Chasing Butterflies (22 page)

“O
ooooooh, I wanna get pounded out real right,” Sha’Quita loudly announces, seductively sucking her cherry Blow Pop into her mouth, then popping it from her lips. She flicks her tongue over it.

I frown, wondering why I let Kee-Kee—I mean, Keyonna—talk, I mean badger, me into coming out to this park with Sha’Quita and her friend. Everything in my spirit told me it was a bad idea. But did I listen?

Now here I am.

Bored out of mind, biting bullets and holding the shells between my teeth.

“It’s been a minute since I got piped out,” I hear Sha’Quita say, pulling me out of my thoughts. I blink, glancing over at her as she’s sucking her Blow Pop back into her mouth.

I cringe, feeling sorry for that poor lollipop as she assaults it with her nastiness.

I’m convinced she does it for the attention, though.

There’s a group of guys playing basketball, and some sprinkled about on the bleachers watching the game. And watching Sha’Quita.

The featured attraction.

She bends at the knees, then winds her hips, giving them what they want. A show.

Her friend, Chardonnay, laughs. “Tramp, you stay tryna get piped out.”

“Girl, bye,” Quita says dismissively. She flicks her hair over her shoulder. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong wit’ gettin’ ya back twisted every now and then.”

This girl is ridiculously crazy.

She’s disgusting.

All she ever talks about is sex.

Sex.

Sex.

Sex.

Any way she can get it.

Or give it.

She seems obsessed with it.

I’ve never met a girl like her. No. Correction: I’ve never had to
hang
around a girl like her. Honestly speaking, I’d never befriend someone like her.

Fast and easy.

Quick to give up her most prized possession.

Wasting
her
self.

Disrespecting
her
self.

Hating
her
self.

Yes. She has to
hate
herself to keep degrading herself, to keep using her body as some boy’s playground.

Yes. That has to be it.

Hate.

Pure.

Unadulterated.

Self-hatred.

And, even though I know it’s none of my business what she does with her body (after all, it
is
her body), I can’t help but wonder how many boys she’s let
gut
her out—as she so distastefully put it. How many times she’s been passed around? How many of them did she not use a condom with? How many visits to the clinic has she had?

I’m thinking this, wondering...

I simply can’t fathom being so recklessly carefree about sex; or being sexual, for that matter. Maybe because I’m still a virgin.

Still saving myself for the right time, with the right person, for the right reasons.

Not for love.

Not for acceptance.

Not for validation.

Not for the sake of having a boyfriend.

No.

I won’t be some boy’s conquest.

Or his cause.

Or his casualty.

No. I’m worth more than that.

Because I say I am.

Because I know I am.

And she should know, too.

But obviously she doesn’t. I guess girls like her only know what they know by the examples they’re surrounded by. Her mother is her example.

A closet drunk, I suspect. And marijuana—I mean,
weed
—head.

And she doesn’t know her dad.

So I understand why... I guess.

I’m glad Daddy always told me to never let a boy or sex validate me. He told me my self-worth should never be defined by sex. I thank God he had the
talk
with me about sex and boys. Even though I knew it was probably one of the most uncomfortable things he had to do, he had it, because I was his baby girl. His butterfly.

I was eleven when we had our first talk. Then twelve. Then every birthday after that, I knew to expect
the talk
.
“It’s my responsibility to prepare you for life as best I can,”
he’d said, shifting in his seat beside me. He took my hand in his and looked me in the eyes.
“I love you, Butterfly. But there are some things about life you’ll have to learn on your own. I can protect you best I can. But I can’t shield you from heartbreak. I wish I could. All I ask is that you don’t confuse sex with love. I ask that you wait. Hold out for as long as you can. With sex comes a lot of responsibility . . . What feels good to you isn’t always going to be good for you . . . Don’t ever let sex be what defines you . . .”

And I won’t.

Ever.

Heck. I’ve only been kissed, and only by one boy. The last time he pried my lips open with his tongue, and I welcomed the taste of him.

Still, I am untouched.

