Caught Up (6 page)

T
he movie was good. Hazel Eyes was a gentleman through most of the movie. I mean, yes. He did put his arm around me. And a few times his hand did
accidentally
wander a little too high up on my thigh. But other than that, I really enjoyed myself.

It's a little after six o'clock in the evening and now we are heading back to his place. I'm nervous. And, okay, I know I shouldn't be going over to his house. But I want to. Truth is, I'm not ready to go home. Well, I can't go home . . . not yet.

I sent Jordan a text to see if she and her dad were back from Connecticut. They're not. So that's that.

During the ride over to his place, August Alsina's CD is playing. August is so sexy to me. And I love his voice. I close my eyes, bobbing my head as “I Luv This Shit” starts playing. In my head, August is singing to me. I snap my fingers to the beat.

Blaze laughs. “Yo, what you know about dis?”

I open my eyes and look over at him. “What, you think I don't listen to this kind of music? I love August. And his music is dope. I'm not gonna lie. At first, when I first heard this song on the radio, I thought he was Chris Brown singing.”

“Yeah, he do sound kinda like Chris Breezy. Dude is def doin' his thing. But I ain't tryna talk about him.” He turns the volume down. “What's good wit' you? You sure you wanna chill?”

I nod. “Yeah. I'm sure.”

“So you gonna let me push dem panties to da side?” He grins, moving his eyebrows up and down. I give him the evil eye and he laughs. “Chill, chill. I'm only effen wit' you.”

I roll my eyes, sucking my teeth. “Yeah, right. Please don't have me Mace you.” I shift my body in my seat, folding my arms across my chest.

“Yo, real spit, ma. I got you. Trust. You in good hands.”

I give him a “yeah right” look.

“Word is bond. I got you.”

“Yeah, we'll see,” I mumble, reaching over and turning up the volume to the radio. Future's song “Honest” is playing. I lean back in my seat, bouncing my head to the beat, pretending like I know what the heck he's sing-rapping. Truth is, I don't understand his country grammar, but I like the beat. I'm just being honest.

When we finally pull up in front of a yellow house with green shutters and a big bay window on a quiet street, I look over at Hazel Eyes, confused. “I thought we were going to your place.”

He looks over at me, shutting off the engine. “This
is
my spot.” He frowns. “What, you think e'eryone who lives in da hood is livin' in da projects or sumthin'?”

Busted.

I won't lie.

I did kind of think, expect, that maybe he did. Suddenly I feel guilty for thinking like that. But then I know it's part out of ignorance and part out of fascination that I hoped he did live in the projects.

I look over at him sheepishly. “I wasn't sure; that's all.”

“Yeah, a'ight. And just so you know. My moms isn't on drugs. My crib isn't dirty. And I don't have roaches. And we ain't on section eight.” He opens his door. “C'mon. Let's go in.”

I immediately feel asinine for thinking—okay,
hoping
—he did. I unfasten my seat belt, then open the door and slowly ease myself out, shutting it behind me.

He walks over and takes my hand. Surprisingly, I don't pull away. It feels good, my hand in his.

 

“You smoke?” he asks, grabbing a shoebox from out of his closet, then pulling out a plastic baggie stuffed with what looks like oregano. But I know better. It's marijuana. We're up in his room. His room is small but nice. He has a full-size bed that's actually made up. The walls are painted light blue. And he has large framed posters of basketball players on them. A gigantic picture of a half-naked girl with an enormous butt is hanging over his bed. She looks Spanish. There's a stereo system up on a dresser and a huge flat-screen TV up on his wall. His closet is packed with clothes. And along the right wall there are boxes of sneakers neatly stacked up.

He shuts his closet door, then comes and sits on the side of the bed, next to his nightstand. I stare at his profile and it's really hard to think straight, let alone talk. His skin is smooth and clear, the kind of skin girls at my school pay hundreds, maybe even thousands, of dollars in skincare products and spas for.

I shake my head. I've never smoked anything in my life. And, although I've had fleeting thoughts of curiosity as to what it'd be like, I'm not sure if I'm ready to find out. I tell him no as he pulls out a cigar. He glances over at me, his lips curl into a crooked grin. “Yeah, you one of dem good girls. I like dat.”

Fascination dances in my eyes as I watch him slice open a cigar, remove the tobacco, then pack it with marijuana. I eye him with excitement as he places it between his lips and slides his tongue over it, just so. Then he takes it between his thumbs, index fingers and middle fingers and slowly rolls it to perfection.

“So why do you like the fact that I'm a good girl?” I finally ask, pulling my gaze away from the thick blunt Blaze places on the nightstand before he starts slicing open another cigar, then packing it with marijuana.

“Because you ain't all hard 'n' gutter like a lotta these birds cluckin' 'round here. You got ya head on straight. And you ain't got no rep in da streets. You def wifey material.”

“I am? Why you say that?”

“Why I say what?”

“That I'm wifey material. What does that mean?”

His lighter flicks, and the air around me immediately fills with the strong scent of weed. I blink and swallow as he takes deep, long pulls. Aside from seeing it in movies and videos, this is the first time I've actually seen anyone actually roll a blunt, let alone smoke it, live and direct. I can't lie. I find myself becoming enchanted with how the thick smoke rolls around his tongue then floats out of his mouth and up through his nose.

The more he smokes, the more odorous his room becomes. Scary thing is, I'm not even bothered by the pungent smell.

“It means what it means.” He exhales a mouthful of smoke, getting up, holding his sagging pants up with one hand as he walks over to the window and opens it. His blunt dangles from his lips. “You a good girl.”

