Kitty-Kitty, Bang-Bang (28 page)

Chanel is here wit’ me—my real family. Masked and suited up, she is cryin’ wit’ me. She’s the only bitch who knows and understands me. “Ohmiiiigod, Kat, look at ’im. He is soooo tiny.”

I don’t speak. I can’t. There are no fuckin’ words in me. E’erything ’round me is one big blurry mess from tears. And when the nurse finally takes ’im from me, I feel myself ’bout to collapse. I am shocked at myself. Surprised that I am feelin’ the way I do—overwhelmed. That I have all’a these emotions wrapped up in me. That I am a snotty-nosed mess behind all’a this. He will be placed in an incubator, and be under ultraviolet light. I watch ’em place a lil’ mask ova his eyes. Watch ’em place a trach tube down into his lil’ lungs, then connect it to a machine so he can breathe. I watch ’em stick a catheter into his umbilical cord so they can pump ’im wit’ fluids and drugs. He is pinched ’n pricked ’n probed and it tears a bitch’s heart to see this. I’m exhausted and emotionally drained. But I can’t stop cryin’. The doctor is sayin’ shit to me, but I ain’t hearin’ it all.

“…He will be in the NICU…the next few weeks are the most critical…”

I tell ’em I gotta leave. Tell ’em I can’t deal wit’ this right now. Tell ’em I’ll be back later. Chanel follows behind me, wrappin’ ’er arm ’round me. She swipes tears from ’er own face wit’ ’er other hand.

“I’m here for you, girl.”

“I know you are,” I tell ’er, squeezin’ ’round ’er waist.

“Kat, you can’t let them take ’im; you gotta step up and take that lil’ baby. He’s so precious and tiny. Ohmiiiigod, you gotta, girl.” I don’t say shit; just break down, sobbin’. She hugs me, rubbin’ my back. “It’s gonna be aiiiight. I know you scared, girl. But I got ya back. We can do this. It’s whateva, ho. You know how we do. You hear me?”

I nod. Hold onto ’er tighter, catchin’ Elise lookin’ ova in our direction. She says sumthin’ to Patrice ’n my grandmother, then walks ova toward us. “This bitch,” I mumble.

Chanel whispers in my ear, “Be nice, Kat. Keep it cute.”

Elise reaches out to console me, but I pull away. I don’t want the bitch touchin’ me. And I ain’t beat to hear what comes outta ’er cunt muncha. I look ova to the left of me and peep Patrice huggin’ my grandmother. The poor thing is all broken up. And so she should be.

“Kat, we’re family. Whateva shit you think we’ve done to you, right now we gotta let that shit go. We gotta work it through. I know you’re hurt. We’re all hurt. But this shit, this bullshit-ass feud, has gotta stop. I lost two sistas, back to back. And now there’s a baby that’s gonna need all of us.”

I blink. Finally look the ho in the face.

“I know you’re angry at ya moms, but she loved you. And she did the best she could wit’ what she had.”

“Please. Get. Away from me.”

The bitch keeps standin’ here. “I know you’re hurtin’ that the two of you couldn’t rebuild ya relationship, but—”

I tilt my head. I catch Chanel’s eye. She raises ’er brow. Gives me a “girl-don’t-do-it look.”
Ohmiiiiigod…this dizzy bitch thinks these tears are ’cause I’m grievin’.

“But nuthin’. Me and Juanita neva had a relationship, so there wasn’t one to try ’n repair. Get ya facts straight.”

She clenches ’er teeth. “You know what, Kat, I’m really tryna be civil wit’ ya ass. But, you really pushin’ it. I know you goin’ through a buncha shit so I’m givin’ you a pass.”

Chanel starts pullin’ me by the arm. “C’mon, girl, keep this shit cute; let’s go.”

For once, I think before I speak. I don’t call ’er a buncha bitches and low-budget hoes like I want. “Elise, be clear. You ain’t givin’ me a pass to shit. So hop, lil’ froggy, and get dropped. ’Cause you can get it just like ya crackhead sista did; trust.”

“Elise, c’mon, girl,” Patrice calls out. “Don’t get into no situations wit’ that crazy-ass chick, not tonight. We need’a get Momma outta here. Don’t worry; she got it comin’ to ’er.”

I snap my neck in ’er direction. “And who’s gonna bring it to me? You? ’Cause I know you ain’t crazy enough to think that this”—I flick my thumb over at Elise—“this chick is gonna serve it.”

Elise turns ’er attention back to me. “Bitch, don’t sleep. As soon as we bury my sista, I’ma see you.”

I eye the bitch. “Oh, really. Well, let me tell you this. You betta keep a ’xtra hole dug ’cause da day you raise up on me will be da day ya mammy will be tossin’ ya ass in it next to ya dead-ass sistas.”

She raises a hand to swing off but I catch it, pushin’ ’er back into the window. “Biiiitch!” she yells, causin’ a bigga scene than necessary. Fuck tryna keep it cute. A bitch is ready bring it to this ho’s head.

“Stop it! Both of you,” my grandmother snaps. “I will not have this. Elise, leave that hateful devil child alone.”