And, yet, in the corners of my mind, I sometimes lie awake at night and try to imagine, sometimes wonder . . . what it’d be like to go a little further. Not that I’m ready for it, or entertaining it.

Still...

I flip open my notebook, pull off the cap to my pen, and scribble:

“I
think I’m a nympho,” I hear Quita say as I close my journal and slide it back into my bag. I screw the cap back on my ink pen and twirl it between my fingers.

She says this so matter-of-factly, as if she’s talking about something as simple as a new pair of jeans, or the weather.

Chardonnay says what I’m thinking. “Oh, you
think
?” She laughs. “Tramp, you definitely a nymph. You know you stay with sex on the brain.”

She waves her on. “What. Ever. Annnnwaaayz. Speaking of
brain
, Becky. I heard you let John-John touch ya tonsils last night.”

I’m not sure whom she’s talking about. And I don’t dare ask.

Besides, I’m just not that interested in
what
, or
who
, touched her tonsils.

“You’se a damn lie,” Chardonnay snaps, giving her the finger. Her shoulder-length braids swing back and forth. “That boy ain’t never been in the back of my throat, boo.”

Now Quita laughs. “Girl,
you
the lie. Star done already spilled the tea, boo. So don’t even front. And why was he sneakin’ outta ya bedroom window, then, if you ain’t let him swab ya neck up?”

Chardonnay sucks her teeth. “Trick, you ’n’ Star can kiss my
phatty
. John-John ain’t ever been inside my bedroom. And he definitely ain’t swabbed nothin’ over here.”

They’re both talking loudly, as if they’re talking over jackhammers and blaring horns, as if they want the boys over on the court to hear how nasty they are.

I look over at some tall, lanky guy in sagging sweats snatch the ball from another player, then take off running toward the opposite end of the basketball court. Arm in the air, and the ball sails through the air.
Swish
. “Nothing but net,” as Daddy would say.

I sigh inwardly, sick of hearing these two going back and forth about who’s lying about who sexed who, when, and where.

I pull out my journal again.

“This broad.
Psst
.” Quita sucks her teeth. “Here she goes wit’ that damn corny-azz notebook again. I know you ain’t even ’bout to start writin’ out here . . .
again
.”

She snaps her fingers. “Wait. I forgot, this chick thinks she’s the next Erykah Badu.”

Chardonnay chuckles. “Don’t play, girl. I love me some Erykah Badu.”

Quita grunts. “
Mmph
. Well, Erykah Badu she ain’t.”

I give her an incredulous look. “I’m not
trying
to be anyone but me.”

“
Mmph
. I can’t tell,” she says nastily.

The question at the tip of my tongue, I contemplate asking it, knowing it might be received with attitude. But I’m tired of her. Tired of her mouth. Tired of her testing me. So I ask it anyway. “And what’s wrong with me writing out here, in
my
journal? How is what I’m doing affecting
you
?”

She huffs. “Oh don’t get it twisted,
bish
. I’m
not
affected by it. But you supposed to be out here chillin’ with us, but you bein’ mad rude, pullin’ out that funky ole book. I should burn it.”

I blink.

She cranks her neck from side to side. “Yeah, I said it. I should. Burn. It. And
whaaat
? Think I won’t. You coulda kept ya corny butt home for that. You real whack.”

Chardonnay chuckles. “Quita, let Cali Girl do her. It ain’t like we got anything in common wit’ her. Let Miss Corny write. All we doin’ is babysittin’, anyway.”

Babysitting?

Corny?

I frown.

Quita laughs. “Uh-huh. But I ain’t changin’ no ho’s diaper, though.”

I sigh.

I’ve never been called so many derogatory names in my entire life as I’ve been called in the last month being here, around this girl.

I’ve had enough.

“Why do you have to refer to me as a
ho
?” I say brusquely. “I’m
not
a ho. Nor will I
ever
be one.”

Quita bats her lashes, then rolls her neck. “Well, you must
be
a ho if you gotta tell me you ain’t one.”

I match her stare. This time I’m not backing down. “I’m telling you I’m not one, because that’s what it is. It’s disrespectful.”

