Chasing Butterflies (21 page)

Authors: Amir Abrams

BOOK: Chasing Butterflies

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O
mar walks into the living room from the back of the apartment, wearing a white, ribbed um—what is it they call those tank tops?

Wifebeater, I think.

Yeah, that’s it.

He’s wearing one of those, and it clings to his muscled chest, showing off his numerous tattoos.

“Yo, baby girl. You eat yet?”

Baby girl.

Ugh.

I wish he’d stop calling me that. “I’m not really hungry.”

“No, she ain’t eat,” Keyonna answers for me. “She’s too busy layin’ ’round here, waitin’ for someone to feed her behind like she royalty or some mess. Ain’t nobody over here playin’
Master Chef.
”

Omar frowns at her. “Well, maybe if you tried masterin’ the kitchen, you’d have a man ’n’ ya own spot.”

“Really, O? That’s how we doin’ it? You really tryna go there, huh? Says the nucca fresh outta prison.
Mmph
. Don’t do me, boo-boo.”

He sucks his teeth. “Man, shut ya trap up, yo. You always runnin’ ya mouf ’bout nothin’.”

She grunts, snatching open the bag and pulling out the pack of cigarettes.

No, wait.

Cigars.

No, no,
blunts
.

That’s what I meant.

Blunts.

Lord, help me. I know not the difference between the two. So forgive me if I call them the wrong thing around here.

Ugh.

Cigarettes, cigars, blunts: they all smell horrible, if you ask me.

Omar looks over at me. Asks what I want to eat. I tell him I’m not hungry.

Keyonna grunts. “
Mmph
. What, you on a diet now?”

No. I’m just not ever eating out of that nasty kitchen.

I shake my head. Tell her
no
.

Omar pins her with a hard stare. Then he frowns as she takes her knife and slices open a cigar.

“Yo,
whatdafuq
. I know you ain’t even ’bout to do
that
now.”

She huffs, stuffing it with marijuana then rolling it. “Do
what
?
Smoke
?”

“Don’t play stupid, yo.”

She lights the cigar.

“I ain’t playin’ stupid. You the one playin’ dumb, askin’ me some mess like that. You
know
what time it is,
nucca
.” She laughs. “Don’t front.”

I blink.

So he smokes, too.

Keyonna takes a deep drag off her blunt, smoke curling around her head as it floats to the ceiling.

Omar gives her a hard stare.

“What, boo? You mad or
nah
? You better c’mon ’n’ get you some of this good-good.”

“Yo, you trippin’, man.”

She takes another pull from her blunt. “Boy, bye.” She points her cigar at Omar and blows smoke in his direction. “You sure you don’t want some?”

He grunts. “Nah. I’m good.”

She shrugs. “Good. More for me.” She takes another pull, then pulls it from her mouth and stares at its glowing ember as she slowly exhales and draws smoke into her nose.

I watch her with a mixture of fascination and disgust.

“Mmph. I don’t even know why you tryna put on a show in front of her. We was just smokin’ three nights ago. Now all of a sudden, you
good
.”

I glance over at Omar.

He furrows his brows and sucks his teeth, shaking his head. “This broad,” he mutters. “Yo, c’mon, baby girl. Let’s go get sumthin’ to eat.”

“Ooh, boo,” Keyonna says sweetly, “if you ’n’ ‘baby girl’ goin’ to that Caribbean spot downtown bring me back some jerk wings.”

* * *

Well, we don’t make it downtown to the Caribbean restaurant Keyonna was hoping for. Instead, we’re at a soul food restaurant; something I’m really not that into.

Fried, fatty foods slopped with gravy and heavy sauces just don’t do it for me.

But okay.

We’re here.

Together.

Me.

And Omar.

Yippee.

Anyway. We caught a taxi to the train station, then rode the train into, uh, I can’t remember the town.

I ask Omar where we are again. Downtown Newark, he tells me.

Not that it matters. I’m lost, no matter where we are.

But, anyway, from the train station we caught another taxi to the restaurant.

So here we sit.

Across from each other.

And I’m eyeing Omar as he sucks meat juice off the bone of an oxtail.

Yuck.

He eats fast and furious and smacks while he eats.

How insane is that?

But for some reason, I’m not the least bit embarrassed sitting here watching him eat like Conan the Barbarian.

It’s almost amusing.

Still, I want to ask him why he gobbles up his food like he’s rushing off to a race and it’s his last meal.

But I decide against it.

Not my business.

Still, I’m curious to know.

He licks his fingers, then his lips, before taking a sip of his drink. “So, how you gettin’ along wit’ Quita?”

Umm. I’m not.
“Okay, I guess.” I pick at my small plate of garden salad.

“Cool, cool.” He picks up another oxtail. And slurps on it. Then looks up at me. Grease and meat juicy coats his lips. “You ’n’ her been kickin’ it?”

Define kicking it? I shake my head. “Not really. But she told me you bribed her with the promise of a new pocketbook if she dragged me along with her.”

He frowns, furrowing his brows. “Yo, word is bond. Quita’s full of BS, yo. I ain’t tell her no
shi
—mess like that. She asked me to cop that joint for her on the strength.”

“It really doesn’t matter. I was just surprised when she said it.”

