The Girl of His Dreams (3 page)

S
ixth period, I'm sittin' in my Advanced French class. Mrs. Duvet is my teacher for the second year in a row. She's mad strict, but I like her. And I actually dig French. But I ain't 'bout to tell my boys this. Still I enjoy it. It's a mad sexy language; real rap. And, between you and me, anytime I'm in class or I hear it bein' spoken, it always reminds me of my French teacher from freshman year, Miss Singleton. Whew! I get mad excited e'erytime I think ‘bout her. She was . . . uh, the one who got me interested in wantin' to speak the language. She made e'erything about the language sexy. I'm not gonna front. At first I wasn't really beat for takin' French or any other language, but it's required that e'eryone takes at least two years of a language so I chose French 'cause I already know Spanish and I wasn't beat for Italian or Latin. Plus, the French teacher at the time, Miss Singleton, was, like twenty-eight, mad sexy, and always gave her male students and even some of the chicks somethin' nice to look at in class whenever she wore short skirts and too-tight blouses. So I figured I could kill two birds wit' one stone. Handle my requirements
and
check out the hot new teacher e'ery day. For me, it was a straight-up win-win situation.

All I did in class was daydream about seein' her wit' out clothes on, then go home and fantasize about gettin' it in wit' her. Then, finally, I got my wish. At first, it was just her bendin' over and lettin' me get sneak peeks of her kitty anytime she thought no one else was lookin'. Then it went to me stayin' after school for extra credit and her always insistin' I sit up in the front row while she sat up on the edge of her desk wit' her skirt hiked up and her legs opened. Sometimes she would touch herself; other times, she would let me touch her. But most times she just wanted me to look at it. It was torture. Real talk, she was playin' head games and it was killin' me. I had to have her. I wanted her, bad! And, after almost three months of torture, ish escalated to me finally knockin' it down. We was goin' at it hard. I'd either sneak over to her crib and we'd get it in. Or she'd scoop me up on the corner somewhere, drive to one of the parks in the area, and we'd rock it out in the backseat of her whip.

We was sexin' it up almost e'ery night for months before some hater found out 'bout us and reported it. Two weeks before the end of the school year and it was lights out—for the both of us. Even though I denied gettin it in wit' her to the police and school officials, she was still arrested and charged wit' sex abuse—and eventually fired—'cause two other dudes ratted her out and admitted that she had let them smash too. So basically, I wasn't her first. Still, by that time, I had already started diggin' the language and wanted to learn more.

The only person I kept it a hunnid wit' was my pops. One night, I came home and told him e'erything. He rubbed his chin the whole time I was tellin' him, noddin' as he took it all in. When I finished, he just stared at me, long 'n' hard for a few seconds, broke out in a wide grin, and said, “You're becomin' a Casanova like your pops.” Then he wanted to know if I had handled my business in the sheets right.

“No doubt, Pops,” I said, puffin' my chest out wit' a buncha pride 'cause I was livin' out e'ery guy's ultimate fantasy. “I destroyed it.”

His grin widened as he patted me on the back. “You've done me proud, son.”

“Okay, class,” Mrs. Duvet says, clappin' her hands and gettin' up from her seat. E'eryone stops talkin' or whatever else they mighta been doin' and brings their attention to the front of the class where she stands. “Let's get started. Shall we? Welcome to French Five. I trust everyone has had a great summer. If you are in this class, it is because you have mastered the first four levels of the language and are now ready for more advanced study. With that being said,
Vous lirez, écrire et parler le francais seulement
.”

She tells us we will read, write, and speak in French only.

I pull my phone out on the sly and hit Chantel up real quick. You still comin thru, right?

It doesn't take her long to hit me back wit' her reply. yes

I grin, slidin' my phone back into my pocket.
I'ma tear that up!

By the end of the day, I say wassup to a few peeps, shoot the breeze wit' a few cuties, then grab my things from outta my locker, and dip. I hit up one of my standbys just in case Chantel decides to front and not come through.

