Jumped (8 page)

I'
M TRYING TO EAT THIS MEATBALL SUB
. Trying to chew, get it down. But it's noisy and crazy in here and the Boosters are stomping, french fries flying—better not fly this way—and Scotty gotta push up on me from behind, wrap himself around me, and I'm not in the mood. I don't even want the sub.

Scotty's like a kid tied to his mother's lap. If she gets up to pee he's holding on.

I push him off me, but he's—
zzt
—clamped on like a magnet. I push, he clamps on. Push harder, clamp-clamp. Scotty's like a kid and like a dog. “Sit, Scott. Sit while I shoot hoops.” “Fetch, Scott. Fetch me a water.” Sit, fetch, stay. But Scotty's loyal. Puppy loyal with those big eyes. Does what I tell him.
Awright. Stay, Scott. You can stay
.

Shayne starts singing the candy bar song. “Break me
off a piece of that KitKat bar.” She knows I'm about to give her a tap. A little punch. So she leans back in time.

Once I broke Scotty off a piece I was stuck with him. Broke him off a piece and now he wants another. He needs to get over that. It was a one-time shot. A thing of the moment.

I was mad and had to do something and mad sex is some good shit, yo. It's some good, mad shit. I never did that before. Not all the way. But Coach benched me and steam was rising out of my skin. Yo, I was suited up, game ready. Dressed. Ready to play. And Coach was, like, “Duncan. Bench,” like I'm some dog.
Stay on that bench. That's where you're going to be for the rest of the season.
“Duncan. Bench.” And I was mad, like, what's that movie? Yeah. Mad like
Raging Bull
. So now I know why they call it “hitting it.” 'Cause I was that mad and I needed to hit something or have something hit me so I made Shayne and Viv walk up.
Y'all just keep walking and we'll catch up
. It was dark. After five. So I pulled Scotty over to the side of the building, right. The Hunan Palace. And I pulled out his thing and said, “Hit it.” And those big eyes…was like all, but I wasn't in the mood for all that. I was, like, “Hit it.” Scotty had my back banging against the brick wall. Against the brick wall of the Hunan Palace. Mad heat was pouring down my legs and all I could hear was
“Duncan. Bench.” “Duncan. Bench.” “Duncan. Bench.”

Scotty reaches for a fry. I don't care. They're cold. Hard. No wonder kids throw them like weapons.

Viv says, “Someone needs to make her sit down.”

I tell them, “Don't worry. I got that. I'm'o sit her pink ass down.”

Me and Viv and Shayne are laughing and watching the bitch, watching the bitch.
Yea, pink bitch. Stink bitch. That's right. Get your stomp on. Get your shake on. 'Cause you will get stomped. You will get shaken
. I tell my girls, “It's on.”

We're laughing and Scotty's eyes get bigger. He wants to know what's going on. Why we're looking over there. At the Boosters and that pink chick.

It's as loud as hell in here. Crazy. The Boosters are singing that cheer. That “You going down” cheer. Viv starts singing along with them: “You're going down—with a big crush.” And Shayne pipes in “At two forty-five, going down.” And it's all to the beat.

I
T'S HARD TO EAT LEFT-HANDED
but I don't want anybody staring at my right hand. Two tables over, Dominique's guy is hugging her up, but I'm not thinking about what's going on with Dominique. Chem II James is walking down with his tray, searching for a spot to sit, and I'm praying he doesn't park his tray at my table. I'm praying today isn't the day he finds me irresistible and must be in my presence. I'll forget myself, break out into my “cute and can't be bothered” mode, flash my hands, thinking they're both still gorgeous, and then he'll see my deformed hand.

It's so loud in here between the usual roar and the Boosters practicing that I can't hear myself pray, and…can you believe this? Trina is stomping with the Boosters.

