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By eight-fifteen, I was walkin’ through Bloomingdale’s on my way to the Louis Vuitton store in search of somethin’ hot. I wanted to slay them bitches back home with a cute bag or a slammin’ pair of heels. My cell started ringin’.
I reached into my chocolate Bottega Veneta and pulled it out. It was Chanel. “What’s good, tramp?” I said, forgettin’ my destination and goin’ toward Saks Fifth Avenue instead.
“Shit. Where you?”
“At the mall,” I said.
“Ooh, bitch,” she replied. “Which one, Paramus or Short Hills?”
“Neither,” I said.
She sucked her teeth. “Well, which one then? Shit. You coulda hit me up to roll with ya ass. You know I can always use a new pair of heels. You stay tryna dip on a bitch.”
“Whatever, ho,” I said, laughin’. “I’m at Fashion Valley Mall, and the shit is fiiiyah. They got some—”
“Fashion what? Is that some new shit in Jersey?”
I rolled my eyes. “No, bitch,” I said. “San Diego.”
She sucked her teeth, laughin’. “San Diego? What the hell?! I swear ya ass down with the secret society or some shit, as much shit you keep on the low. When you gonna be home?”
“In a few days,” I said, runnin’ my hands over this bangin’-ass black Donna Karan wrap-and-tie jersey dress. I looked at the tag: $2,495.00. Now the old me woulda boosted the shit quick, fast, and in a muthafuckin’ hurry; I’da had that dress plucked from its hanger. “Listen, ho. I’m tryna get my shop on. I’ll hit you back when I touch.”
“Whatever. Oh, shit”—she snapped her fingas—“I almost forgot why I called ya ass. You know that dude ya moms is fuckin’?”
For some reason my stomach knotted up. “Yeah,” I said slowly. “What about him?”
“Well, word has it that the nigga got outta prison sometime last year. I think for robbery or some shit. The nigga’s from Brownsville.”
“Okay and?” I said, eyein’ another Donna Karan creation, this slick-ass slip dress. Hmmm, I’d wear the fuck outta this.
“I just thought you might wanna know.”
I rolled my eyes, shiftin’ my cell from one ear to the other. “On some real shit, Chanel, I don’t give a fuck. That’s my mother’s shit. Not mine. When I said I was done with her ass, that’s what the fuck it is.”
“I hear you, girl.” She paused. “Anyway, I don’t know if I should say anything, but since you my girl ’n shit…”
I frowned my face up. “You shouldn’t say shit to me ’bout what?” I asked, runnin’ my hands along the rack of designer wears.
“Well, you might wanna know that the word is ya moms is knocked up.”
I almost dropped the fuckin’ phone. “Say what?!?”
“Yeah, girl. Ya moms was down at the doctor’s office yesterday with that nigga.”
Pregnant? I ain’t gonna front. Hearing that shit had a bitch’s head spinnin’. She couldn’t even raise me right. Unh-uh, ain’t no way in muthafuckin’ hell her neglectful ass would be that damn dizzy to let another child slip outta her snatch, I thought.
“Where’d you hear that shit?” I asked.
“Well, you didn’t hear this from me, but Tameka works at some doctor’s office over on…damn, I think it’s Atlantic Ave. Anyway, she told Tamia ya moms was up in that piece.”
Okay, now I’m pissed. This bitch, Tameka, is not only disclosin’ confidential shit, but she’s flappin’ her jaws to her gossipin’-ass sista. That shit was fucked up. And I was gonna check that bitch when I saw her.
“Well, that’s on her dumb ass.” Although I said that shit, I’m not sure if that’s what I really meant. “Besides, goin’ to a doctor doesn’t mean her ass is pregnant. She coulda been there for a check-up or somethin’.”
“Hmmm, I guess.”
“Hmm…nothin’,” I snapped. “What the fuck is that retarded bitch runnin’ her fuckin’ mouth for any damn way? Yeah, you right. You shoulda never told me this shit. ’Cause now, I’ma see Tameka’s trick ass. And it ain’t gonna be cute. How the fuck is she gonna be workin’ in a doctor’s office, tellin’ bitches who’s comin’ and goin’ outta that muhfucka. Let me go,” I said, stormin’ outta Saks. This ho had fucked up my mood. I peeped the time. It was already a little past nine p.m. The mall was gonna be closin’ soon any damn way. I needed to get back to my hotel and take off this fuckin’ hot-ass wig and take out these contacts. And, if I had it my way, fuck my frustrations away.
