Caught Up (9 page)

S
aturday afternoon, at a little after two
P.M.
, I arrive at Sasha's apartment building after having my mom drop me off at the mall as if I had to go to work, then calling a cab to bring me over here.

“So, you ready for your makeover?” Sasha says excitedly. “Out with that ole preppy white girl look 'n' in wit' the boss lady swag.”

I shrug. “I guess.”

She plants a hand up on her hip. “You
guess
? Girl, bye! Miss me wit' that. Already tol' you, if you gonna roll wit' me, then you gonna need to step ya dress game up, boo. 'Cause what you stay rockin' ain't it.”

I frown, glancing down at my Century 21 pink cami, Adiktd Mystery jeans, and expensive sandals. “What's wrong with what I have on?”

Sasha gives me a blank look. Then rapidly bats her lashes. “Well, nothing, I suppose. If you tryna go for suburban white girl, then you're a smash hit. But if you wanna rise to the top 'n' be a fly girl then I'ma need for you to sit back 'n' let me work my magic. I can't have you rollin' in the hood wit' me lookin' all wack 'n' whatnot. Not gonna happen, honey boo-boo. If we gonna roll then you gonna have to represent for the boss chicks. I promise you. When I'm finished you'll have all the cutie-boos checkin' for you. I'ma 'bout to turn you from a plain chick into bein' a real problem. Watch 'n' see.”

“And what's
a problem
?” I ask with raised eyebrows.

She runs her hands up and down her body. “All'a this, boo. I'm problem number one. And now I'ma 'bout to make you problem number two. Thought you knew.”

I blink. No offense, but Sasha dresses kind of . . . um, well, let's see. What's the right word I'm looking for? Skanky. Yeah, that's it. Everything she wears is always so tight. Even her uniforms fit snugly, causing the seams to stretch over her curvy body. It's like she feels the need to put on display everything she's blessed with.

It's like she thinks less is sexiness.

“Well, okay. I guess I can go along with the makeover. But I don't want to wear anything that screams boy-hungry hooker.”

She waves me on. “Ain't nothing wrong wit' showin' off a whole lotta thigh. Just be classy wit' it.”

I take in her teensy-weeny black boy shorts and skimpy white off-the-shoulder see-through blouse. She's sitting up on her dresser with her legs gaping wide open, showing all of her goodies. I'm almost certain she doesn't have on any panties. The thought makes me gag.

“I guess,” I say, shifting on her bed. “It all depends on how you define classy.”

“Okay, Miss Lady. How do you define it?”

I shrug. “I don't know. For me, it's about the way you carry yourself. Being a lady. Polite. Knowing how to sit and walk and talk. Not being all loud and crude. Knowing how to act in public. Someone with impressive character. Elegantly stylish. High quality.”

“Wow.”

“Wow, what?” I ask innocently. She's looking at me as if I've said something crazy. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?” She tilts her head. “Like you're
crazy
?”

“Yeah.”

“Because you are,” she snaps, jumping off her dresser.

I blink, taken aback at how quickly she's flipped on me.

“How the eff you gonna sit up here in my face 'n' try'n call me ghetto, huh? Where they teaching that at? The 'burbs? Because, honey, you got the right one.”

She starts removing her earrings.

I blink again. Shift in my seat. “That's not what I meant,” I quickly say, trying to defuse the situation. The last thing I want is a fight with her. “I apologize if I said something that offended you. That wasn't my intention. I thought we were speaking freely. You asked me to define a word. And I gave you my best definition.”

“
Tsk.
Definition my ass. Sounded like you were tryna throw shade to me.” She tsks me again. “You uppity hoes kill me, turnin' ya noses up at us hood chicks.
Bish
, be clear. Ain't nothin' ghetto 'bout me. I'ma hood classy chick. Believe that.”

“Sasha, I really apologize if I gave you the impression I was implying that you weren't classy. I definitely wasn't trying to disrespect you.”

“Oh, I'ma let it slide this time, boo-boo. But the next time I'ma take it straight to ya face.”

I blink.

