Chasing Butterflies (20 page)

I
’d never seen an EBT card until now...

“Damn, girl, you fine,” someone says as I’m walking by. This is the first time I’ve been forced to venture off the steps
alone
. I’m not going to lie, I’m nervous. Even if it is only to walk up two blocks to the store on the corner.

Still.

This is uncharted territory for me.

Even though I know my way back to the apartment, I still feel lost.

Real lost.

“Yo, shorty,” someone else calls out. “Let me holla at you.”

I keep walking.

Don’t even look in the direction of the voice.

“Yo, I know you not iggin’ me. Stuck-up
bish
. What, you deaf or sumthin’?”

I swallow.

Think maybe Keyonna’s right.

I need a can of mace, probably sooner than later.

“Yo, shorty, let me get a ride on that wagon you draggin’ . . .”

Oh, oh,
ohhhhh
.

That
wagon.

I’d never heard a girl’s butt called a
wagon.
Until now.

I pick up my pace; not too fast, though, because I don’t want my
wagon
drawing more attention than it already is.

Sweet peach.

That’s what I think I hear someone say as I continue to my walk.

“Yo, ma, can I get a taste? I bet you sweet ’n’ juicy like a peach . . .”

Ohmygod
! That’s
exactly
what I heard.

I frown, shaking my head.

I keep walking.

I hear them laughing behind me.

“Damn, she got a
phatty
, though . . . Aye, yo, ma. Let me get dem digits . . .”

I can feel their eyes on me as I walk by, practically undressing me.

And I am becoming increasingly uncomfortable. I’m in a pair of white shorts and a pink short-sleeved tee, but I’m wishing that I had worn a pair of sweats and a turtleneck, even though it’s ninety-two degrees out.

Sweat rolls down the center of my back.

Back home guys never call out to me like I’m some call girl. The boys I know in my neighborhood—well, the ones I associate with—are respectful of girls.

Of me.

Maybe because—

“Yo, what’s good, ma?” a thin, brown-skinned guy says, stepping in front of me, blocking my path. He’s wearing a white tank top and torn jeans, and a red Polo hat pulled down low over his eyes.

“Huh?”

He grins. “I said, what’s good?”

“Oh. Nothing.”

“Yo, where you from, ma?”

“California,” I say nervously.

“Oh, word. That’s wassup. What you doin’ out this way?”

Good question.

“Um, visiting.”

“Oh, a’ight. That’s wassup. Where you stayin’?”

I raise my brows.

He grins wider. “I ain’t gonna kick in the door ’n’ kidnap you, ma. I’m just askin’. I might wanna scoop you up ’n’ chill.”

“Oh. No thanks. I don’t
chill
.”

He laughs. “Oh, word? You one of them types.”

I frown. “What type is that?”

“One of them good girls.”

I shrug. “I guess.”

“Yeah, I need one of those in my life. Word up. These broads ’round here burnt out.”

“Oh,” is all I say.

His cell starts ringing. He lets it go into voice mail. But then it starts ringing again. And I’m relieved when he snatches it from his waist and barks into the phone.

“Yo, what? Damn. I’m on my way.” He looks at me. “Yo, ma, I’ma holla . . .”

“Okay,” I say, walking off as he starts cursing someone out on the other end.

A girl, I believe, since he calls the person all kinds of stupid B’s.

That couldn’t be me.

I wipe sweat from my forehead with my hand.

The sun beats down on me, hot and relentless.

I see the store.

Almost there! But not close enough.

One more block, Nia. Focus.

This heat is torturous.

Brutal.

Stifling.

I feel like I’m in the middle of a concrete desert.

Surrounded by abandoned houses and graffiti.

I wish I could blink my eyes and be back home, in my backyard, under a palm tree.

“Oh, damn, that’s wifey right there,” I hear someone call out. I look over and there’s a light-skinned boy with light green eyes and locks, blowing a kiss at me. “What’s good, baby?”

