaultive. I neva slapped my grandmother. I grabbed her arm. So what? The bitch slapped me.”
“Well, did you threaten her?”
“Ho,” I snap, puttin’ a hand on my hip. “What that gotta do wit’ da baby? If I threatened ’er, then it should be the police standin’ here, not you. But since you asked. No, I ain’t threaten ’er. I warned ’er. I told ’er the next time she put ’er hands on me, I’ma forget she’s my grandmother and beat ’er old ass up. I don’t care who you are. Don’t put ya hands on me. Otha than that, I like to keep it real simple. Don’t fuck wit’ me, and I won’t fuck wit’ you. But if you bring, then I’ma sling it. And there you have it. Now go back and tell whomeva called you that I said ta fall da fuck back or get knocked da fuck back. Anything else?”
They both blink. I guess they shocked that a bitch brought it to ’em like that. These bitches got the wrong one.
Miss Sunday’s Best says, “We’re gonna have to follow up and do an investigation and background check on you.”
“That’s fine by me. Do whateva you need ta do ta rest ya minds.” I give ’em my contact info, then spin-off on ’em. As soon as me and Chanel get into the elevator and the doors shut, I snap. “Can you believe this shit?! They send out sum muthafuckin’ low-budget booga bitches to try ’n eye scan me. Bitch, puhleeze. They can investigate all da fuck they want.”
“Who da fuck you think called them hoes?”
“Who you think? Them whore-ass trick bitches Elise and Patrice. Shit, they old, crusty-ass mammy probably called ’em too; dusty bitch!”
“I know you gonna keep it cute, though?”
“Sweetie and you know this. First things first, a bitch gotta flush out these insides in case they try ’n get crafty wantin’ me to do piss tests ’n shit. Then I’ma invite them trashbag hoes into my home and serve ’em wit’ grace, okay?!”
“I know that’s right. So, I guess we ain’t rollin’ today?”
My cell rings. I fish it outta my bag, then glance at the screen. It’s Alex. I press IGNORE. The elevator doors open. “Bitch, puhleeze, ain’t shit changed for today. We gonna burn down da muthafuckin’ forest all day. But come tomorrow, a bitch gotta shut shit down ’til after lil’ man is released from da hospital and I’m bringin’ ’im home.”
“That’s right. Right where da fuck he belongs.”
Bitch, how da fuck you get ya’self into this shit?
Ho, you doin’ da right thing.
Bitch, puhleeze, ya ass ain’t tryna be nobody’s mammy.
“I swear I hope a bitch can handle this shit,” I say as we exit the glass doors. “The last thing I wanna do is fuck his life up da way Juanita fucked up mine.”
“Girl, trust me. You won’t.” Chanel loops ’er arm ’round mine and we walk arm ’n arm.
I sigh, lookin’ up at the sky. For what, who knows; maybe for a sign. “Let’s hope so.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