“Hey, boo,” Shania coos into the phone the minute she answers. She's this thick-hipped seventeen-year-old hottie from Brick City—Newark, that is—who I been kickin' it wit' off 'n' on for a minute. Pops says a man should always have some backup booty on hand, and on call. And she happens to be one of many I keep tucked on the low for those late-night emergencies.

“What's good, ma? How you?”

“Missin' you, boy. But other than that, I'm good. Just walkin' up outta school. I'm so glad this day is over. I can't wait to get home and chill. Wassup with you, boy? I haven't heard from you in a minute. And why haven't you hit me back on the Book, yet? I don't know why you gotta play me.”

I suck my teeth. “Girl, ain't nobody tryna play you. You already know what it is wit' us.” I lower my voice. “Who you got beatin' that up?”

She sucks her teeth. “Nobody. That's the problem. You stay frontin' on all'a this goodness.”

I laugh. “Nah, never that. But, I'm sayin', yo. Don't let me find out you lettin' some other mofo tap that out. It's gonna be some major consequences 'n' repercussions.”

“Whatever, boy. All I know is I haven't seen you in weeks. You could be gettin' this goody on the regular. But you wanna front. And I know you got that message I sent in your inbox.”

“Nah, I ain't get it,” I tell 'er, walkin' up outta the buildin' toward the parkin' lot. Truth is, I have over thirty-five hundred friends and most of 'em are broads who stay floodin' my Facebook inbox wit' all kinda messages 'n' half-naked flicks and sometimes I just ain't beat to respond back. “Well, maybe I did, but I haven't gone through all my messages, yet.”

She grunts. “Mmmph. Well, that was like three weeks ago anyway. So whatever.”

I blink.
WTH?!
Quanda's sittin' up on the hood of my whip. My pops hit me wit' his '07 Acura when he copped him that new Benz over the summer. I got it piped out, sittin' on twenty-twos wit' the knockin' beats. I shake my head, ice-grillin' her.

“Yo, check it,” I say to Shania when I step up to my whip. “Let me hit you back in a few.”

“Don't front, boy,” she says, soundin' like she's feelin' some kinda way 'bout me endin' the convo. “Make sure you hit me back,
today
.”

“I got you, mama,” I say. “Make sure you pick up. I wanna see you.” I ain't surprised when she says she wants to see me, too. I grin. “A'ight bet. That's what it is.” I disconnect, scowlin'. “Yo, what is you doin'?”

Quanda folds her arms, smacks her lips. “Uhhh, what does it look like I'm doin'? I'm waitin' for
you.
It took you long enough.”

I feel myself 'bout to scream on her. I take a deep breath. “Chill wit' all that boo shit, yo. You already know what it is wit' us. So stop playin', yo. Now whaddaya want?”

She steps up into my space. I pull away as she reaches for my arm. “I'm not playin', Tone. Whether you wanna believe it or not, you always gonna be my boo. And there's nothin' you gonna do or say to change that. You're not gonna get rid of me that easy, so get used to me being around 'cause I'm not goin' anywhere.”

I stare at her, hard. “You effen crazy, yo. You need treatment or somethin'.”

“No. What I
need
is
you
.”

“Well, you can't have me. The meat shop is closed.”

She rolls her eyes. “Boy, please. That's not all I want from you.”

“Yo, I don't know what else to tell ya. I ain't got nothin' for ya. It's a wrap, yo.”

“Then you need to unwrap it 'cause I'm not lettin' you go, Tone. I love you.”

I let out a disgusted sigh. This chick sounds nuts! “Yo, real rap, you need to focus on lovin' ya'self, yo.”

“But we're so good together. I'm not givin' up on us.”

“How many times I gotta tell you, yo. There is no
us
. Get yo' life back 'cause you sound mad nutty right now, fa real fa real.”

“Why you'd break up with me?”