Chem II James takes a seat near the Boosters. And
Trina. He doesn't look this way because he's looking that way. So I toss my head, as if anyone notices, only to find myself facing Dominique's table. I'm looking dead at Dominique, Vivica, and Shayne, reading their lips like a deaf-mute pro. Vivica and Shayne are singing to the beat of the Boosters' cheer, but Dominique is straight up saying it:
You're going down.

I try to pull away to not make it obvious that I'm staring at them but my eyes are locked onto their table. It's like a movie that's about to heat up and the dun/

dun/

dun

music plays because stuff is about to go down and you don't dare blink or get up to go to the bathroom.

Just look at Trina. It would be almost funny if you didn't already know she was about to get beat down. And it's on. As sure as I'm holding a slice of pizza with my left hand, it is on. Trina's just jumping, shaking, and stomping. Showing off that “hot chick” plastered on the seat of her pink KMarts without a clue.

Now that it's definitely on, and I know I saw what I saw, I can honestly say I have no sympathy and this is all Trina's fault. If Bea were here in the caf instead of working in the “real world” she'd have no sympathy either. No matter how you look at it, Trina don't have anyone
to blame but Trina. I don't know what she did to Basketball Jones but she put herself in this fix. Just look at her. She's doing it right now. Sticking herself somewhere uninvited. Look at Mikki and them. They'd jump her now if there wasn't a cop stationed in every corner. They don't want her stepping with them. They didn't invite her, but there is Trina, soaking up their moment. Being where she shouldn't be. Dominique might be wrong, and it might be trifling, but this is all Trina's fault.

When you're the outsider, you should know your situation. Know who you are when you step out. Know what you can do and can't do. Know whose face you can be in and whose joke you can laugh at. You should know whose man belongs to who, and even if he's on his own, you should know where he was before you came skipping along. You can't just arrive on the scene and be jumping in everyone's face. You gotta know where to step and how.

Even worse, not only is Trina flunking rules and history, she doesn't have any people. If everyone knows your brothers, sisters, cousins, and the people you're cool with, you have protection. An invisible ring of your people and their people around you. Don't mess with Bea, 'cause she's with Jay. Don't mess with Jay 'cause he can handle himself and he got people. Don't mess with Leticia because
she's with Bea. And then Bea with Jay, and there's the invisible ring, and so on. So if you have beef with Leticia, you have to say, Do I want to have beef with Jay and his crew? See how this works? Trina don't have people. She thinks she do, but she don't have anyone but Trina and that pink outfit she got on.

Poor Mikki, Renee, and them. Trying to shake Trina, but she's the chunky peanut butter clinging to the bread.

Just in time. The lady cop and her squad are on the job, shutting down the Boosters. But look at Trina. She can't just walk back to her table. She got to do that shaky-shake thing like she can't get enough attention. And that's why Trina can't blame anyone but Trina for this mess. So no. I don't have to tell Trina a thing. This might even be good for her. She might learn a lesson.

T
HE NOISE IN THE CAF
melts to a low roar. The pizza is hard and rubbery, but drinking the milk and feeling the love all around me makes the chewy dough go down smooth. And there's much love everywhere I turn. Trina art-upon-C-Corridor love. Trina stomping-with-the-Boosters love. Much love for Trina wearing hot pink. Love all around.

When you got it, you want to spread it. Even over there, across the bench where Griffy and Pheoma slouch. Those girls need to feel the love. Always with the anger, those two. The hate. The punching. Don't even look at them like they're not girls because they swear they are. What?
Oh yeah, we're girls.
But they don't even try. They don't have enough natural goodness to stretch, roll, and go in the morning. They need color. Lotion.
Effort. Girls like Griffy and Pheoma, boy-girls, are not straight-out lezzies. Not like Dara and India and Nadira and them. Pheoma and Griffy aren't handholding, smooching-in-B-Corridor, dressing-each-other-up-for-the-prom lezzies. No. Pheoma, like Griffy—who knows her real name?—are stone boy-girls. Big, beefy boy-girls with small knotted ponytails. Not bouncy-shiny-silky tails like mines. Theirs is like,
Yo, let's handle this hair, wrestle it down with a rubber band so it don't get in the way when we're smacking that handball into the wall.
But they're girls. You can't tell them otherwise. They're just boy-girls and they get mad if you look at them like
Know your role, boy-girl
.

