Читать книгу Not A Good Look - Nikki Carter - Страница 10

“I wish my whole life was a fantasy / keep waiting for someone to wake me.”

—Sunday Tolliver

I open my eyes and wake up to the same thing I wake up to every morning. Chaos.

“Manny, you better not sleep in my bed again, with your Peabody behind.”

I snicker into my pillow. Dreya and Aunt Charlie call Manny “Mr. Peabody” whenever he wets the bed. If you ask me, it’s mean, but I don’t get into their immediate-family drama.

“Sunday, where are your gold hoop earrings? I need them for my outfit.”

Why is it that none of Dreya’s outfits are complete without borrowing something of mine? My gold hoops don’t even go with what she has on—layered tank tops with a short leather jacket, skinny jeans, and black leather ankle boots. She looks like a biker chick, and biker chicks should be rocking chains—not my earrings.

“I don’t know where they are.”

That was a total lie. I know exactly where my real 18-karat gold earrings are. The ones I got from my ex-boyfriend, Romell, on my sixteenth birthday. The ones I hardly ever take off. They are in a box under my pillow.

Wanna know where they’re not going? In Dreya’s multi-pierced ears.

Dreya sucks her teeth and runs her hand through her short hair. “You’re such a liar.”

Once upon a time Dreya used to have long, thick hair like me, but she decided that it would look better if one side was shaved. The unshaved part has blond tips and is styled in an unruly roller set. She thinks it looks hawt…I guess as long as she likes it, that’s the most important thing.

“Sunday, get up and get ready for school!”

My mother is standing in the doorway, wearing her postal uniform, somehow managing to make the plain blue and gray pants and shirt look fly. Her hands are on her hips as if she’s going to do something other than yell to get me out of bed.

“Is Aunt Charlie still in the shower? Because if she is, I can sleep for ten more minutes.”

“Yeah, my mommy is still in the shower, and what?” Manny says while standing at the foot of my bed wearing only his pajama top.

How’s he gonna have an attitude problem and still be peeing in the bed?

I throw a pillow at him. He’s always trying to have his mama or his sister’s back when they’re the ones always spanking his little behind.

My mother sucks her teeth and grabs the bottom of my blanket, trying to pull it away.

“She’ll be out in a minute, Sunday. Get on up and get your stuff together because Carlos needs to get in there, too.”

It makes no sense that the two people in this house who have absolutely nothing to do all day would need to be in my way when it’s time to get dressed. Aunt Charlie isn’t even thinking about a job, and none of Carlos’s business associates are up this early. I use the term business associates loosely because, on the real, don’t you have to be making money from something for it to be called business?

Other than his failure to generate income, Carlos is cool people. Out of all the boyfriends my mom has kicked it with, he’s the best one. He makes my mother laugh, and he doesn’t try to act like my daddy. Every now and then we’ll play a video game or two on Xbox and chill.

My mother sees my eyes roll and says, “Sunday, I know what you’re thinking. Carlos has a stock-options-trading class this morning. My baby is about to get into the stocks and bonds market.”

I roll my eyes again and throw myself out of the bed. Carlos always has something going that’s about to take off. Two months ago, it was a check-cashing store, six months ago it was a Laundromat that had a bunch of half-broken washing machines and dryers. Needless to say, it didn’t pan out. And until one of his ideas makes him some money, he’s gonna be my mother’s boyfriend and not her husband. She claims she’s not marrying him until he can take care of us.

I’m waiting to see if that’s gonna happen. It wouldn’t be a bad thing at all because, like I said, Carlos is good people. But I’m not holding my breath, or getting my hopes up.

As soon as I hear the water in the shower shut off and the bathroom door open, I dash in with all my Bath & Body Works toiletries and my outfit. Before all these people moved up in our crib, I could leave my stuff in the bathroom. Not so, anymore. Aunt Charlie and Dreya used up a whole bottle of Sweet Pea lotion in one day. What do you know? The water is cold. It’s okay, though, because I love taking cold showers in the fall. Sarcasm in full effect.

Strands from Aunt Charlie’s platinum blond yaki weave are all over the shower curtain and clogging up the drain, causing the chilly water to rise up around my feet. I let out a long sigh and wash myself quickly, because I really am running late.

After I’m dressed in a bebe tee and Apple Bottoms jeans, I slick my hair into a bun with a long, curly side bang in the front. My gold hoop earrings and grape lip gloss complete the look. Yes, my gold hoop earrings.