She rolls her eyes. “Girl, bye. It’s a figure of speech.”

“I know that’s right,” Chardonnay chimes in. “These sensitive hoes need to stop.”

Quita sucks her teeth. “
Psst
. I ain’t thinkin’ ’bout her. You already know how I get down. I call you whatever I wanna call you.”

I pull in my bottom lip.

Think before I speak.

I know this girl isn’t the most intellectual, but that doesn’t stop me from telling her that I don’t see it as
just
a figure of speech. I tell her I don’t carry myself like a
ho
so I don’t want her calling me one.

She stares at me, long and hard. “
Bish
, please. I know you not even tryna check me.”

Chardonnay pulls out a pack of Newport cigarettes. “
Mmph
. Looks like somebody tryna see you
turnt
up.”

She gives Chardonnay a dismissive wave. “Girl,
puh
-lease. Don’t even try’n instigate this chick. Put a battery pack up on her back if you want ’n’ see how I turn up. I keep tellin’ her she don’t want it wit’ me. She knows she don’t wanna see these hands.”

I shake my head. Decide to keep quiet.

Silence is sometimes the best remedy for ignorance.

Chardonnay taps her Newport box on the bleacher before opening the pack and thumping one out. She puts it between her bright orange lips, then pulls out a lighter and lights it.

I scoot down to the next bench so the smoke doesn’t blow in my face.

“Whatever,” she mumbles under her breath, but still loud enough for me to hear.

There’s something so unattractive and unladylike about a girl smoking a cigarette.

But then again...

These girls aren’t all that ladylike to begin with. And their attitudes make them extremely ugly.

I promise myself to never, ever, go anywhere else with these two. I wouldn’t hang with these types of girls back home, and I don’t want to start now. I don’t have to. But,
if
I have to be a hostage over here on the east coast, then I need to find someone,
any
one, who is likeminded.

I need positive energy.

Not unnecessary drama.

The sound of a ball bouncing breaks my reverie. I glance to the left of me.

Shawn. I try to suppress the relief I feel at the sight of him. I don’t even know why I’m feeling this way. It’s not like he’s said more than a few words to me whenever he’s come around. Still, it’s the way he looks at me that intrigues me.

“Shaaaaaaaaaaaaawn,” Quita says in a singsong voice. “Heeeeeey, boo.”

“Yo, what’s Gucci?” he says to her and Chardonnay.

“Not a damn thang,” Chardonnay says, grinning.

“This neck work,” Quita boldly states, sliding her lollipop back into her mouth, then pulling the stick in and out. “That’s what’s
Gucci
, ninja. Thought you knew.”

Chardonnay giggles.

Shawn laughs. “Yo, Quita, you shot
dafuq
out.”

She smacks her lips together. “
Mmmph
. I’m real, boo.”

“Yeah, a’ight.” He glances over at me. “What’s good, cutie?”

“Nothing,” I say, blushing.

Quita narrows her eyes to thin slits. “Ooh, let me find out, you checkin’ for my man.
Ho
, I’ll claw your eyes out.”

“I know that’s right,” Chardonnay chimes in. “Slice right into the white meat.”

I frown. But keep my mouth shut. Like always.

“Annnnnyway,” Quita says, dismissively. “You smokin’, boo?”

“Nah, not today, yo. Tryna cut back.”

“Lies,” Quita says. She laughs. “Since when?”

“Nah, real spit. Since I got hired at Walmart.”

“Ooooooh, word?” she says, excitedly. “When they hire you?”

“Today.”

“Oh, that’s wasssup. My future baby daddy got him a j-o-b so I can collect them future child support checks.”

He cracks up laughing. “Not. I ain’t havin’ no babies, yo.”

“Yeah, okay. Not today we not.”

He ignores the comment and takes a seat next to me on the bench, and suddenly I’m feeling nervous.

“So how you likin’ Jersey so far, cutie?” he says to me.

I shrug. “It’s okay, I guess.”

He shifts his body and studies my face. His eyes are melted pools of deep, dark chocolate that I feel myself slowly drowning in.