She stares me down, then cracks up laughing. “Psych! Gotcha!”

I don't see anything funny.

“Girl, you shoulda seen your face. It was priceless! I had you going. Hahahaha.”

I let out a slight sigh of relief. Although I finally relax a little, in the back of my mind, I'm thinking,
This girl is a loose cannon
.

“Yeah, you definitely got me.” I let out a nervous chuckle. “I thought you were getting ready to attack me.”

She waves me on dismissively. “Girl, please. Unless you cross me, you'll never have to worry about me doin' you dirty.”

“Oh, you won't have to worry about that,” I say truthfully. “I'd never do anything to cross you.”

“Then I'll always have your back.”

She walks over to her closet and flings open the mirrored door. My mouth drops open. Her closet is packed tight to the seams with designer clothes, shoes, and handbags, many of them still with tags on them.

I have a lot of clothes, but nothing compared to this. Then again, I have a walk-in closet and all of my things aren't all cramped up into one space. “Wow. Your mom must really work around the clock to make sure you have all this nice stuff.”

“Pfft.
My moms? Girl, stop. I wish. That stingy
bish
ain't hardly comin' up off'a no paper for me. If I wanna keep nice clothes on my back, then I gotta get out there 'n' get it the best way I know how. I been doin' me ever since.”

I cringe at her calling her own mother the B-word. I would never. My mom would have my head if I even thought it. “Oh, wow.” I don't know what else to say. My parents buy me anything I want within reason. Not that I ever ask for much.

Now, I'm looking at her and kind of feeling sorry for her, understanding a little bit better why she's the way she is. Mean-spirited.

Sasha keeps talking as she pulls clothes from off the rack. “Soon as I turned sixteen that trick told me I was grown 'n' needed to finance my own needs. If I wanna eat, I gotta buy my own groceries.”

I blink.

“And that ole greedy heifer was still gettin' EBT benefits for me up until last year.”

She sees the confusion on my face.

She lets out an annoyed sigh. “Food stamps. Girl, keep up.”

“Oh. Okay. What about your dad?”

She screws her face up at me. “My
dad?
Why you askin' 'bout him? What, you a social worker now?”

I apologize for asking. But then I turn around and I ask her how she affords all of this stuff on her paycheck if her parents don't buy them for her.

She bucks her eyes, then scrunches up her face. “See. Now you still doin' too much. But since you asked, I'm on the ballers 'n' boosters program.”

I give her a confused look.

She sucks her teeth. “You don't know much of anything, do you?” She shakes her head. “You suburban hoes got a lot to learn. I forget y'all kinda slow.”

“Not knowing what something is doesn't make me slow,” I say, feeling insulted by her.

“Yeah, okay. Whatever. I only rock wit' ballers who can finance my wears. And if they not tryna come up off them dollars, then I roll up on the boosters 'n' put my order in. They can get whatever you want. From the knock-offs to the official ish.” She pulls what I'm sure she believes is an
official
Louis Vuitton bag from off a hook, holding it up. “I'm serious 'bout mine. This bag costs almost fifteen hunnid in the store, but, thanks to my connect over in the Bricks, I got it for only three hunnid.”

Although I don't personally carry the coveted luxury bags, my mom does. And I've been inside enough Louis Vuitton stores in my lifetime to know what's real and what's not. This poor bag she's holding up, bragging about, isn't legit.

“That's nice,” I lie. I don't have the heart to tell her that she's been scammed. Bamboozled. Then again, it's not my business and I don't want to be “doin' too much,” as she said.

She tries to give it to me. “Here, you can rock it today, if you want. I'm goin' to serve 'em my Gucci satchel.”

I shake my head. Decline the offer. Although it's a really good replica of the real thing, I wouldn't be caught dead carrying it. “Oh, no thanks. I appreciate the offer, though.” I point over to my lipstick (that's the name of color) Tumi crossbody bag. “But my little ole bag will do just fine.”

She makes a face, tossing the bag back into her crammed closet. “Suit yaself.” She shuts the door, then walks over to her bed and tosses an armful of clothes onto the center of it. “Pick through these outfits 'n' see which one you wanna rock. I'll be right back.”