“I'm not beat for you, yo.”

“Why not?”

I take a deep breath. “Real ish, Quanda, you stay on ten, always lookin' to set it off. And, keepin' it gee wit' you, the only thing you was really ever good for is sex.”

For a split second, I swear it looks like I see hurt in her eyes, but whatever sadness that mighta been there is quickly replaced wit' 'tude the minute she sees me eyein' the new hottie that catches my eye as she glides by us. She tosses her hair, then shakes her hips toward her whip, her booty bouncin' wit' each step.
Damn, she fine!

Quanda snaps, gettin' mad loud. “Boy, I know you not gonna stand here and disrespect me, lookin' all up in some trick's face while I'm standin' here! I should punch you in your face!” She has her hands up in my face. I step back, puttin' some distance between us just in case she tries to hook off. She's talkin' mad reckless now, and I already know where this is gonna go if I don't dip, now. “This is my man. So make sure you stay in your lane!” she shouts over at Cutie.

“Yo, will you stop all the rah-rah. I don't know how many times I gotta keep sayin' this. I ain't ya man, yo!”

I peep shorty shakin' her head as she disarms her alarm, opens her door, then slides behind the wheel of a silver Mazda. A few seconds later, she pulls outta her parkin' space, then peels off, leavin' the image of her bouncin' booty stamped in my head. I bring my attention back to Loudmouth.

“. . . I don't know why you gotta play me, Tone. Ain't no other girl gonna ever love you the way I do.”

I feel myself gettin' a poundin' headache as I stare at Quanda. She's standin' here lookin' mad pitiful. I shake my head, decidin' not to go in on her too hard. “Ain't nobody playin' you, yo,” I say, walkin' over to the driver's side door. “You standin' here playin' ya self. I'm tellin' you it's curtains, a wrap, lights out! Damn. Let it go, yo! We can still be friends if you just chill.”

She frowns. “
Friends?
I don't wanna be
friends
. I wanna be your girl. I mean, if you wanna see other girls, okay. I'll let you.”

“Yo, you not 'bout to
let
me do nothin'. I don't answer to you.”

I pull out my phone as it vibrates. I have a new text from Chantel, tellin' me she's on her way over to my crib. I text her back, tellin' her I'll be there in ten minutes, then look over at Quanda as I open the door. “Look, I gotta bounce. I don't wanna beef wit' you, Quanda. All I wanna do is have a peaceful school year.”

She narrows her eyes. Once again, flippin' the nut switch. “Well, you damn sure won't be gettin' any peace if you think you're gonna be with some other chick! I promise you that, Antonio Lopez. I'm gonna make your life a livin' hell!”

“Whatever, Quanda. Do what you gotta do. My life was already hell the minute I got wit' you,” I say, hoppin' into my whip and slammin' the door. I crank the engine, then back outta my parkin' space mad fast.

She throws her backpack at my windshield, spazzin' out. “It ain't ever gonna be over between us, so you better buckle up 'cause you in for the ride of your life, asshole!”

I rip the pavement, leavin' her standin' in my tire tracks wit' a trail of fumes lingerin' behind. I wanna get as far away from her as I can.
I shoulda never effed wit' that broad!
I speed home wit' thoughts of gettin' hot 'n' sweaty wit' Chantel to take my mind off Quanda and all'a her craziness.

“O
kay, girl, spill it,” my cousin Mariah says, standin' inside the doorway of my bedroom. I am lying across my bed—glad to be outta that school, listening to the radio and reading this book
No Boyz Allowed
by this chick Ni-Ni Simone. Oooh, it's sooo good. I peel my eyes from the pages and look over at her, annoyed that she's disrupting me right when the book is starting to get juicy. “Save the attitude, boo. You can go back to reading your little fantasy book after you give me the scoop.”

I roll my eyes, sitting up.

