The Girl of His Dreams (10 page)

“Well, she lucky she's ya mom,” Tre says, sparking a blunt. “Or we'd give her a lock in a sock.” She takes two deep pulls, then passes it off to Jalanda. Now I don't mind getting my drink on—and, yessss, I take a few hits every now and then. Getting lifted off weed has never really been my thing though, especially on a school night. But my girls, they'll burn whenever.

“Then karate-chop her in her neck,” Stacy adds, reaching for the blunt.

I crack up laughing, knowing they're both dead serious. “What. Ever. I'll be in Brooklyn this weekend so make sure y'all have ya stash up. 'Cause I'm tryna get right.”

“Yesss, boo,” Stacy says, snapping her fingers. “We gonna do it up, boo. 'Bout time ya corny behind gettin' wit' the program and smoke wit' ya girls. Make sure you come straight here as soon as you hit the block; then we can all meet up over here.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I say, excitedly. I'm sooo bored being here. I need some excitement in my life. I need fun. I need the heat from the streets. And going back to my hood to drink, smoke, and chill with my girls is just what I need. “I can't wait.”

“Tramp, are you gonna smoke that, or eat it?” Stacy snaps at Jalanda. I bust out laughing 'cause Jalanda stays chewing the ends off a blunt, which always pisses Stacy off 'cause she hates when good smoke is wasted. Jalanda starts laughing and choking at the same time. I start laughing too.

“Oooh, hooker, you wrong for that,” Tre says. “But it's soooo true. She does suck on it like it's a—”

“Eff both of you stank tramps,” Jalanda says cutting her off, finally passing the blunt. “Y'all a buncha haters anyway.”

I watch my girls go back and forth, passing around the blunt and dogging each other, popping mad ish—while I sit on the opposite side of the screen alone and feeling kinda sad that I'm not there live and direct, kicking it with them. And that only makes me more pissed at my mom. Me and my girls stay on the phone until way after midnight, laughing and bugging out, just like old times.

“Y
o , son, what's poppin' for tonight?” I ask Cease the minute he picks up his cell. It's Friday night, and I'm tryna get into somethin' real right. Sittin' up in the crib def ain't what I'ma be doin' tonight. I need'a get out 'n' do it up heavy. That ish wit' Tiffany had me buggin' for two days, yo. And I ain't even gonna front. That craziness she hit me wit' still has me feelin' some kinda way, for real for real. I'm still kinda jacked up 'bout it, yo. Then today she emailed me—since I done blocked her numbers from my phone, and blocked her from my Facebook and Twitter—a pic of a sonogram, talkin' 'bout, Meet your unborn child, Antonio Lopez, Jr. or Antoinette Selena Lopez. Hope you like, baby daddy. Then the broad had the nerve to have a buncha smiley faces next to it, like that ish is somethin' to be happy 'bout. Yo, eff what ya heard. There ain't jack to be smilin' 'bout. Not 'bout some young broad bein' knocked up. And, real ish, I don't even know what I'ma do if she's really carryin' my seed. I still ain't even tell my boy 'bout it 'cause I ain't really tryna hear what he gotta say. Not now anyway. Still, how effen triflin' can a broad be to do the kinda craziness Tiffany pulled, goin' through the trash 'n' squeezin' my jizz out a condom. That's some straight nastiness. I still can't believe it, yo.
That skeezer's really tryna trap me up.
I shake the thought.

“Yo, we still gettin' it in over at Luke's crib tonight?” I ask, tryna push back a headache.

“No doubt, fam. He just hit me up to let me know his parents are def gone for the weekend, so we ‘bout to get it in real right, son.” Luke's crib is the party spot anytime his parents dip outta town, which is like every other month 'cause they stay drivin' down to Atlanta to see his older sister, who just had twin girls like eight or nine months ago. And his brother, Lance, who's like two years older than him, goes to Morehouse. One of the five schools I'm ap-plyin' to for next fall.

“A'ight, a'ight,” I say, rubbin' my chin 'n' grinnin'. “That's wassup. And what the honeys lookin' like? They gonna be on deck?”

“Yo, you already know, bruh. Like whoa. I posted it up on the Book 'bout an hour ago, and mad broads hit me up for the addy, so it's gonna be hot like fiiiyah, son. Mad fluffy, puffy booty cheeks gonna be up in the spot, yo.” He laughs. “I'm sayin', yo . . . it's gonna be like a night at Maggie Moo's.” I start laughin' wit' this fool comparin' the party to this spot up at the mall where they make homemade ice cream.

“Yo, Cease, man. I ain't effen wit' you, yo. You shot out for real for real.”

“Yo, I'm dead-azz, fam. We 'bout to turn up the heat wit' extra scoops of thick, delicious treats in skimpy lil outfits for all you horny mofos lookin' to lick up somethin' sweet.”

“A'ight, a'ight. That's what I'm talkin' 'bout.” Yeah, that's exactly what I need. Some new booty to get my mind right. I lie back on my bed wit' one hand in back of my head, imaginin' bein' all pressed up wit' some mad sexy cutie against the wall over in a corner somewhere, gettin' my grind on. “Yo, I should post somethin' up on my wall, too, and drop a tweet or two 'bout it so we can really get it cranked to twenty. The more the merrier, feel me?”