She heads for the door, leaving me wondering what I'm getting myself into by befriending her. Reluctantly, I sift through the pile of designer clothes on her bed. Everything she's pulled out is skimpy. But I won't lie. A lot of it is very nice. Still. The idea of having all of my business out doesn't sit right with me.

But I did say I wanted to be adventurous this summer, didn't I?

Five minutes later, Sasha comes back into the room carrying a bottle of Hennessey and two shot glasses. “I brought us some Hen dog to get the party juices flowin'.” I eye her as she pours herself the first shot. I quickly say no thanks when she's about to pour me a glass.

She looks at me and shrugs. “Whatever. More for me.” She snaps her head back and swallows the dark elixir in one gulp. She refills her shot glass and tosses it back. “Aaah.” She shakes her shoulders and shakes out her hands as if she's having a seizure. “Whew! The devil is a lie. Henny does the body right. We need some music up in here.”

I watch her as she scuttles over toward her Sony Bluetooth speaker, holding up her phone. A few seconds later, Trinidad James's “All Gold Everything” starts playing.

“Woo-oooh!” She snaps her fingers. “This ish right here goes hard.”

I shrug.

She dances over to where she's left the drinks and pours another shot, then tosses it back. “And please don't tell me you wearin' some big ole nasty granny panties underneath them jeans. Please, don't. I'm goin' to hop in the shower. Don't be goin' thru my ish, either,
bish
.” She laughs. “Let me stop effen wit' you. I'll be back in a sec.”

She shakes her butt out of the room.

Several minutes go by and her Samsung rings over on the dresser. She quickly stalks back into the bedroom with only her purple thong on. “Ooh, I thought I heard my phone. It's about time this ninja hit me back.”

Her naked breasts sway. I quickly avert my eyes, reaching over and picking up the latest issue of
Ebony
. I flip through the pages, pretending to be interested. But, honestly, my mind is starting to race about this party we're going to. Like who's going to be there? What types of guys are going to be there? Stuff like that.

“Hello? Yeah . . . uh-uh . . . where you . . . ? Oh, okay . . . We gettin' dressed now . . . Yeah, yeah, blah, blah, blah . . . I know . . .”

I feign interest in some article about the woes of the music industry until I stumble on an article about how most New Yorkers don't use condoms during sex. I cringe. “Ohmygod, that's so nasty,” I mumble, reading on. It states that only one out of three adults in New York used a condom the last time they had sex. I read on, wondering why anyone would jeopardize their health like that, knowing the risks involved. I shake my head as I finish reading.

“Yeah, she's here . . .” I look up from the magazine, glancing over at Sasha as she prances around the room half-naked. “Yeah . . . the chick I was tellin' you 'bout . . . hol' on . . .”

“Here,” she says, shoving her cell into my face. “My boy wants to holla at you.”

I frown, staring at her hand. “Who is he?”

“Someone who's gonna change your life; that's who.”

I shake my head, pushing her hand away from me.

“Girl, don't play. I been talkin' you up to him 'n' he's tryna get at you. So you better act like you know 'n' get wit' the program. I'm tryna upgrade you, boo.”

“You can thank me later. Now here.” She shoves the phone back in my face. “Hello,” I say in a low whisper.

“Yo, wat's good, ma?” I hear the smooth voice on the other end of the line say. I'm not going to lie. He has a really nice voice. “I've heard a lot 'bout you from my peoples.”

I shoot a look over at Sasha as she heads out of the door, telling me over her shoulder that she's going to take her shower.

“Oh,” I say, fidgeting with the diamond Tiffany cross around my neck. A gift from my grandparents given to me on my thirteenth birthday. “Who is this?”

“Malik. But cats in the streets call me Money.”

“Oh,” I say again. Not sure what I'm supposed to say after that.

“So what's good? You got a man?”

I shake my head.
No, but I want one.
Hazel Eyes comes to mind. But I immediately shake any thoughts of him being my boo from my head. “No.”