Mariah's a year older than me. Well, actually, we're like ten months apart, but whatever. Like me, she's the only child. Well, not really. Her dad has kids by some other woman, two boys that are around the same age as her. So technically, she has two brothers. Our moms are sisters. And they both married cheating men. Go figure! I guess it runs in the blood. Anyway, Mariah is a freshman at the Fashion Institute of Technology in Manhattan, majoring in fashion merchandising management. She's wearing a short faded-jean skirt with a fringed hem and a pair of white leggings. She has on a cute little sleeveless denim jacket that she wears over a white midriff shirt, showing off her flat stomach and pierced navel. “Now how was your first day at McPherson?” She taps her foot, waiting.

“Umm, let's see. Hatin' chicks eyein' me all sideways and slick talkin' me. Mad thirsty dudes gawkin' me like they ain't never seen a hot chick in their life. And a buncha wannabe playboys, thugs, and pretty boys all tryna holla. I'd say, it was a day from hell.”

She laughs. “Oh, how you love the attention.”

I laugh with her. “Basically. Still, I hate it there. And hate you for graduating. Why couldn't you get left back so we could be seniors together?”

I eye her as she slinks her way over toward my dresser, then hops her basketball butt up on it. My eyes drop to her red, knee-high boots with the pointy toe and pencil heel.
Oooh, those are sexy! I'ma have to run her closet and rock them to school with my grey pleated mini.
One thing about Mariah, the girl can dress her butt off. Like me, she has an eye for fashion.

“Hahaha .. . no thank you,” she says, tossing her short layered cut. I love this haircut so much better than those micro braids she rocked over the summer. This cut is fly on her, and fits her oval face to a T. She kinda reminds me of a younger, browner version of Halle Berry. “My days at McPherson are over, boo. And yours are just beginning.”

I flash her an
oh, please
look.

She crosses her long legs. “You'll survive. Trust. You'll have every boy eating outta the palm of your hand, and every chick hating you—just like at your old school. Then next year we can be at F.I.T. together.”

I shrug. “Yeah, I guess.”

She eyes. “What do you mean, ‘I guess'? You are still coming to F.I.T. in the fall, right?”

Ever since we were like in fourth and fifth grades, Mariah and I have dreamed about being rich and famous and have wanted to pursue careers in the fashion industry, her in merchandising, me in designing. We said that once we graduated high school we'd both go to the same college. And, once we both got into middle school, we'd both set our sights and our minds on going to F.I.T. But now that I'm all caught up in watching
Project Runway
, I'm kinda thinking about applying to the Parsons School of Design. I tell her this.

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, whatever, traitor. Go on over to the other side.”

I laugh. “Girl, you act like I'm gonna be hundreds of miles away. I mean, I'm gonna apply to both. But if I get accepted to Parsons, then that's where I'll probably end up going. I'll be only a few blocks away from you.”

She sucks her teeth. “It's not the same, hooker. But whatever. Go on over to Fifth Avenue, Sweetie. I'll be fine without you.” She hops off my dresser, walking over and plopping down on my bed. “I'll stay over on Twenty-seventh.”

“And you'll continue to do fine there, I'm sure.”

“Of course I will. Anyway... so back to you, Miss Divali-cious. You mean to tell me you didn't see one cute boy at school today?”

I shrug. “I wasn't looking. I mean, there were a few that I did briefly cut my eyes at, but when I glanced down at the footwear I was like, ‘no thank you.' ”

She laughs. “You and your foot fetish. Girl, please. You can't judge a boy by that.”

I raise my brow. “Uh, yes, I can. And you
know
that's the first thing I look at. What's on a guy's feet says a lot about who he is, in my opinion.”

“Mmm. Okay, Miss Material Girl. Everyone can't afford to rock expensive kicks.”

I shrug. “Oh well.”

“ ‘Oh well' nothing. Don't judge 'em too hard based on what's on their feet. Trust me, there are a few cuties still there I woulda snatched up if I hadn't been all in love with my boo.”

