Boyfriend Season (15 page)

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Authors: Kelli London

BOOK: Boyfriend Season
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“Whew,” she said, unlocking the door and walking inside. She headed straight for the steps, and ran up to her room.
There he was. Bishop. He sat on her bed, holding her Louis Vuitton bag and sunglasses, and something else. A remote control. He clicked on her TV. “I want you to see something.” He selected
RECORDED SHOWS
, scrolled to one, and pressed
PLAY
.
Patience's jaw dropped. There she was. On TV. She was on the red carpet, her arm wrapped around Trill's as he told the world to get used to seeing them together because he was trying to make her his girlfriend.
“So you're a keeper now?” Bishop boomed. “On television, dressed up like a floozy, with a street thug! Well, I'll tell you what, Patience. The only thing worth keeping around here is The Good Book. So you're going to keep it for months—months. Let's see if your thug thinks you're worth keeping after he hasn't seen you for months. The only thing you're going to be doing is studying, going to church, and studying some more. I'll make sure of that! Why oh why did your mother have to be at the women's retreat?” he asked no one, surely wanting someone else to do what he refused to do—parent his daughter. He got up slowly, taking her purse and sunglasses with him, and walked to her door. “Now turn to the book of Exodus and commit to memory the Fifth Commandment about honoring your father and mother.”
Patience froze. She was hurt, enraged, and disgusted. She didn't know how Bishop found out about the awards, but she'd get to the bottom of it. And if her sisters turned out to be snitches, she didn't know what she'd do to them, but it would be something they'd regret. Deeply. She cringed, and, suddenly, gospel music filled the house. That meant Bishop had retired to his office to study or meditate; that's what he always did when he was mad, to prevent “lowering” himself to worldly men's ways—physically hurting his girls. Patience pulled out her cell phone from her pocket, ran inside her closet, and called Trill.
The sound of her voice singing met her ears from the other line. The hook she'd laid vocals on sounded even better. “Hello?”
“This is Trill's phone,” a female voice finally answered.
Whew!
Teeny would know what to do, Patience believed. “I see you're listening to the song. I think I did a pretty good job on the hook. It sounds good, right, Teeny?”
“Hmm. Your vocals? Did you just say
your vocals?
”
“Yes!” Patience whispered, full of excitement. “T had me lay them earlier, Teeny. I was afraid, but—”
“This ain't Teeny. She's out of town.”
“Well, who's this?” Patience asked.
“
Who
is this? Don't be calling asking me who I am. You the one calling,” the girl snapped.
“This is Trill's girlfriend,” Patience shot back.
“Well,
Trill's girlfriend
,” the girl mocked, laughing. “He's busy now . . . and you had the right idea earlier about being afraid. Trust me, you should still be afraid. Very afraid of losing your man.”
Patience hung up the phone and cried. She guessed he couldn't wait for her after all.
16
SANTANA
T
here were uniforms everywhere. Every. Where. Pleated plaid skirts, white button-down shirts, and shoes on top of shoes, on top of shoes. Santana stole glances at the girls' feet, and came to a conclusion. Since they couldn't dress how they wanted, they went hard in the kicks department. Ultra cement-hard. Stripper-high strappy sandals. Killer Louboutins. Pairs and pairs of some she couldn't recognize, but all were fire hot. But no one, she beamed with pride, rocked Js like she did. They were so behind, she thought as she held her head high and strutted down the hallway with her Gucci bag on her shoulder, then looked around, realizing she had no idea where she was going.
“Lost?” a freckle-faced girl asked, wearing a smile. She had a
HALL MONITOR
badge proudly pinned to her shirt.
Santana pursed her lips, then threw her color-crayon-red waist-length weave over her shoulder. “Uh.
Yay-yah!
Ain't we all . . . since we all holed up in dis school during summa.”
The girl's smile faded and her jaw fell. Then she raised her eyebrows and crossed her arms. She burst out laughing. “Are you
serious
?”
Santana didn't catch the joke. Mirroring the girl, she crossed her arms, then snaked her neck. “Uh
yay-yah
!” If she'd been chewing gum, now would've been the perfect time to pop it, she thought while she checked her phone, that had finally been returned, for a text message from Meka.