When I finally emerge from the bathroom, my best friend, Bethany, is in the living room harmonizing with Dreya on a song that I wrote. I should say that they are attempting to harmonize, because Dreya doesn’t harmonize. She can sing the mess out of a solo, but getting her voice to blend with other voices is a pretty tough task.

Bethany must be able to tell that there’s something not right about their vocals because she twirls her thick, brown cornrows between her fingers. Nobody likes to tell Dreya she hit a wrong note, especially not Bethany. She looks away from Dreya and slides her hand over the words on her baby tee and into her snug jeans pocket.

Bethany is cool as what. We’ve been girls since elementary school. We have the occasional beef, but she’s a down type chick, and she can sing.

Even if she competes with me over boys.

Dreya, Bethany, and I are a girl singing group called Daddy’s Little Girls. The name was Dreya’s idea, and since I do write all the songs, the least I could do was let her name the group.

“You’re flat, Dreya,” I say, as my cousin tries unsuccessfully to hit another string of notes.

Dreya puts her hand on her hip and gives me the stank attitude look. “Hi, hater. You’re just mad because my runs are off the chain.”

“I don’t know about off the chain, but they are off. Actually, every time you do a run, you go flat. You’ve got to learn better voice control, Dreya. When was the last time you sang scales?”

“Whatever, Sunday. Who made you vocal instructor? Oh, and I see you conveniently found your earrings,” Dreya says as she flicks one of my earrings with her hand.

I reply, “Imagine that.”

Bethany laughs. “As if she’d ever lose them. Her boo gave her those.”

“Romell is not my boo,” I protest.

“Yes, he is,” Bethany teases.

“No. Romell is a cheater. And that’s why you look like Ice-T’s wife, Coco, with them cornrows to the back.”

Clearly, I’m trying to deflect attention away from the conversation about cheater Romell and onto Bethany’s hip-hop look. Although I just clowned her, the cornrows actually suit her dainty, pretty face, pulling her wide eyes into slants that make her dark eyelashes even more striking. Glitter lip gloss completes her look.

Bethany giggles. “I love it when you get all angry, Sunday. Anyway, Coco’s boobs are bigger than mine.”

“Are we rehearsing after school or what?” Dreya asks as she grabs her backpack. “Truth is outside.”

“Yeah, because y’all most definitely need it,” I reply.

Carlos chuckles from the kitchen.

“What are you laughing at?” Dreya asks.

“You could use a lil’ work, Dreya,” Carlos replies. With his thick Puerto Rican accent, he almost rolls the r in Dreya’s name.

“Ugh. Why don’t you just make your pancakes?” Dreya says with attitude.

The fact that Dreya and Carlos don’t get along makes him even cooler in my book. He laughs her off and flips a plate-sized pancake on the skillet.

My mother storms up the hallway from her bedroom. She looks really mad about something as she snatches her keys and purse and walks toward the door.

Carlos calls from the kitchen, “You not gonna say ’bye or wish me luck on my class?”

Maybe after dating my mother for two years, Carlos still can’t read her moods. But I wasn’t even about to trip about her leaving without a word, because I can tell she’s heated about something. I’d help a brotha out, but I ain’t trying to get in my mama’s warpath.

She spins around with fire in her eyes. “Carlos, you really need to check your baby mama.”

He blows breath through his lips in an irritated-sounding whistle. “Did LaKeisha call you again? What did she want?”

“The same thing she always wants, Carlos. Money. She said your son needs some new sneakers.”

Carlos sighs. “Okay. I’ll call her back.”

“When you talk to her, tell her to lose my number.”

Carlos walks over to my mother and pulls her into a hug. “I’m so sorry, Shawn. I’ll handle it.”

Just like that her anger melts away and the fire leaves her eyes. Carlos’s got some serious skills, because I thought she was going to flip out on him.

My mom looks at the three of us girls all up in their business. She narrows her eyes at Carlos, like she wants to say more but doesn’t want to say it in front of us.

“I’m going to work, Carlos. We’ll talk about it when I get home.”

My mom slams the door as she leaves and Carlos goes back to fixing his breakfast.

“Come on, Bethany,” I say. “This is too much drama this early in the morning.”

Bethany, Dreya, and I walk outside. Me and Bethany are on our way to the bus stop, but Dreya’s grown, nineteen-year-old boyfriend, Truth, is waiting for her in his tricked-out Impala. You would think they’d offer us a ride since we’re all going to the same school, but nope—they’re not even cool like that.

As Bethany and I start down the street, my cell phone rings. “Hello.”

“Sunday, it’s Dreya.”

