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“Nah, fuck that,” Tamia said, snatchin’ up her bag of weed and her Phillies and Dutches. “I’m out. This bitch done fucked up my mood.”
I laughed. “Ho, run from the truth if ya want. But ya cruddy-ass just proved the shit is real. If ya pussy’s flamin’ and ya burnin’ niggas, keep it real. That’s all I’m sayin’, ho. Be a real bitch ’bout it.” The room got real quiet. Iris was shootin’ me some serious rocks, like I really gave a fuck. I knew she didn’t really want it ’cause if she did she woulda leaped. “What the fuck you ice-grillin’ me for?”
She rolled her eyes. “Fuck you, bitch.”
“Yeah, whatever,” I said. I took another toke from my blunt, leaned back in my chair, and held that shit in my lungs.
I guess the tramp had a change of heart ’cause she tossed her shit back down on the table. “I’m goin’ to the bathroom,” she said, stompin’ off. I knew the bitch was heated that I pulled her card. Oh well.
I slowly exhaled the smoke into the air, glancin’ at Chanel. “Make sure when the bitch leaves, ya toss her glass in the trash and burn that toilet seat,” I said. She rolled her eyes. Iris sucked her teeth. I picked up my glass and sipped the rest of my drink, smirkin’.
“You know you dead wrong, Kat, word,” Iris said, regulatin’ another blunt. “That’s some real foul shit. You know we ain’t never let no niggas or dick or who’s fuckin’ who come between us. We’ve always been down for each other. Why the fuck you come at her neck like that?”
“’Cause if the bitch got herpes then we need to know. She got us smokin’ and drinkin’ behind her nasty ass. That shit ain’t fuckin’ cool. And I’ma keep shit real. Muhfuckin’ girls or not, if the bitch really does have that shit, and I catch it…I’ma shut her lights
out. And I put that on e’erything I love.”
I took another deep pull from my blunt, held it in my lungs, then let the smoke twirl around my tongue.
Iris and Chanel stared at me, shakin’ their heads. But I bet them bitches put down that blunt they’d been passin’ back ’n forth all night.
“Don’t stop now,” I said, laughin’, stickin’ both hands up and crossin’ my fingas. “Ya’ll bitches done got the cooties.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
On some real shit, the other night had me lookin’ at shit sideways. I mean, I got love for my girls ’n all. But, the more I was around them bitches the less I was feelin’ ’em, especially Iris’s and Tamia’s triflin’ asses. I guess my mental was much deeper than theirs. A bitch like me was lookin’ at shit outside the fuckin’ hood, while these broads were tryna stay chained to it. That ain’t my flow. Don’t get it twisted. I love the hood and all that it brings. But I ain’t tryna live and breathe the shit every damn day, feel me? But I also knew that no matter where the fuck I went, I was takin’ me with me. If I didn’t change, then nothin’ changed. But how can a bitch ever leave her past when the shit is constantly starin’ me right in the fuckin’ face? Even if I wanted to, which I don’t, how can I ever forget where the fuck I come from when I gotta constantly keep comin’ back to it? Fuck what ya heard. The hood is always gonna be in my blood. But what’s wrong with a bitch wantin’ something better? Is it really so wrong? Hell fuckin’ no!
I don’t know why the fuck she still gotta live here, I thought as I pulled my truck up in front of my old buildin’. I flipped down my visor and checked my face, then watched as a group of kids came walkin’ down the street—three chicks and four dudes, all ’bout thirteen, fourteen, passin’ ’round what looked like a blunt as they walked and talked. They seemed to be havin’ a live discussion, cursin’ and laughin’. I glanced at the digital clock: 11:17 a.m. I smiled, rememberin’ the days Chanel, Tamia, Iris, and I would be walkin’ to catch the number 2 train to Flatbush Ave. to chill while gettin’ lifted ’n talkin’ shit. We’d be fresh to death in our matchin’ wears, rockin’ the crisp Nike Uptowns or Stan Smiths in our little bootie shorts and T-shirts knotted in the back. Our hair would be pulled back in tight ponytails with the bangs and we’d have our bamboo earrings or doorknockers swingin’ and our gold name plates danglin’ ’round our necks. And e’ery now and then we’d rock our matchin’ gold fronts. Ugh! But you couldn’t tell us bitches nothin’.
Nothin’ had really changed since I moved outta the hood and outta Brooklyn two years ago. Gunshots were still poppin’; niggas were still droppin’; bitches were still stuntin’; muhfuckas were still gettin’ high; the drug game was still live ’n kickin’. Same shit, different playas. The only difference, these little young niggas and bitches were more reckless with it than when I was out here. And now with this gang shit, the hood was real hectic.
As the group got closer to my truck, I sat a few minutes longer and watched an older woman who looked like she was in her fifties or so, carryin’ two bags and her pocketbook, walkin’ toward the group of kids. She was tryna get through the group, but no one moved outta her way so she could pass. Instead of gettin’ in a confrontation, the woman tried to go ’round ’em. But one of the young girls—sportin’ cornrow extensions and big danglin’ earrings—just had to be a little bitch ’bout it and purposefully bumped into the woman, knockin’ her bag outta her hand. Everyone in her posse thought the shit was funny and started laughin’. The woman gave them a glarin’ look, pickin’ up her things. I already knew if they tried to hurt her, I was gonna jump outta my truck and bring it to ’em. I cracked my windows to listen.
“Bitch, whut iz you lookin’ at?” the young chick asked. The woman ignored her. “Dumb, old-ass bitch, ya lucky I’m in a good mood. Or me ’n my niggas would run ya shit.”
I shook my head in disbelief, watchin’ ’n waitin’ to see if I was gonna have to jump outta my truck and set it off.
The woman stood, back straight, head high, and raised her hands. “I rebuke you…in the name of Jesus…in the name of Jesus…in the name of Jesus…”
“Be gone, old lady, or get ya shit split,” one of the boys said.
“Though I walk through the valley,” the woman said, “of the shadow of death…I fear no evil—”
“Fuck you!” they all yelled, laughin’, then runnin’ down the street.
I was so fuckin’ disgusted. No fuckin’ respect! These young niggas and bitches were on some real extra shit. Yeah, a bitch did her dirt growin’ up: smoke, drank, fought and sliced bitches, boosted shit, got her party on and whatnot. But I was never disrespectful. Cussin’ out and disrespectin’ an old head was a no-no. I don’t give a fuck how they came at ya. You kept ya grill shut and kept it movin’. I rolled up my windows and got out of my truck.
“You alright, ma’am?” I asked, walkin’ ’round the front of my truck.
She smiled. “I’m fine, baby. Thanks. I don’t know what’s wrong with some of these kids today. They’re just runnin’ amok. No guidance. No respect. No regard,” she said, straightenin’ her rimmed glasses. “We are truly in the last days.”
“You have a good day,” I offered as I walked toward the project’s entrance, ignorin’ her comments. I really wasn’t beat for a sermon. Not today. Not any day.
“You do the same,” she said, speakin’ to my back.
My cell started ringin’ as I approached the entrance to my buildin’. I looked at the caller ID. It was Grant. I smiled, stoppin’ to lean up against the railin’. I wanted some dick. And if he turned out to be a real nigga, I was gonna fuck him down into the mattress. I hope the nigga can fuck, I thought, answerin’. “Hello.”
“Hey, beautiful,” he said. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”