Have you ever heard the whack of a ball against a hand then against the wall? Not with these gorgeous hands. Hitting a hard rubber ball against the wall. Your palm turns to shoe leather from smacking it around. Nasty orange calluses crust up where it should be soft to tease a boy's neck.

Once, I saw Pheoma and Griffy kick these freshmen, a couple of boys, off the handball court. That was sad funny, yo. You couldn't help but laugh. These girls just rode up on those poor guys, took the ball while it was in play, bounced it off the concrete wall, and then threw it over the fence into the street. Griffy took out her rubber ball and she and
Pheoma started smacking it up against the wall.

The two boys, those freshmen, were like,
Hey!
And the boy-girls were like,
What?
and it was over. Almost. One boy wanted to be like,
What?
back and tried to step, arms in motion, like he could do something. I prayed to God right there for his life. It was about to get ugly on the handball court for those little boys. Against those boy-girls. What? But God intervened through the other boy and grabbed him while his arm was waving. He said, “Let those dykes have it.” And even though his face wasn't showing it, you know he was glad his friend stepped in, so they laughed and called Pheoma and Griffy dykes while they were walking away. Big steps, like running away.

And Basketball Girl. Dominique? Yeah. Dominique. She don't hang with Griffy and Pheoma but she's a stone boy-girl. Big NBA-shirt-wearing boy-girl with a cute guy hanging on her, tagging behind her. What? Cannot lie. Scotty is too hot for Dominique. Hot and pretty. Scotty could be the dream prom date in
CosmoGIRL!
With those eyes and that curly hair and model lips. Pouty. So pouty I want to smear lip gloss on him. Tangerine mixed with berry on those
mwaam
,
mwaam
,
mwaam
lips. Can you imagine lips like those saying “Baby”—I'm not even on to the kiss.

Damn! What did Basketball Girl do to deserve that?
Scotty must like that manly stuff because Dominique is built like a rig. The kind that hauls a fleet of brand-new cars. And he likes that. Go figure. But yeah, Dominique's a stone boy-girl. Ponytail, jeans, big-ass lumberjack shirt like she Brawny Girl. Never wears pinks, violets, or orange—
naranja
would go perfect with her skin! Never shows off her curves. You only see her legs on the court. I know she got scars. I was passing by Fourth Street Park in my cute T with the V and my shorts, blending in with the flowers, the greenery, beautifying the neighborhood. And who do you see pushing up the court like an ape, low to the asphalt, ball in one hand, other hand curled,
oo-hoo-oo-hoo
. Then she charges them, right? And a guy knocks her down and she gets up and I can see the blood on her knees, and I'm sorry, but what is a girl doing aping around with those gorillas? They aren't even boys. They're men with man stink pouring out to the sidewalk. And Scotty sitting on the park bench watching his sweetie getting knocked down by those men. But she got all those scars on her legs. Scotty don't see those scars or he likes all that. Maybe she don't wear a skirt to spare us from seeing those scabby legs. That can't be pretty. But she got Scotty.

I couldn't have a boyfriend that pretty. I mean, Scotty's
too
pretty. Where would people focus when they see us
together? That's why they hang masterpieces apart, so people can appreciate each one. But hey. Dominique never looks concerned and Scotty's sticking with his ape girl. His boy-girl. His eighteen-wheeler rig.

He is still too pretty.

Silent
mwack
to Scotty.