The girl turned up her laughter and doubled over, snatching Santana's attention back. When she rose, tears were welled in her eyes.
“What's so funny, Kenzy?” another girl with skin the color of Santana's and shoes many would die for, asked, making her way over.
Kenzy, the one who was in stitches, pointed to Santana. “Ask her—I'm sorry, what's your name?” she managed between fits of laughing.
Santana looked from Kenzy to the black girl. “Santana,” she said dryly. “And I still don't know what's so funny.”
“I'm Chase,” the girl with the funky shoes offered.
“Santana, please tell Chase what you said to me!” Kenzy gathered herself, then eyed Chase.
“I said, ‘Uh.
Yay-yah!
Ain't we all lost . . . since we all holed up in dis school during dis hot summa.'”
“Oh gawd!” Chase doubled over in laughter too, with Kenzy parroting her. “Santana, you are
too
fun-nee. What were you watching? What comedian are you mimicking?!
Who
talks like that? Oh gawd, Kenzy, have you ever heard something so fun-nee before? Must've been an old Martin Lawrence show on television. I love how you've incorporated what's-her-name's ghetto-girl mentality . . . Shanaynay, into your look today . . . and that knockoff bag. What a way to break the ice at a new school!” Tears sprang from her eyes as she fingered Santana's color-crayon-red weave and eyed her high-heeled Js. “Michael Jordan had nothing to do with that shoe design! Trust me.”
Me
. Santana crumbled inside.
Me
.
That's how I talk
. The girls were serious and laughing at her and didn't know it.
What's wrong with the way I speak? My hair? My Js!
she wondered. They were the different ones, not her. They were lame, squares who didn't fit in the round world . . . weren't they?
Yes
. If they were in her old neighborhood, in her previous school, in the life she'd had until recently, they'd be clowned, and their tears wouldn't be from laughing.
“Welcome to Winchester Hills Prep!” Chase said, giving her air kisses on both cheeks. “We need someone here with your lively and fun-nee take on life.”
I'm in their world
, Santana realized, hating it more and more with each passing second. She didn't have time for this—not today. In one hour she was supposed to meet Meka outside so she could get the digs on Pharaoh, slide up on him while he wasn't looking, and then rock his world as he knew it. He'd been ducking her, dodging her calls, and missing in action. She knew why, and she'd get to the bottom of it, even if it meant dragging Nae down the street.
“Thanks . . . I guess,” Santana returned Chase's greeting. “But on the real, dough, y'all need to get on top of dis. Stop acting all Erica Kane and snap to reality,” she set them straight. “Wait. I'm gonna show y'all how we do on the other side. Friday's casual dress-how-you-are day, right? Watch how I turn up the heat with my 'fit then!” she said, slashing outfit in half.
“Word! We can't wait to see what you pull next!” Chase said without the least bit of sarcasm or tease in her voice. Then she and Kenzy walked down the hall holding each other up, laughing like two wild hyenas.
 
Meka's borrowed vehicle was sitting exactly where she said it'd be. Santana strolled carefully, glancing behind her every now and then to make sure she wasn't being followed. She'd been warned that the school frowned upon skipping classes and cutting out early, but she didn't care. Life went on, and so would school—tomorrow. Today was reserved for Pharaoh.
“Hop in!” Meka yelled, pushing open the door. “There's some dude dressed in the blues with a rent-a-cop badge on.”
Santana ran to the car and hopped in. “Go! Go! Floor this mug.”
Meka took her time strapping herself in. She turned on the system, found the hip-hop station, and adjusted the volume.
“Meka? What, are you trying to get me in trouble?”
Meka laughed. “Girl, you're already changing. There's no security following you. I was only playing. Dang.” She purred the engine, threw the car in drive, then skidded off like she raced for NASCAR. “I still don't get what you all bent outta shape for. You know what it is with Pharaoh now, so maybe you should just move on. Maybe you can come with me to New York, get your mind off of that lame you call a boyfriend.”
Santana side-eyed her friend. “Move on? What, you on Nae's side now? This is about principle, Meka. And you know I'm in year-round school now, so I can't hop a plane and go anywhere. And who wants to be third-wheel?”