He looks young. Real young.

But, obviously, too grown for his years.

I give him a half wave, the soles of my sandals still hitting the pavement with one purpose in mind: to get to the store and back in one piece.

I get to the corner, the store in reach, waiting for the light to change.

I shift my book bag from one shoulder to the other, waiting, as cars zip down the street and through the light.

A silver Mercedes truck stops at the red light, a thick cloud of smoke whirling out the opened windows with it.

“Damn, ma. You got pretty on fleek,” a dark-skinned guy wearing cornrows says from the backseat, leaning out the window.

Who would have thought it?

Daddy always told me how beautiful I was. And the boys at my school thought I was
cute
. But no one has ever told me I had pretty . . . on
fleek
.

That’s a new one.

I crane my neck and look over at him. He has a trimmed goatee, and looks to be at least in his twenties.
Waaaay
too old to be talking to
me
.

Still, I smile. Say thanks. Then look straight ahead, counting the seconds in my head for the light to change.
Hurry up and change
.

“Can I get ya digits, baby?”

I blink. Shake my head.

“Mofo,” someone yells, “shut yo’ thirsty azz up. Leave shorty alone. Can’t you see she mad young?”

“Man, eff that. You see that phatty on her . . .”

The light changes.

And I hurriedly cross the street.

Speed up my walk.

Hope not to trip over my feet.

The truck zooms by with Mr. Twenty-Something yelling out, “Let me be ya baby daddy, sexy?”

Some pickup line.

This has truly been the longest two blocks of my life.

I’ve literally lost count at the number of boys—
annnd
men (yuck!)—who keep trying to get my attention. I almost feel like I’m walking the infamous walk of shame, even though I know I haven’t done anything to be ashamed of.

There’s a posse of guys hanging out in front of the store.

Great.

As soon as they spot me, they start eyeballing me.

I brace myself.

My heart thumps.

Louder.

Harder.

Faster.

And then comes a chorus of “What’s good, ma? What’s good, baby?”

They’re all nice enough to step back and let me through.

That is . . .

Until someone grabs my butt.

M
y whole left butt cheek captured in the palm of some boy’s filthy hand!

I’m flustered, to say the least.

No boy has ever grabbed my butt.

Then the rest of those ignorant boys thought what he’d done was entertaining, and laughed.

Where the heck do they get off thinking that grabbing a girl’s butt—or
any
thing else on her body—is acceptable? Or funny?

And they have the nerve to
still
be hanging outside, waiting . . .

For their next victim, perhaps.

Or maybe for me.

Like predators.

I don’t know which one of the six or seven boys who are hanging outside violated me, but I’m too shaken to walk back out that door to find out.

I tap my foot, shouldering my bag, imagining myself becoming loud and belligerently cursing them all out—and, maybe, even fighting them, if I had it in me, if I were more like Sha’Quita.

I suppose it’s a blessing that I’m not loud and obnoxious like her, but in this instance, I wish I had a switch I could turn on to blast them real quick, then turn off.

If I weren’t so pissed, I’d laugh at the thought of Sha’Quita going all
Love & Hip Hop
on those trifling fools. I’ve never watched that show. But I’ve heard lots of things about it. And not all of it is good.

I grab the back of my neck, then roll my neck side to side.

I’m tense.

I take several breaths.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

As cool air from the store’s AC hits my skin, I somehow manage to let out a sigh of relief—from the heat and from my arduous two-block trek.

No matter how short.

I glance toward the door, narrowing my eyes, then releasing a frustrated sigh, peeling my glare away from the door, hoping like heck that they’re gone by the time I’m ready to leave the store.

I fish my cell from out of my bag, then call Aunt Terri. It rings and rings. Then I’m told that the mailbox is full. I quickly send her a text.

S
OS
!!! I
NEED
2
GET OUT OF HERE
! P
LEASE AUNT TERRI
. C
AN U SEND
4
ME NOW
??
OR CAN U GET IN TOUCH W/DADDY’S ATTY N ASK HIM TO CALL ME. PLEASE AUNT TERRI
.

