Читать книгу If I Was Your Girl - Ni-Ni Simone - Страница 9

It was June and my room felt like a sweltering eighty degrees. My ceiling fan felt like it was doing nothing but making noise. Drops of sweat formed on my brow and my upper lip, and curled the edges of my flat ironed ’do.

I lay in the middle of my full-sized bed, my head underneath the pillow as the early morning sun rays covered my exhausted body. I had one arm swinging to the floor and the other thrown across my wide-awake, eight-month-old son, Noah, so he wouldn’t fall out the bed.

Honestly, I just wanted a moment to cry. My life was a mess and all I kept thinking about was making things right with Quamir, even though I was the one who’d been mistreated.

Like, I knew he was dogging me. I wasn’t blind; I could see what he was doing to me. But so much of me felt like I was driven to stalk him, go through his things; listen to his voicemails, and anything else that continued to prove that he was no good.

“Easy-greasy,” my sixty-year-old Cousin Shake yelled, scaring me out of my misery. He banged on my bedroom door, causing it to vibrate. “If you gon’ slide down the pole with the hoochies at night, then you got to get up and catch the bus with the freaks in the mornin’.”

I promise you I couldn’t stand him. I wiped the tears from my eyes, marched over to the door and snatched it open.

“What, you wanna do somethin’?” He pushed up on me, then pretended to be holding himself back. “Don’t hold me back. Please don’t hold me back.” I sucked my teeth. Every day he put on a show at my door. He skipped in place and the rainbow striped biking shorts he had on, with the loose jock (that he refused to let anyone explain to him went on the inside of his pants) bopped up and down along the middle of his thighs. And the four tires he had around his stomach all smacked each other like tuba beats, while his too-tight muscle shirt crept up his chest, scaring the hell outta me. Immediately, I started to scream and slammed the door in his face.

“Thought you ain’t wanna do nothin’!” he said sounding as if he were trying to slither into my door crack. “Now get yo’ azz up and get ready for work fo’ I bust you upside the head.” And just when I thought he was gone, he pounded on the door again.

“Yes!” I snapped.

“I cooked you some grits, they on the table.”

“Thank you.” I smiled. This was the only part I loved about his over-the-top ritual. “You love me, don’t you, Cousin Shake?”

“You know I do. Now get dressed for work, fo’ somebody gets hurt.”

After I showered, I laid out my work uniform: a black hair net, white short sleeve shirt with IHOP stitched on the collar, a tight fitting black skirt, and a pair of throwback Pumas.

I walked into the kitchen with Noah, to prepare his bottles before I went to work.

“Hey Nana’s man,” my mother said as she took the baby from my hands and pointed to the clock. “Why are you still home? Haven’t you gotten into enough trouble being late?”

I ignored that comment, especially since she worked her work schedule around mine, so that she could babysit (which was the only time I felt like she ever helped me out). I took a deep breath. “Good morning, ma.”

Her eyes glanced at the clock. “It’s close to being a good afternoon.”

It was only ten o’clock in the morning. “I was up late last night.” I tried to watch my tone.

“Of course you were. Crying over a no-good dog is hard work.”

“Whatever,” I mumbled.

“Yeah whatever, all I know is you better not come up in here without no job, because you chose to run the streets, and don’t think that just because I don’t see I don’t hear.”

Here we go…

“Alright Grier,” Cousin Shake huffed his way into the kitchen. “I already done put it on her, she don’t need no more.”

To keep from snapping, I thought about humming, but since she was already wired and seemed to be looking for a reason to let me have it, I didn’t hum.

“I know that’s right,” my mother said, shifting the baby from one hip to the other, “’bout time you learned to be quiet. I’ll tell you this though. I’m tired of you and this Quamir nonsense. If you got to chase a man around in the street then—news flash, Toi—he doesn’t want you.”

That comment was a clear indication that my sister’s been running her mouth…again.

“Oh,” my mother continued on, “I spoke to my friend Phyllis, the caseworker at the welfare office, and she said they have a new program for teenage mothers in high school where they will pay for the daycare. I want you to go down there soon and apply.”

“Okay ma.” I just wanted to shut her up. “I will.”

“I hope you didn’t answer that quickly just to shut me up.”

This was a no-win situation, so I simply said, “Bye,” as I left out the room, heading for the bus stop.