I laugh. “Girl, and you still in love.”

She grins. “I know, right. And I wouldn't have it any other way.” Mariah and her boo, Brian, have been together since her freshman year of high school. And I gotta admit, whew, sweet jeezus . . . he is F-I-N-E! Think Trey Songz fine with big, round brown eyes and dimples. He's even tatted up like him. Anyway, he's one of the star players on the Rutgers basketball team. “But it never hurts to look,” she adds, winking at me. “A girl can
always
look as long as she's not touching. Believe it or not, McPherson has some real cutie-boos, especially that Antonio Lopez and his boy, Cease. Girl, I'm surprised you didn't see either of them.” She starts describing them both to me. “But Antonio has them all beat. When I tell you he's super-duper extra-sexy and fine, girl, I mean it. That boy is too fine for his own good. And he knows it, too.”

“Ugh, no thank you. He sounds like trouble.”

She laughs. “Uh-huh. Good trouble, boo. And everyone wants a piece of him. Problem is, he's slept with almost every girl there.” She leans in like she's about to tell me something top secret. “And rumor has it he's packing enough meat to feed the needy.”

I frown. “Ugh. I'm not interested. There's nothing that boy, or his third leg, can do for me.”

She grins, twirling her finger in the air. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, blah, blah, blah. Maybe if you got the dust knocked off that box you wouldn't be so uptight. I'm tellin' you, word on the street is that boy is just the guy to deliver.”

I roll my eyes. “I don't care what the streets are saying. He sounds like a manwhore to me. And I'm not interested. Now let me tell you about this loudmouth broad who tried to bring it to me at lunch.” I describe her to her, then tell her what happened. “And that ghetto-hoodrat trash got the nerve to be named . . .”

“Quandaleesha,” she finishes. We bust out laughing. “Girl, you think that's bad. Her sister's name is worse.” She tells me her name is Hennessey and I roll off the bed, hollering. I'm laughing so hard my sides hurt and I have tears rolling down my face. “Now how you gonna name your child after a drink? Their mother was just wrong for that.”

“She probably was drunk when she named 'em,” I say, still cracking up.

“Ain't no way a sober, sane woman would ever do that to her child. Anyway, you think Quanda is a ghetto mess, you shoulda been there last year with her sister. She had the gold fronts, the colored yarn braided all up in her hair, and always wore a buncha bright, multicolored fingernails. And chick loved to fight. Trust, Quanda is just like her sister. Trouble. But all you gotta do is run your fist in her mouth one good time and she'll step real quick. Oh, Miss Henney thought she was gonna bring it to me, too, freshman year, until I brought it to her face. After that, she stayed away from me. But them two together. . .” She shakes her head. “They are a hot mess. From the time Quanda got to high school, those two hood hoes were in some kinda fight almost every week, either at school, the mall, or somewhere else. And it was always over a boy. Or with some chick they didn't like for no other reason than her looking better than them. She probably thinks
you
think you're hot stuff.”

“Mmmph. Well, I
am
hot! Can't argue fact. So that trick needs to get over herself.”

Mariah laughs. “Good luck with that. She's gonna keep testing you.”

“And she's gonna get a chin check. Bad enough she called herself stepping to me about some boy I don't even know exists, telling me to stay away from her man. Like really, who does that? I wanted to tell her, ‘Sweetie, any boy who likes digging in trash isn't who I'm interested in so no worries, boo-boo. I don't want him.' That chick's lucky I don't like fighting little girls or I woulda smacked her face off.”

Mariah shakes her head. “I'm telling you, hun, she's just like her sister. She's not gonna back down 'til you knock her snot-box in.”

“Then so be it. You already know how I do mine. I have no problem beating her face in if I have to. But that's not how I wanna get down. So I'ma let her keep running her trap. As long as she doesn't put her hands up, we good. But, trust, the first time she lifts an arm like she's tryna bring some work my way, I'ma stomp her lights. I'ma give it to her Brooklyn-style. Real raw 'n' gritty. And then she better hope I don't slash her damn face with my box cutter when I'm done punching her grill up.”