I whip my head around to see if they’re still parked in front of the house, but they’ve already pulled off.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“I can’t practice after school because I’m going to the studio with Truth. He’s almost done with his album and he wants me there for inspiration.”

“All right then. Me and Bethany will practice without you.”

Bethany looks at me with questions in her eyes as I press End on my phone.

“What?” she asks.

“Dreya’s not practicing after school.”

“What’s new? She hardly ever practices—that’s why she sounds a mess.”

“I know. We’re never gonna get a record deal, messing around with her.”

“You’re going to college anyway. It’s not like you’ll be able to go to school and be a star.”

“If we get a record deal between now and the time we graduate, I can help my mom pay my college bills.”

“Or you could not go to school,” Bethany says. “Then we could kick it hard on the red carpets and go on tour and…”

This is the part where I tune Bethany out. Truth is, I don’t really want to be a star. I want to be rich, not famous. And as far as being an artist is concerned, I want to write songs. I couldn’t care less about being a performer.

But it seems like the way to make all that happen is with a girl group. Here in ATL there are so many retired and semiretired R & B stars looking for the next group to manage or sign. We’ve been approached by more than one bootleg producer, but I refuse to go out like that.

“Maybe we should ask Dreya if we can come to the studio tonight. You never know what might happen,” Bethany says.

“You can ask her. She’ll tell me no.”

The bus stop is packed, as usual, because everybody is too lazy to walk to school and it’s starting to get chilly. October is hit-or-miss down here in the A. It’s either warm and sunny or chilly and rainy. Since it’s a week away from November, we’re getting some of the latter.

I see my ex-boyfriend, Romell, chilling with some of his boys, and butterflies dance in the pit of my stomach. As much as I can’t stand him anymore, I still have to admit that he’s fine. He’s deep, dark chocolate with a pretty smile. His cornrows to the back look good on him, too. But I wonder which new chick put them in for him. His playa tendencies are what made me sideline our teenage love affair.

“Look at your boy,” Bethany whispers.

“I ain’t thinking about him.”

“Then why you still rocking those earrings?”

“Maybe because they’re the only piece of jewelry I own that doesn’t come from Claire’s.”

Bethany grins at me like she knows something that I don’t. “Whatever, Sunday. You still dig Romell.”

I shake my head and click on my iPod. I let the smooth vocals of Chrisette Michele drown out the noise. This girl can blow, for real. Not like these pop princess divas who need Auto-Tune to make a record. My eyes close and my head bobs as I let the music take me to another place where cheating ex-boyfriends don’t reside.

Bethany taps me on my shoulder, snapping me out of my trance. “The bus is here.”

I nod and follow the rest of the group to the bus. I just listened to a sad song, and it’s sticking with me right now. Music does that to me. I can listen to a Jay-Z track and get pumped about my career, or listen to a Biggie track and have to dance no matter what. Seriously, can you hear “Hypnotize” in the club and not get up and dance? That’s for real.

Bethany usually sits with me on the bus, but today it’s packed and we have to split up. I end up sitting in front of Romell, and next to someone who’s on their way to work. It would be nice if our school had actual school buses. They just give us bus tickets and expect us to share the public transportation with all the grown people who don’t have cars.

I get ready to flick my iPod back on, when Romell leans forward and whispers, “You looking real nice today, Sunday. When’re we getting back together?”

Part of me wants to smile because he appreciates my look, but the other part wants to dead that noise because he played me.

“Romell, I’m not getting back with you. You know what it is.”

He chuckles, “‘You da you da best / you da you da best.’”

“You can sing all the Drake songs you want, Romell. It’s not gonna work. I’m never getting back with you.”

“Never?” Romell replies with a laugh. “How you gon’ challenge me like that and think I’m not gonna accept?”

A challenge? Wow, I don’t even know how he got a challenge out of I’m never getting back with you. That’s crazy.

“Romell, ain’t nobody trying to challenge you. Go holla at Chantelle. She’s the one you with now, right? She braid your hair?”

“You like my hair, baby? Thank you, but Chantelle is just for playing—you know that. You’re the one I wanna be with.”

“Yeah, well, won’t Chantelle do whatever you want?”

“She’s too easy and I’m a man, baby. I like to hunt for my food.”

I roll my eyes, flick on my iPod, and hope that Romell can’t see the tiny smile on my lips. Yeah, he’s a cheater and all, but dang, he’s wearing that swagger like Roca-wear cologne.

Wait, did I say I was over him? Well, I am, but a girl can still appreciate fineness. I’m just sayin’.