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“Fuck you, you cum-guzzlin’ bitch!” I yelled back.
“Will ya’ll two bitches shut the fuck up,” Aunt Rosa said, “with all this back ’n forth bullshit for one goddamn minute. Kat, you need to get to the hospital.”
I rolled my eyes. “For what?”
“For what?!?” they both yelled.
“Bitch, is you serious?!” Patrice screamed.
“Didn’t you hear a word I fuckin’ said, Kat?” Aunt Rosa jumped in, soundin’ real tight. Please, like I gave a fuck. “I just told ya ass that ya moms is in the goddamn hospital and you need to get ya ass over to Brooklyn now!”
I started buckin’ my eyes and twistin’ up my lips, mockin’ her ass. Then the bitch started goin’ off on one of her tangents ’bout how she wished one of her kids would come outta they faces talkin’ shit the way I did, disrespectin’ my moms; ’bout how she can’t believe I’d come out my neck talkin’ all sideways ’n shit after e’erything my moms had done for me.
What the fuck? I thought, shakin’ my head.
“I can’t fuckin’ believe you,” she said. “I woulda banged ya damn grill out.”
“Oh, my God.” I laughed. “Aunt Rosa, please don’t tell me you back on that shit again.”
“Whaaat?!? Kat, don’t have me slap the shit outta you. My name ain’t Juanita. I’m ya aunt and all, and I love ya ass to death, but ho, I’d cut ya muthafuckin’ throat if you ever come at me like that again.”
“Rosa,” Patrice jumped in. “I told ya ass how fuckin’ disrespectful Kat is. She don’t give a fuck ’bout nobody but herself. She stay talkin’ slick ’n greasy.”
I laughed at both they asses.
“Bitch, this shit ain’t funny,” Aunt Rosa said.
“You right, it ain’t. But ya’ll tryna come at me on some tag-team shit is.”
“Rosa, I don’t even know why you bother. I already told you what it was with this bitch. Kat be on some other shit. Now you see why I don’t fuck with her like that.”
That did it. Between the drinks and all the trees, a bitch was ready to bring it to ’em. I read both of them hoes. “No, bitch,” I snapped, “I don’t fuck with you. Don’t get it twisted.”
“Kat, watch ya fuckin’ mouth,” Rosa said.
“No, you watch yours,” I said back. “You called me. I didn’t call you. And then you got the nerve to have me on fuckin’ three-way with Pat’s whore ass. So now let me tell both of you one goddamn thing. Patrice, you already know I don’t give a hot fuck ’bout you, bitch. So you can suck shit and die. And on some real shit, I’ma be the bitch to spit on ya fuckin’ grave. And Aunt Rosa, I love you too, boo. But don’t get the shit twisted. The only thing Juanita ever did was spread open her muthafuckin’ legs, and let niggas run over her. So fuck all that extra shit you talkin’. How the fuck you know what the fuck she’s done for me when ya ass stayed coked the fuck up when I was growin’ up?
“You don’t know what the fuck she’s done for me—I’m sick of bitches tellin’ me ’bout what the fuck she did for me. Poor Juanita this, poor Juanita that. Well, newsflash, bitches: Poor Juanita is a grown-ass woman who keeps makin’ the same fuckin’ mistakes. Ya’ll can go run ya happy asses down to the hospital and do whatever the fuck you gonna do. But don’t call my fuckin’ house ’bout shit ’cause I don’t wanna hear it. As far as I’m concerned, the woman who gave birth to me is dead.”
Aunt Rosa gasped. “Kat, I swear on e’erything I love, I’ma beat ya ass when I see you.”
“Well, stand in line,” I said, cuttin’ my eyes over at Chanel who was starin’ me down.
“I bet your fucked-up ass don’t even care that that nigga stomped ya mother all up in her stomach, and she done lost her baby, do you?”
“Why should I? Good for her silly ass,” I snapped, “and good for him. The nigga saved her dumb ass from fuckin’ up another child’s life.”
“You know what?” Aunt Rosa stated. “Juanita was right ’bout ya ass. You’se a fuckin’ crazy bitch.”
“Thank you very much,” I said sarcastically. “I’m glad you finally figured it out. Now, like I said, don’t call my muthafuckin’ house again.”
I hung up. Chanel was lookin’ at me in shock. She opened her mouth to say somethin’, but I shut her ass down. “Don’t open ya trap to say shit,” I warned, givin’ her ass a threatenin’ look. “If you don’t wanna get tossed up outta here, go on downstairs and bring up that bottle of Rèmy and let’s make it do what it do. ’Cause right about now, a bitch is through.”
Three a.m., I was tossin’ ’n turnin’. I sat up in bed, tryna adjust my eyes to the dark. I was sweatin’ and had a splittin’-ass headache. At first I thought it mighta been from all the drinkin’ and smokin’ with Chanel from the night before, but the more I thought ’bout it, the more I realized it wasn’t the same kinda feelin’ I usually got after a night of gettin’ lifted. It was different; one I couldn’t put my finga on. It was like I had some kinda nightmare or somethin’, but a bitch couldn’t remember dreamin’ ’bout shit.
I took a deep breath, and looked ’round the room. My blankets and pillows were all on the floor. I stretched my arms up over my head, then leaned over and turned on the lamp on my nightstand. I picked up the telephone and retrieved my messages from my home phone. I inhaled, exhaled, then listened.
“Kat, this ya Aunt Rosa. Ya mother’s in the hospital. That nigga of hers done beat her up real bad. She’s at Kings County.”