I shift my eyes from his stare. Glance down at my sandaled feet. But he says something else that causes me to look back at him. “You should let me show you around.”

I blink him into view. And I notice he has long, thick lashes for a guy. Okay, yes. I’m checking him out.

Because he’s a welcome distraction from the Chardonnay and Sha’Quita show.

“You’ve been to the city yet?” he wants to know.

I shake my head. “No, not—”

“What, you tryna be her tour guide now? Or nah?” Quita butts in.

“Maybe,” he says, lightly tapping my leg with his long leg.

He winks at me. And my face heats.

“Yeah, okay,” Quita says. “What.
Ev
.
Errr.
Annnnywaaaay. Later for the tour guide ish. When you startin’ ya job, boo?”

“Next week.”

“Ooooh, I know you gonna hook me up wit’ ya employee discount,” Chardonnay says excitedly. “You know I stopped boostin’, right? So I’ma need them discounts.”

Before I can stop myself, I make the mistake of asking—no one in particular—what
boostin’
is.

Quita and Chardonnay both look at me as if I have three heads.

“You’re jokin’,
right
?” Quita says, indignation coloring her voice.

“No, I’m serious,” I say innocently. “I’ve never heard of it.”

Chardonnay laughs. “Girrrl, you told me she was slow. But I ain’t know she was
that
damn slow.”

“I’m
not
slow,” I snap defensively. “
Slow
is thinking Erykah Badu is a poet.”

Shawn chuckles, shaking his head. “Yo, ma, leave it alone. You don’t wanna know.”

Quita glares at me. “
Bish
, I know you not even tryna call me slow. Let me show you how slow these hands are . . .”

And with that, she’s snatching my journal out of my hand, waving it in the air.

“Now, come again. Who’s the
slow
one?”

“Please give me back my journal, Sha’Quita,” I say calmly.

“Nope. You stay tryna shade me. Ole shady-azz ho. I ain’t givin’ you
sh
—”

“I’m not playing with you,” I say calmly, masking my rising anger.

She flicks me a dismissive hand. “What. Evvvvver. I was only playin’ wit’ ya butt. But since you wanna turn up. Turn up. Let me see ya work, boo. And while you at it, why don’t you tell us why you always cheesin’ up in Shawn’s face, like you tryna get at his eggplant.”

I blink.

I try to wrap my mind around what the heck she’s talking about.

I don’t even like egg—

Finally it dawns on me what she means.

Shawn laughs. “Yo, Quita, chill, chill. You shot out, yo.”

She snorts. “
Chill
, hell. This little slut-bucket stays tryna get in yo’ drawz on some slickness. I done already told her that you’re saving yourself for me. And this undercover top gobbler still tryna give you the business on the low. She knows she wanna give you the cookie. Tramp-azz.”

My face flushes.

Embarrassment floods me.

I give her a baffled look.

Where in the heck did she come up with this craziness? And what does it have to do with being called slow?

I’m convinced, now more than ever—she’s bipolar.

Shawn keeps laughing. And I’m not sure what part he finds most hilarious,
him
saving himself for
her
, the look on my shocked face, or her ridiculously ludicrous notion that I’m a
top gobbler
(yuck!) or trying to
give
him—or
any
one, for that matter—my
cookies
.

“I’m not you, Quita. I’m not giving up anything to a boy.”

“
Mmmph
. Maybe not them drawz, but you a top slopper,
bish
.”

“Yo, you buggin’, for real for real,” Shawn says, shaking his head. “Relax, yo. You play too much, Quita.” He glances over at me, a mixture of what looks like amusement and mischief and sympathy dancing in his eyes. “Yo, don’t pay her silly butt no mind. She stays talkin’ outta her neck, for real.”

I shrug. “She can think what she wants. I know what I am.”

“I don’t
think
anything, boo. I know what you are, too. I know ya kind. Undercover tricks. And I know you tryna get pounded out like a porn star.”

Shawn huffs. “Damn, Quita. Sit down ’n’ relax, yo. Give shorty her book back. You effen up the vibe, for real for real.”