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“Hello?”
“I’m still here,” I say, rippin’ the letter open.
“Well, finish what da fuck you was sayin’ so I can continue cussin’ ya funky-ass out.”
“Ho, fuck 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 fuck 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. Ohmiiimuthafuckin’gaawd! Today is my muthafuckin’ day, I think, tearin’ the shit open. “Ohhhhhhhhhmiiiigod, ohhhhhmiiiigod, Chanel!”
“Whaaat da fuck happen? What is it?”
“Bitch, fuck all that one-step-closer shit; we at the muthafuckin’ finish line. I gotta court hearin’ at Family Court August third at nine a.m.”
“Biiiiiiiiiiitch, ohhhhhhhhmiiiimuthafuckin’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 fuck 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 fuckin’ 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 fuck 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 pussy 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 fuck?”
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 fucked da nigga. And if da dick was good.” I hear ’er open the door. “Come in,” she says, lettin’ ’im in.
“Wassup, ma?”