“But what if I
don't
want to be that, a good girl?”

He comes back over and sits beside me, then leans back on his forearm. He takes another pull from the blunt. “You ain't ready for dat life, ma.” He blows smoke in my face. I cough a little. And he laughs. “You drink?”

I shake my head.

“You puttin' in dat neck work?” I blink. He looks down at his lap. “Don't act like you don't know what I'm talkin' 'bout. Givin' up dat dome. Head.”

I frown. I thought we already went through this. Thought I already put him in his place. Boys. They only hear what they want to hear. I shake my head.

“I know what you meant. No, I'm not doing that.”

I refrain from telling him how gross I think oral sex is. Still, I sometimes find myself wondering why girls enjoy doing it and why every boy I know goes crazy over it. The first time I heard the term oral sex used I was like eleven. I was on the school bus en route home when this white girl in back of me, Katie Livingston, started talking about how she performed it on her brother's friend in their garage. He was in high school. Ninth grade. We were in sixth grade. I remember how Katie described the white stuff that filled her mouth and how he had wanted her to swallow it.

I couldn't wait to get home to ask my mother all about what I'd heard. When I asked her what oral sex was, she explained what it was, then added, “It isn't ladylike. Fast, nasty girls are the only ones out there putting their mouths on a boy's penis.”

When I asked her what the white stuff was Katie was talking about, she said, “Make sure you don't ever drink or eat anything from that little nasty girl. It's semen. And swallowing it will give you throat cancer and make your tonsils fall out.”

I believed her. The idea of getting cancer or having my tonsils fall out scared me to death. And even though I know better now, I still think putting my mouth on a boy's thing is gross. And it's definitely something I'm not interested in ever doing.

“And you ain't lettin' anyone smash so dat makes you nun-like. You pure.”

“Ohmygod! Is that your nice way of calling me corny?”

He laughs again. “Nah, nah. You a good girl, that's all. Don't let anyone change dat. On some real ish, ya innocence is mad sexy, yo.”

I smile. He reaches down into his nightstand drawer and pulls out a bottle of Hennessey and two plastic cups. “You want some?”

I shake my head. He laughs again, opening the bottle, then filling his cup halfway.

“What's so funny?” I ask, feeling myself becoming slightly annoyed. I'm not sure if he's laughing at me or not. All I know is I don't like it.

He smirks. “Like I said, you a good girl.”

Feeling curious about the drink, almost dared if you will—even if it's only my imagination—I reach for Blaze's cup and take one small sip. As soon as it hits my tongue, my face twists into a grimace and my eyes water. Just the small drop of brown liquid sends a trail of fire down my throat and into my belly. For a moment, I think I'm going to die.

Blaze laughs. “See. You ain't ready.”

I roll my watering eyes, determined not to be deterred from taking another sip. I place the cup up to my lips again, and this time I take a bigger sip. I swallow. And the wet heat instantly sweeps through my body, causing me to feel an unexpected tingle all over that rushes to my head.

I hand Blaze back his cup. He grins, then takes a large gulp of his drink. He takes the bottle and pours himself some more.

“Are you sure you should be drinking?” I ask him, trying to maintain my composure. Trying not to let the simmering heat and pleasure coursing through my veins overcome me. “I mean, you still need to take me home.”

“Oh, I'm good. I got you. I'm not tryna get twisted, babe. I drink and drive responsibly.”

He drinks and drives responsibly? I frown. How in the heck is that being responsible? He isn't twenty-one, so I guess he failed to get the memo on underage drinking. I decide against reminding him of that important detail.

“I'm sure you do. I just would like you to be even more responsible before you get behind the wheel. I want to get home in one piece.” I glance at my watch. It's seven fifteen. I reach for my buzzing phone. It's a text from my mother wanting to know how things are going and around what time I think we'll be home.

I text her back. Tell her what Jordan told me. W
E SHLD B HOME BY
10.
WE'RE STOPPING TO GET SOMETHING TO EAT

Ok, sweetheart. See you then. Be safe & enjoy

I swallow, slipping my phone down into my front pocket.

“Yo, you pretty,” Blaze says, reaching over and stroking my cheek. “You mad sexy, you know that?”

I blush, shrugging. “Not really. I mean. I know I'm not butt-ugly.”

He chuckles. “Nah, you def not dat. You pretty in da face, small in da waist 'n' dem hips mad thick, yo. I'm feelin' you, real spit, ma.”

My nerves start to get the best of me. I start to second-guess myself for coming over here, thinking maybe I've made a mistake. But then a little voice in my head tells me to relax. Reminds me that it's the summer. School is out. To have a little fun. And that's what I want to do.

I take a deep breath. “Umm, I like you, too.”
I think.

“That's wassup.” He stands up and removes his shirt. Then his wife-beater comes off. I look away. “You good?” he wants to know, trying to hold his sagging pants up with one hand while holding his blunt up to his lips with the other.

I nod my head. “Yeah, I'm good.” The words come out sounding meek. Unbelieving. But I am. Strangely, I am enjoying myself. There's something about him l really like. And I want to know more about him.

But I am scared.

He pulls the blinds down, dimming the light in the room. Then turns on his stereo. Trey Songz starts pouring out of his speakers real low and sexy. Next thing I know we are kissing. Hazel Eyes has a long tongue. I can smell and taste the mix of alcohol and weed on his breath and tongue. My head starts to spin. And I don't know if it's from his kiss, or from the sip of his drink. Or if it's from the faint scent of his cologne tickling my senses, or from his wandering hands that seem to be slowly melting everything inside of me. He's a good—no, great—kisser.