I send the text, then try calling her again.

Still no answer.

And no text response.

Yet.

Deflated, I drop my phone back down into my bag’s side pocket. Then shift my weight from one foot to the other. There’s a Chinese, no, Korean man behind a bulletproof glass waiting on an older lady wearing a multicolored headscarf and short-short skirt as she pays for her items. I look up and watch her through the store’s security mirror as she digs down into her shirt and pulls out her money.

I glance over at the cashier’s booth just as he frowns at her. He says something that sets her off. She goes from zero to a hundred. Curses him. Uses racial slurs. Gives him the middle finger. Then pulls her shirt up and flashes her boobs before storming out of the store.

Wow
.

I take a step forward in line.

Wait my turn.

I’m the fourth person in line.

I want to get back to the apartment (never thought I’d say that!).

But I am in no rush to go back out in that heat.

Or be harassed.

I close my eyes, just for a second, to kind of get my thoughts together, when I hear a deep voice over my shoulder say, “Yo, what’s good, ma? I thought that was you.”

I crane my neck and look up into a familiar face.

But I can’t remember his name.

He grins. “Nia?”

I nod. “Yes. I don’t remember yours, though.”

“It’s Shawn. Don’t forget it.”

“Oh, okay. I’ll try not to.”

He smirks. “Yeah, you do that. But, yo. I bet them clowns were sweatin’ you hard, too. Cats mad thirsty out here; especially when they see a cutie wit’ pretty legs ’n’ a phatty.”

I blink.

Nervously shift my weight from one foot to the other.

“My bad.” He shrugs. “I’m keepin’ it a hunnid. It is what it is.”

He lets his gaze drop down to the flare of my hips. Then grins. “You real right, ma.”

Oh, okay.

I really should have worn those sweats and that turtleneck.

“Thanks, I guess,” I say, shifting my gaze from his to prevent him from seeing that he’s managed to make me blush.

I move up the line.

Three more people ahead of me.

“Where’s ya peoples at?”

I give him a confused look. “My
peoples
?”

“Yeah. Quita.”

Oh.

Her.

His obsessed girlfriend.

I shrug. “At the park, I guess.”

“Oh, word? And you ain’t wanna go?”

I shake my head. “No.”

I look straight ahead.

Try to avoid the heat from his eyes staring in back of me.

I ignore the voice in my head and glance over my shoulder.

Our eyes meet.

“You pretty as
fu
—”

His cell rings.

And I’m glad.

The line moves up.

Two more people left in front of me.

“Yo,” he says when he answers. I stare at the back of the head of the lady in front of me, trying not to listen to his conversation. But it’s hard not to since he’s practically up on me, and all in my ear.

I step forward, trying to put some distance between us, as best I can without stepping on the heels of the lady in front of me.

“Nah, nah . . . tell them mofos I said fall back. I’ma be through in a minute . . . Nah, I’m on the bike . . . oh, a’ight. Word... A’ight. Bet.”

I glance over at the door.

Those disrespectful idiots are still out there.

Great
.

I roll my eyes and take another step forward.

Finally, I’m next.

I place the two cans of Red Bull on the counter, then ask for a pack of Dutches. I feel funny asking for them since I don’t even smoke. I’ve never even purchased a pack before. Or used an EBT card alone. Or seen what one looks like, for that matter.

I’m shocked when the guy doesn’t even ask me for ID, even though it clearly states that anyone purchasing cigarettes must be at least nineteen.

My hands are sweaty pulling out Keyonna’s EBT card. I hand it to the cashier. I don’t know if I should feel embarrassed or not, but I do. The cashier peers at me, then swipes the card.

I am relieved when the transaction is completed, and the cashier bags my items. But then my anxiety kicks back in the second reality sets in.

That I have to walk out that door.