“No doubt. Make that ish pop, son.” He laughs. “Wall-to-wall booty, just how I like it.”

“Yeah, man,” I say, slippin' a hand down into the waist of my basketball shorts, then rubbin' my stomach as it growls.
Damn, I need to eat somethin'.
“It better be, yo. 'Cause the last party he threw was mad whack.”

He laughs. “I kinda thought it was a'ight. But, then again, I was twisted outta my head, too.”

“Yeah, you definitely was, yo. You was so drunk I don't even think you noticed. But I did. There were a buncha mofos up in that piece and hardly any broads there. And the few broads that were there were either birds, or had wide backs. Real rap, yo. I ain't tryna be 'round a buncha dudes. Or a buncha chicks wit' raggedy weaves built like straight-up linebackers, yo. Not tonight.”

He cracks up laughin'. “Nah, fam. Me either, yo. It's all covered. Word is bond. I got you. And Luke said one a his cuzzos bringin' a few of her girls wit' her, and they some real live firecrackers, yo. Always hot 'n' always ready to make it pop.”

“Oh, word? That's what it is then. I'ma come through 'round eleven. E'erything should be in full swing by then.”

“No doubt, no doubt. Yo, you think you can sneak a few bottles of ya pop's booze? We already got the brews covered. We just need a few bottles to top it off right.” I tell him yeah. Tell him I'll swipe up a bottle of Pop's Henney and two bottles of Ciroc—coconut and peach. Pops has mad liquor in the bar downstairs in our basement so it's like havin' my own personal liquor store. Besides, he's not gonna beast if a few bottles are missin'. Well, uh, he might snap if I take that V.S.O.P Cognac up outta here. Now that might get me grounded. But e'erything else is all good. Pops knows I get my party 'n' drink on e'ery now and then. He just doesn't want me makin' it no habit. And I don't.

“Oh, a'ight,” Cease says. “Cool-cool. Good lookin' out. And I'ma get this chick, Trisha, to bring a couple'a bottles of Hpnotiq so we can toss back them Incredible Hulks.”

I laugh. “Nah, yo. I ain't effen wit' them joints, son. You ain't 'bout to have me twisted up tonight, yo.”

He laughs wit' me. “Yeah, yadda, yadda, yadda. Ya biscuit head can have one drink wit' ya boy, yo.”

“Yeah, a'ight. We'll see, yo.”

“One drink. That's it, son.”

“Yeah, whatever,” I say, sittin' up. I have another call comin' in. “Yo, I gotta bounce, yo. I'll holla.”

“A'ight, one.”

I glance at the phone screen. It's LuAnna. “Yo, what's good?”

“You,” she says, all sexy-like.

“Oh, word? How you know?”

“Uh, I don't. But it's what I heard.”

I laugh, gettin' up from off the bed and walkin' into the bathroom. “Yo, maybe it's time you found out for ya'self, and stop frontin'.” I handle my business, flush, then wash my hands. “I see how you be checkin' me on the low, yo.”

“Boy, whatever. You're so conceited. Ain't nobody checkin' you.”

“Yeah, whatever. Stop frontin', yo. You know you want it.”

“Boy, please. Ain't nobody frontin'. Annnyway, why you do my girl, Chantel, like that?”

I frown. “Yo, eff her, yo. That bird stuck on kiddie games. She ain't ready for no real work. But wassup wit' you?”

She laughs. “Is that all you think about, boy? You know I gotta man.”

“Yeah, whatever, yo. That's what ya mouth says. And no . . . that's not
all
I think about.”

“Mmmph. Coulda fooled me. Annnyway. Ya girl stepped to Chantel after school today.”

I frown. Ask her who she's talkin' 'bout. She tells me Quanda. Tells me she cornered Chantel in the stairwell after school today, got all up in her face and asked her if she was screwin' me.
WTF, yo?!
Then Quanda threatened her.

“That chick's psycho. And you need to handle her for real, Tone.”

“Yo, she ain't my girl. And there's no handlin' her. She's gonna do what she does.” I pause, sighin'. “I'm glad I stopped effen wit' her. But no lie, yo. Chantel shoulda took it to her head. Real rap. Quanda needs her sockets rocked one good time, for real for real. But, yo. I ain't tryna talk 'bout that silly broad. What's good wit' you, yo, wit' ya sexy self?”

She laughs, suckin' her teeth. “Oh, boy, puhleeze. Compliments will get you nowhere.”

“Nah, I'm sayin, yo. What you gettin' into tonight?” She tells me she's not sure. That she's thinkin' 'bout goin' to the party tonight. I tell her she should. That she should come thru wit' some'a her girls. “But leave that bird Chantel home,” I tell her, walkin' downstairs to the kitchen to find somethin' to grub on. “We don't need her droppin' a buncha feathers 'round the room.”

“Don't be dissing my girl like that. And why she gotta be a bird, anyway? Because she didn't give you what you wanted?”