Mariah laughs. “Ooh, I love it when you get all gritty 'n' hood, boo.”

I laugh with her. “You know I'm not tryna take it there, but that chick is about to bring it outta me.”

Mariah shrugs. “Oh, well. That'll learn her.”

I laugh, eyeing Mariah as she gets up from the bed and walks over to the mirror hanging on my closet door. She stares at herself, swiping a finger over her neatly arched brows, then blowing herself a kiss.

“Oh my god, you're so conceited.”

She shoots me a look over her shoulder. “No. I'm fine. And you are?”

I give her the finger. “Finer than you.”

She laughs. “Lies. You're extra ugly, boo.” She turns sideways, looks at her booty, then slaps it. “Brian calls all this Big Juicy.”

“Ugh. I think I just threw up in the back of my mouth.”

She turns to face me. “Oh, whatever. You should really turn in your hater card. Green is so not you.”

I laugh, tossing a pillow at her. “Sweetie,
me
jealous? Ha! Never that.”

“Whatever, ugly. Get your lazy butt up and let's go over to Newport Mall so I can go to Charley's and get me a grilled sub.”

I slip into a pair of ripped low-riders, throw on a cute black V-neck tee with the word HOT scrawled across my chest in red letters, then slip my feet into a pair of red heels. I grab my bag, following her outta my room. I laugh as she shakes her butt real fast 'n' nasty-like as she walks toward the stairs. I love my cousin. Truth is, I'd probably go crazy if I didn't have her here to talk to. God, how I hate Jersey!

Just as we get to the bottom of the steps, the front door opens and in walks my mother. She's on the phone yip-yappin' it up, grinning and talking all light 'n' fluffy, like she's floating on clouds. I roll my eyes up in my head at her 'cause I know she's on the phone with my father, believing more of his lies.
God, she's so stupid!

“Oh hey, Aunt Rhonda,” Mariah says, walking toward the door.

“Hold on a minute,” she says, bringing the phone from her ear. “Hey. Where you girls off to?”

“The mall,” Mariah tells her.

Mom looks over at me. “You can't speak?”

I give her a dry “hey.”

“You need money?” she asks me. I think for a moment. I start to tell her no since I still have two-hundred-and-fifty bucks left over from my summer camp job and birthday money. But why spend my money when I can spend hers? After all, she owes me for dragging me waaaay out here.

“Yeah,” I tell her. She reaches into her purse, digs out her wallet, then hands me forty bucks. She tells me to not spend it all. I suck my teeth. How far does she think forty dollars is gonna stretch at the mall? I mean, really. “Thanks,” I tell her, stuffing the money into my bag.

“Oh, by the way, how was your first day at school?”

I huff, walking toward the door. “How you think? Miserable. I wanna go back to Brooklyn.”

She frowns. “Well, you can't. So you're going to have to figure out a way to make it work.”

“Whatever,” I say as I go out the door. The last thing I hear the minute the door shuts behind me is her giggling like she's stuck on silly. Truth is, she is!

I slide in the passenger seat of Mariah's black Camry, and fasten my seat belt.

“How much you wanna bet,” she says, glancing over at me as she backs out of the driveway, “that was your father your mom was on the phone talking to?”

I roll my eyes.

I shoulda known she wasn't gonna be strong enough to stay away from him. She never is. I mean, why pack up and leave him when you're only gonna end up going right back to him? She always does. It's crazy! Last time she left him, when she found him in a motel room again—because she goes out looking for him—with another woman, we stayed gone for three weeks. But we were
still
in Brooklyn. So I didn't care that we bounced. The time before that, she caught him with yet another woman—she put him out that time. But after a week of him begging and making promises—they both knew he wasn't gonna keep, like he
never
does—she let him back in. Like she
always
does.