I raise my hands up and pointin’ at ’er like their guns. “Granny, boom,” I say, makin’ poppin’ gestures at the air as if I’ma shoot ’er the fuck up.

She stops in ’er tracks. “Elise, let’s go,” she says. “
Esta puta es loco
.”

I force myself to laugh. “Yeah, I’ma crazy bitch. And
whaaaat
? Stay da fuck away from me. All’a you.”

I’m surprised Patrice isn’t tryna set it off. I guess the bitch is too distraught to bring it. Elise says some extra shit still tryna make it pop ’bout not lettin’ me get away wit’ disrespectin’ ’er mother. My grandmother yanks ’er by arm, and the bitch still keeps poppin’ shit.

“You lucky ya grandmother’s here. She saved you from a beat-down. But, bitch, be clear, I’ma jump on that ass so fast you won’t know what da fuck hit you.”

Instead of escalatin’ the shit, I straight spin-off on them bitches. Bottom line, my mind is made up. If the bitch comes at me on any kinda shit, I’ma push ’er fronts all the way to the back, then I’ma be makin’ that call for anotha clean-up crew. And a bitch don’t have’a problem tossin’ Cash’s freak-nasty ass another pair’a panties to make this ho go away—permanently.

L
ATER THAT NIGHT, ME AND CHANEL ARE SITTIN’ UP AT ’ER SPOT
, blazin’ ’n tossin’ back a bottle of Moscato while listenin’ to Eric Roberson. As usual Devine is out grindin’ and Chanel is sittin’ here schemin’ on how she can get ’er creep on. “Do you know if Allstar got any niggas on his squad I might wanna chill wit’?”

I shrug, frownin’. “Bitch, how da fuck I know?”

“Well, da next time you talk to ’im, ask.”

“Ho, I ain’t askin’ ’im shit. You already gotta man. So be happy wit’ what you got.”
She rolls ’er eyes. “Bitch, pass me da damn blunt.” I laugh. “Annnnway, wassup up wit’ ya’ll any-damn-way?”

“Trick, why is you always askin’ me wassup wit’ me ’n that nigga? Ain’t shit up. I keep tellin’ you we chillin’; that’s it.”

“Does he know ’bout the baby?”

This bitch has had’a ’nough smoke for one night, I think, starin’ ’er ass down. I kick my shoes off, then curl up on ’er sofa. “What’s there for his ass to know? I keep tellin’ you da nigga ain’t my man, ho.”

She flicks ’er wrist, dismissin’ me. “Yeah, whateva. I don’t know why you keep frontin’; you know you diggin’ da nigga. Face it.”

“Okay, ho, you got me…busted. Guilty as charged. And?”

“And give da nigga some rhythm.”

“That nigga gets all the rhythm I’ma give.”

She pours us both ’nother round. “Kat, be real. What da fuck you afraid of?”

I buck my eyes open. “Afraid? Who said anything ’bout bein’ afraid?”

She stares at me. “Aren’t you?”

“Hell no.”
Bitch, shut ya lyin’ ass up. Keep shit real.
I toss back my glass, gulp down my nerves.

“Bitch, you lyin’.”

I huff. “Aiight, damn, ho. I hate ya ass; for real, for real. Real shit. I don’t eva wanna end up like Juanita. All fucked up ova a muhfucka. I saw what that ho went through. Saw what she was. All broke down ’n pitiful ’n desperate. I don’t wanna be that kinda bitch, you know. Cryin’ ’n fightin’ ova a nigga.”

“Girl, not you. That’s not even ya steelo. You too damn strong-willed to let a nigga do you sideways.”

“Yeah, you right. But some’a the strongest bitches have been broken down gettin’ too caught up wit’ a muhfucka.”

“Kat, that ain’t you.”

“Still, the shit haunts a bitch.”

“Girl, puhleeze. Don’t let that keep you from gettin’ close to a nigga you feelin’. Shake that shit off.” She looks at me. “You eva think ’bout how you mighta turned out if ya moms was a different kinda woman, or if ya pops was in ya life?”

I shake my head. “No, what for? Fantasizin’ ’bout shit that is already done can’t change shit for me. Juanita was a dick junkie, and my pops is a career criminal. I’m kinda thinkin’ that’s how shit was ’posed to be. But, it’s not shit I’m tryna live. It’s not how I wanna be. And it’s damn sure not what I wanna become.”

She twists ’er lips. “I feel you. Do you think they gonna eva find that nigga who did that shit to ya moms?” she asks, fillin’ our glasses to the rim wit’ more wine.

Hopefully not before I do.
“Who knows. All I know, that nigga needs to get served, lovely. I want that muthafucka’s head on’a platter wit’ his dick stuffed in his mouth.”

“I feel you, girl. I know you don’t wanna hear it. But what that nigga did to ya moms is mad crazy. And now there’s a beautiful lil’ baby wit’ no parents.”

What that nigga did is a blessin’ in disguise,
I think, gulpin’ down the last drop of wine in my glass. Chanel asks if I want more. I tell ’er no. Tell ’er I ain’t for beat any more’a that fruity-tooty shit. Tell ’er to spark up ’notha blunt. We change up the subject and start talkin’ ’bout takin’ a trip to either Italy or France.”