I open the fridge in search of somethin' to dead my growlin' stomach. “Nah, yo. She just is.”

She laughs. “Whatever, boy. You just mad she didn't give you none.”

I pull out two containers of leftover Chinese food—chicken 'n' broccoli and shrimp fried rice—from last night. I pull out a bottle of OJ, then shut the door. “Mad? Nah, never that, ma. I ain't that dude. I don't get mad. I get more booty.”

I grab a plate and scoop out the containers onto it, then stick it in the microwave for three minutes. While I'm waitin' for my food, I crack open the OJ, then guzzle it down. When the microwave dings, I take out my plate and start grubbin'.

“Sounds like you eating,” LuAnna says.

“Yeah.”

“Oh, well. Let me let you go. Maybe I'll see you at the party if I decide to go.”

“A'ight. Bet. But, yo. If you comin' through, you need to be ready to come outta them panties 'cause you know I'm tryna hit that. Tonight, yo.”

She starts laughin'. She don't say it's a go. But she don't say no, either. So I already know what it is.

 

The party's on full blast by the time I walk up in Luke's spot. It's a lil after eleven. Mad heads are down in his basement posted up against the walls, smokin' and holdin' forties. There's a buncha strobe lights swirlin' 'round the room. He even gotta fog machine goin'. And this time, there's mad chicks on deck.

I walk through the crowd tryna see what's really good. I grin when I see Cease pressed up against this thick biscuit wearin' a pair of booty shorts and some kinda halter-thingy. I mean, it's still kinda warm out, but it ain't hot enough for that ish. But whatever, yo. She's bent over wit' her hands on her knees grindin' her booty up on my boy. He's holdin' her by the hips like he's hittin' it from the back. I can tell they both diggin' what they feelin' 'cause they both goin' at it real hard.

“Yo, wassup, playa!” Luke yells in my ear over a Meek Mill joint. We give each other some dap. “It's 'bout time you got ya pickle head here.” He's holdin' a cup in his hand, filled to rim. I can tell he's toasted.

“Yo, what you drinkin'?” I ask, lookin' over his shoulder, tryna scan the room. So far I don't see Quanda's crazy behind nowhere. And I don't see LuAnna, either. I zero in on a few honeys who look like they might have potential. But it's mad dark down here so I already know what that means. That most of these broads only look good in the dark.

“Got that Henney on the rocks, son. You drinkin', yo?” He hands me his cup. I shake my head. Tell 'im I'm good. I ain't tryna drink, not tonight. Besides, if I drink, I'ma hafta stay the night 'cause Pops don't play that drinkin' 'n' drivin' ish. So I ain't beat. “A'ight. Be on that corny ish. More for me,” he says, gulpin' down his drink. I shake my head at 'im as he grabs up this light-skinned broad wit' green eyes. I ain't gonna front, she's kinda right.

“Yo baby, let me be yo' baby daddy. You sexy as hell. I wanna lick ya toes.” He tries to lick the side of her face.

“
Illll,
boy,” she snaps, jerkin' her head back, pushin' him away. “Get ya nasty tongue outta my face.”

“Yo, baby. If you act right, I'ma show you how nasty my tongue gets.” He starts flickin' it up 'n' down at 'er. I bust out laughin' at this fool. But she don't see nothin' funny. She's lookin' at 'im like he's extra special. And real rap. He is. This dude can't drink for nothin', yo. The last time he had a party at his spot, he got so drunk he ended up takin' off all his clothes and was dancin' butt-naked. Then he tossed up his guts in some girl's weave. Yo, real ish, that was some straight-up nastiness. Chick was so heated she was ready to fight 'im, for real for real. All he did was laugh. We had to carry his drunk, naked butt upstairs to his room.

“Yo, you stupid, fam. Chill, man.” I pull him away from 'er. I look at 'er. “Yo, 'cuse my boy, cutie. As you can see, he's kinda twisted.”

She frowns. “Yeah, he's all the way twisted, comin' at me all crazy like that.”

“Yo, come upstairs,” Luke says, lickin' his lips. “I got somethin' you can twist on. I can tell by the way you lookin' at me, you want it.” She rolls her eyes, steppin' off. We both watch her booty as it shakes in her black catsuit getup. “Yo, how much you wanna bet she ain't wearin' no panties?”

“Yo, you wildin', son. Leave that broad alone.”

“Yo, eff her,” he says, takin' a sip of his drink. “I ain't want none'a that anyway. Trick prolly gotta nasty yeast infection.”

I laugh, shakin' my head. “Yo, man, you a fool, yo. Go take ya drunk azz somewhere and sit down.” He laughs, wavin' me on as he walks through the crowd 'n' snatches up a brown-skinned honey wit' a long black weave. I don't know 'er personally, but I know she's a cheerleader over at Lincoln High—one of our rival schools 'cross town.

“Heeeeeeey, Tone!” a girl named Alicia shouts over Kanye West's joint, “Clique,” as it pumps outta the speakers. She is manning the bar. She sits her cup down. And by the glaze in 'er eyes, I can tell she's tossed a few drinks back. “What can I get you, boo?”