I grab the bag, and give a half wave to Shawn. “Okay, bye,” I say, not really knowing what else to say. I’m too afraid to ask him if he’d walk out with me. I’m not comfortable telling him that some boy grabbed my butt and now I’m nervous to walk down the street by myself, even if it is broad daylight.

“Nah, yo. Hol’ up,” he says. “I’ma walk out wit’ you.”

Thank you
.

“Okay,” I calmly say. But inside I’m so, so relieved. I could almost hug him, and kiss him on the cheek.

Almost.

I wait and watch as he pays for his purchase: a pack of cinnamon gum, a pack of Twizzlers, and a can of Sprite. He grabs his bag, and grins at me. “You ready?”

I nod, following him toward the door.

He holds it open, and I step out.

The wolves start salivating.

“Here she come, yo,” someone says.

I try not to look to see who is saying what. I don’t want to look at any of them.

They’re repulsive.

“Damn, baby. I need to hit that, yo . . .” one of the guys still hanging out in front of the store says.

I ignore him.

But Shawn doesn’t. “Yo, fam. Fall back. That’s my peoples, yo.”

“Oh, word?” someone says. “That’s
you
? My bad, Slick. I ain’t know.”

“Well, now you do,” Shawn says, his voice filled with authority.

What does he mean by,
‘That’s
you’
?

Is “that’s my peoples” synonymous to family and friends? Or does it imply she’s yours as in
your
girl?

I lower my gaze to the sidewalk. But then something inside of me tells me to look up, to look at them. And I do. I eye them all, taking in everything thing about them. Then I decide to boldly ask, “Which one of you grabbed my butt as I was walking into the store?”

I tilt my head.

I have the right to know, don’t I?

They all look at me like I’m crazy for asking such a thing, as if I’m making it up.

Shawn frowns. “Say what?”

I repeat myself, feeling slightly empowered.

Bolder.

A tall and wiry brown-skinned guy is the only one who opens his mouth to speak. “Man, ain’t no one—”

“Yo, fam, I know how you cats move,” Shawn says, shutting him down. He eyes them all, gritting his teeth. “Word is bond, fam. Don’t let me find out who disrespected my peoples, yo. It’s gonna be a problem.” He looks over at me. “You sure you don’t know who did it?”

I glance around the group of guys. Then I shake my head. “No. I didn’t see who it was.”

He shoots the posse of idiots an icy glare. “Y’all lucky. Word is bond. But let me find out who disrespected her ’n’ I’ma see you. On my bruh’s seed, you already know.”

He leads me by the elbow toward a shiny black motorcycle.

A Harley.

I blink.

Try to remember if I saw it here earlier. I can’t recall.

He opens the storage compartment, drops his bag inside, then reaches for mine. “No, that’s fine. I got it.”

He removes his helmet from off the handlebars. “Nah. C’mon. I’ma take you back up the block.” He glances back over at the group of guys. “Man, that ish got me hot, yo.”

Now I’m embarrassed. “Let it go, okay. Please.”

“Yeah, you right. For now. Let’s roll.”

I take a step back, shaking my head. “Uh-uh. I’m not getting on that.”

Not with you.

“You safe wit’ me, ma.”

I shake my head again. “No, thanks. I’ll walk.”

He looks me up and down, then shakes his head. “So you really gonna have me leave my bike here and walk you up the block in this heat?”

“You don’t have to,” I say halfheartedly. “I can walk by myself.” No, I really can’t!

“Yeah, I know you can. But I ain’t ’bout to let you. Not after some dumb mofo grabbed ya butt. Nah, I ain’t feelin’ that.”

He shuts the storage compartment, then calls out to the group of guys. “Yo, y’all ugly
muhfuggahs
watch my bike. I gotta make sure shorty gets back to the crib all right.”

They tell him they’ll keep an eye out on it for him.

He tucks his helmet under his arm, then ushers me by the elbow. “You lucky I kinda dig you, yo.”

Relieved, I try not to smile.

But I do anyway.