“Mm-hm,” Meka said, rounding a corner. “We'll see about principle!” She turned up the music until Santana couldn't hear herself think, and they drove the rest of the way in silence.
The block was exceptionally crowded when Meka weaved the car through the throngs of people and cars in the middle and on the sides of the street. A
WELCOME HOME
banner was stretched across someone's porch, telling Santana the occasion. Someone had just come home from jail. From the looks of things—the two DJs, four barbecue grills, numerous spades and dice games—whoever it was had been gone pretty long. The neighborhood only went all out like this for people who'd taken a ten-year-or-more stretch behind bars.
“Must be an old head, 'cause we ain't heard about them coming home. I'll say this, whoever he or she is did a long bid. . . .” Meka said, letting her words marinate. “Maybe Federal . . . ooh, over there.” Meka pointed.
There sat Pharaoh's car with him leaned up against it. A crowd of dudes stood around him, clearly engaged by whatever he was saying or doing.
Santana jumped out of Meka's ride before she could kill the engine. She was furious, happy and excited all at once. Her legs carried her to him in long strides, and she was almost running. But jogging to a man was just something you didn't do, not when you were the hottest thing to ever grace the streets of the ATL.
“Where ya been?” she cut into him before she reached him.
“Er'where, shawty. Where you been?” He cracked a smile and stretched his arms wide. “Don't be walking up on me questioning me, and don't bring ya boy no love.”
Santana grabbed him by his arm, pulling him away from his car and his boys. “I godda talk to you. Now.”
Pharaoh pulled away from her as smooth and cool as he could. She knew he wouldn't want anyone to see her yoking him up, but she didn't care.
“Look, shawty. I know yo moms put you on lock down, but you ain't been gone long enough to forget who the man around here is. Don't be snatching on my clothes.”
Santana put her hand on her hip. “Well, who can snatch on your clothes—or should I say snatch off your clothes? Nae? Your other girl who you bought earrings like mine for?”
He threw his head back, then looked down at her. He bit his bottom lip, showing off his grills. “Come on now, shawty. Nae went to the same store and had them make some like yours. What you talking 'bout?”
“I heard Nae was with you at the cabin. Is that true?” Santana snapped.
“Lots of people was there.”
“Were you with Nae? Don't make me havta ask you again.” Cars sped by and people walked around them and barbecue smoke filled the air, but there was still no response from Pharaoh. “You hear me?”
“Santana!” Meka's voice cut through the one-sided argument Santana was having.
“I said do you hear me?”
“Look, shawty, you my girl—not my moms. Don't be raising your voice—”
“San. Tan. Ah!” Meka's voice bellowed, cutting off Pharaoh.
“
What?
” Santana snapped back, looking across the street at Meka.
Meka pointed to her phone, mouthing
Look at yours
.
Santana took her cell out of her purse, and saw the text.
UR PARENTS NO U CUT SKOOL. DEY ON DEY WAY HERE. MEET GULLY AROUND DA CORNER N DA BACK OF DA GAS STATION SO HE CAN TAKE U HOME. IF DEY SEE ME & PHARAOH HERE, YOU CAN GET OUTTA TROUBLE. GODDA SCOOP MY NEW LOUBOUTINS FROM MY CUZ PATIENCE. CALL U L8TR.
“What's good, shawty? Why you look so grim?” Pharaoh asked.
Santana just shook her head. “I godda go. Look, I'm tired of chasing you, so if you want to be with Nae, do you.”
Pharaoh pulled Santana to him, then kissed her on her forehead. “I don't want her. I just been busy, the boys in blue been bringing down heat on ya boy, and I didn't want you to get caught up. Okay, shawty? We'll talk about Nae later. She was there, but it wasn't nothing. Trust me.”
Santana pulled away from him, then cut through a few backyards, making her way to the gas station. She wanted to finish the conversation, get down to the truth, but she couldn't risk her freedom again, not after just getting off of punishment.
“Hurry, Santana!” Gulliver waved her over. “If we get you back up to the school quickly, you can go into the nurse's office and complain about female problems. Say you were in the bathroom or something.”
Santana looked at Gulliver with new eyes. He was more than all right with her. He was her friend, and she knew she could trust him. That was more than she could say for Pharaoh.

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