“Shit,” I say, takin’ the blunt from ’er. “We can do both. We young, fly, butta bitches who can do whateva da fuck we want.”

She laughs. “Hell yeah, Boo. We two siiiiick bitches doin’ it up. Oh, wait…you sponsorin’ me, right?”

I bust out laughin’. “Ho, I can’t stand nuthin’ yo broke ass stands for. You know Divine got you.”

She laughs wit’ me. “Bitch, you know Divine ain’t gonna give me ’nough paper to live it up. His cheap ass’ll only give me few bullshit gees, then ’pect me to stretch it out for da whole time we gone.”

“Well, if ya cheatin’ ass started suckin’ ’n fuckin’ top-dolla niggas instead of them nickel ’n dime muhfuckas you be chasin’, you’d have ya paper up.”

She rolls ’er eyes. “Whateva, tramp. Pass me da damn blunt.”

We go back ’n forth for a few rounds, draggin’ each otha for filth, laughin’ and whatnot ’til Eric Roberson’s joint “Dealing” starts playin’. Wit’out any thought, we shut the fuck up and go into our own lil’ zones, bobbin’ and puffin’. I’m sure ’er horny ass is imaginin’ ’im wit’ them big, juicy lips swallowin’ up ’er titties. I’m stuck in mine, wonderin’ if I should give the nigga Alex a go, or cut the nigga off now ’fore shit gets too hectic.

T
WO DAYS LATER
, C
HANEL IS BACK UP AT THE HOSPITAL WIT’ ME
. I just finished talkin’ to the doctor ’bout the baby’s progress. And so far he’s doin’ good. The doctor is optimistic he’ll make it through this. But, for now, he is still in ICU. And on some real shit, a bitch can’t stand seein’ ’im and all them otha lil’ babies in incubators wit’ all kinda tubes comin’ outta ’im. They are so tiny ’n fragile. The shit is really fuckin’ my nerves. I stare at ’im. Feel myself gettin’ all choked up.

What am I gonna do?

Bitch, you was poppin’ mad shit ’bout ’im goin’ into foster care. ’Bout you not bein’ beat. Now ya confused-ass standin’ here switchin’ it up. Ho, make ya mind up.

My mind is made up. I can’t let these muhfuckas take ’im. I can’t do it.

“Oh, bitch, puhleeze. And you think you can raise ’im? Get real.

“Do you have any idea what you wanna name ’im?” Chanel asks, cuttin’ through my thoughts.

“Huh?

“Hello, hello? Anybody home? I asked whadaya gonna name ’im?”

“Fuck if I know. All this shit is new to me.” On some real shit, I really haven’t thought the shit all the way through. It feels like shit is movin’ type-fast for a bitch. I’m torn…okay, okay, and fuckin’ scared to death. I don’t know the first thing ’bout carin’ for a baby. Shit, who knows if it’s sumthin’ I even got in me. All I know is, from the moment I laid eyes on that lil’ boy, he’s been on my brain, heavy. And I can’t turn my back on ’im.

“Well, you need to think of sumthin’, soon. We can’t keep callin’ ’im ‘baby’. Our lil’ man needs a name. I’m gonna start lookin’ through some baby books for a name.”

I grin. “Oh, he’s
our
lil’ man, huh?”

“Damn straight ’cause you know I ain’t tryna stretch my snatch all outta shape tryna pump no babies outta it. So we gotta share ’im.”

I laugh. “Girlfriend, as much mileage that kat-box of yours got on it, it really ain’t gonna be that much stretchin’ goin’ on. You real loosey-goosey wit’ yours, boo. All you gotta do is squat down low and a baby’ll drop right out wit’ ya big-pussy self.”

She laughs. “Whateva, tramp. Shut ya cum-trap and come up wit’ a name for our baby. And da shit gotta be fly.”

I laugh wit’ ’er. “Yeah, you right. I don’t—”

“Umm, ’scuse me. Are you Miss Rivera?” I turn in the direction of the voice. There are two chicks—one black, the otha white—standin’ wit’ notepads. The black chick is the one talkin’ to me. She has a real strong face, mannish-like. And ’er short blonde ’fro ain’t helpin’ matters. I look ’er up ’n down. Take in ’er
cheesy makeup job. The ho got on foundation that is two shades lighter than ’er neck wit’ a buncha eyeliner ’round ’er eyes. She’s a makeup artist’s nightmare. I glance down at ’er footwear.
Cheesy patent-leather heels; mmmph, a Payless booga.

“Who wants to know?”

“I’m Samantha Hillinger-Brown, and this is my colleague, Dana Movella.” I glance at the white chick. The first thing I peep are a pair of white seashell earrings danglin’ from ’er lobes. She’s all dolled up in ’er Sunday best; a purple dress wit’ large white polka dots. All the bitch needs is a pair of white gloves and a Bible. “We’re with Child Protective Services.” She extends ’er hand. I glance at it, raisin’ my brow. She quickly puts it down.

“And?”

“We’re here on the matter of Baby Rivera.”

Okay, now a bitch’s radar kicks up a notch. “What’a ’bout ’im?”