Y
OU CAN FEEL IT UP
and down A, B, and C. Girl fight. Girl fight. No one's talking about it but the buzz is there, like the gray wall tiles are there. It's in everyone's eyes. Eager, like how you feel standing outside a party where they're playing the hot dance jam and you can't wait to get inside. Rocking hot excitement. Lotta bright eyes, lotta yeahs and unh-hms. Thick. Everywhere.

No one cares about guys fighting. That's, like, so what. You see that in the halls during bell change. But girl fights are something else. Girls don't show off their skills when they fight. They don't hold up their dukes and weave their heads side to side like cobras and come out quickstepping. Unlike two guys getting down, girls don't try to look pretty. You know what boxing is, right? Two guys dancing and ducking to see who can stay pretty longest.

Don't let me be in my room on Friday night during fight time. Don't let it be a pay-per-view match. Bernie confuses me with the son he never had and must share the boxing experience with his baby.
'Ticia, pretty, come watch this fight with your daddy.

Like I did when I could still sit on his lap. We're a long way from lap days but I'm still Daddy's baby girl. Sports don't thrill me one way or the other, but I need new clothes. My closet is stuffed with last year's rags and I like those skirts that came out this year—but the genuine article—not those Canal Street knockoffs. You think I'd be caught wearing fake shit? I'm a Big Girl. I can't wear nobody's fake shit. You know those factory workers packed in a basement are too hungry and delirious to concentrate on the stitching. The fabric and thread are cheap too. Can you imagine, I'm walking down B Corridor and
rrrip
! Talk about mad and embarrassed. My stuff out in the open. So no. I can't collect my weekly pennies from Bridgette and Bernie, hop the downtown train to Canal Street to push through the Chinese and whatnot to save a dollar on weak denim that'll split and show my Vicky Secrets to the world. You know Vickys don't cover it. Like I said, I'm a Big Girl. I gotta have my rags stitched right.

Anyway, I give in, sink into the leather next to Bernie, lean in like I care, but it's all the same Friday night fight to
me. Bernie's happy. He has his baby girl, the hi-def hookup, hot wings, and some beer. What more could he want on fight night?

Two guys in silk shorts and matching sneaker boots touch gloves at the center of the ring. They have pretty names like Sugar This, Pretty Boy That, not Don't Mess With Me, cause-I-will-take-these-ten-ounce-gloves-and-thump-your-head-deep-in-your-neck names. They spring back, dancing, showing each other their steps. The first two rounds their silk shorts bounce, sneakers shuffle, heads weave to connect and miss light taps to the air and almost to the rib cage, which the announcer calls the Sweet Science. By round three the gloves are heavy so out come the jabs. They pad a dow-two-three to the body, then
wooohm-wooohm
to the face, the eyes especially, to score that blood. The bell clangs, and Sugar dances to his corner, Pretty Boy to his, and I'm not even thinking about that hoochie in heels and bikini holding up the
ROUND
4 card. The cut man takes a razor to Sugar's puffed-shut lids so Sugar can see, while on the other side the corner man reaches into Pretty's mouth and yanks out that nasty mouthpiece so Pretty can spit blood into a bucket. Now remember: hi-def hookup in the living room. Blood, teeth, sweat coming through the screen. I have to wipe my cheek. Why anyone pays money to see this, I can't tell
you, but don't no one ask me if I work hard for my extra allowance. I fake pick a boxer to win and fake cheer for his red satin shorts. And if there's a main event, I stick around for that too. I earn my extra change—plus I throw in some love for Bernie. And if Daddy peels me off a bill or two—Daddy's not stupid, he knows I'm on the clock—then I worked hard. That's right. I earned those bills. I can go to Bloomie's or Macy's and try stuff on, and send the girl out on the floor to fetch me another skirt in my size. That's right. Let her work for a change.

You can say that it's not work watching a couple of guys in silk shorts dancing around showing off their skills, but I put in the time. I do the work. And the two guys are about showing off their skills.

Girl fights? Girl fights aren't hardly about showing off skills. Girl fights are ugly. Girl fights are personal.