I take a sip of my cranberry juice.

“Yo, don’t listen to that girl. She likes to keep a buncha mess goin’, like her moms.”

Yeah, I see. “Oh,” I say.

He looks at me and grins. I try not to stare at the meat stuck between his two front teeth. “Yo, don’t front like you ain’t peeped it, too.”

I shrug. “Sort of.” I don’t trust him to say more than that.

After all, blood is thicker than water.

The ties that bind them run deep.

He may embrace me as his, um . . .

I swallow.

Fight to bring myself to finish the sentence.

To say the words.

But I can’t.

I am not what he believes I am.

I am not what he wants me to be.

I feel no kinship to him.

He sighs. “Quita’s a . . .” He pauses, shaking his head.

Liar.

“. . . piece of work; for real for real. She’s got mad issues. Her moms just lets her run the streets ’n’ do whatever she wants. So she’s not used to dealin’ wit’ people. Her mouth’s real slick.”

No kidding.

He eyes me. “Yo, on e’erything. Don’t let Quita bully you; real ish. If you gotta check ’er, then check ’er. Otherwise she’s gonna stay poppin’ off at the mouth; you feel me?”

I shrug one shoulder. “I guess. Fighting isn’t really my thing, though,” I say. Truth is, I’ve only had one fight my whole entire life, and I cried every day for almost a week after that. I was in seventh grade and this eight grader kept taunting me, pushing me around, until one day I’d had enough of her and punched her in the mouth.

The scary thing is, I kept punching her over and over until there was blood everywhere, and the poor girl was almost passed out.

I was suspended for a whole week. Not because I defended myself from her bullying me, but because I’d beaten her up really, really bad and her parents were all up in arms about it.

What else was I supposed to do?

I’d colored within the lines. Followed the rules. Told the teachers. Told the principal. Daddy had even come to the school and had a big meeting with the girl and her parents. And,
still
, she kept taunting me every chance she got.

“Well, sometimes you gotta go wit’ the hands to show a mofo what time it is,” Omar says, steamrolling over the memory, “otherwise they’re gonna keep testin’ you, nah’mean?”

He wipes his mouth with a napkin, then his hands.

He belches.

Loud.

Doesn’t even cover his mouth.

I frown.

“Yo, my bad.”

Our server comes back to refill his orange juice. I can’t remember what she said her name was, so I glance at her name tag.
Alani.

Nice name, I think.

Her pierced eyebrow rises at the sight of my barely touched salad. “Umm. Is the salad okay? Can I get you something else?”

“It’s okay.” I force a smile. “I’m not really that hungry.” She asks if I want a refill on my cranberry juice. I shake my head. “No, thanks.”

She eyes Omar, clearly interested in him, judging by the way her gaze glides over him. He grins at her. And she smiles back. Then swishes her hips a few shakes harder than she had before coming over here.

He waits until she’s out of earshot, then says, “She’s gonna knock a few dollars off the bill; word is bond.”

I give him a puzzled look. “Why would she do that?”

His grin widens. “’Cause I still got it, baby girl.”

I stare at him.

Not knowing what it is he thinks he
still
has.

I hear Aunt Terri’s voice in my ear,
“Try to get to know him . . . give it a few weeks... I’ll send for you in a couple of weeks . . .”

Yeah, okay.

I glance at my watch.

Time is so not on my side right now.

Oh, how I wish I could click my heels three times and find my way home.

I’m so, so homesick.

“What you wanna do now? You wanna go check out a flick?” Omar asks, reaching for his drink.

Do we have to?
I shrug. “I guess.”

The waitress comes back, wanting to know if there’s anything else she can get us.

“Coffee?”

“Tea?”

“Or me?”

I imagine her saying this.

“Nah, we good, pretty,” Omar says, licking his lips.

She giggles like a love-struck schoolgirl. “Okay. I’ll bring you your bill in just a sec.”

“Cool,” he says eyeing her as she walks—no,
shakes
, off, before he turns his gaze back on me. “What you into? Action flicks? Comedy?”

Poetry. “Thrillers, mostly,” I say.

“Oh, word? Cool, cool. You wanna catch the new Morgan Freeman flick then?”

No. Not really.
“If you want.”

He smiles.

And something tugs at me.

I’m not sure what it is.

It makes me uncomfortable.

But not in a creepy, perverted kind of way.

It’s strange.

That’s the only way to describe it.

This feeling.

“So how you enjoyin’ ya’self so far?”

I shrug, reaching for my drink. I take a slow sip. Then I wipe my mouth and take another long sip. Yes. Stalling. “It’s okay. I guess. Different.” No. Horrible.

He eyes me as if he’s hoping for more.

I have nothing more to give him.

I hate it here.

The word
hate
is such a harsh word.

Detestation.

Abhorrence.

Loathing.

Okay, I have strong dislike.

Yeah, that’s it. I strongly dislike it here.

But I despise that Sha’Quita girl even more.

Detest her.

And, yet, I still attempt to take the high road every chance I get to keep some level of peace between us.

“Just okay, huh?” Omar says, slicing into my thoughts.

I swallow. “It’s nothing personal,” I say diplomatically. “I’m just homesick.”

“Oh, a’ight. But you think you might wanna live out here?”

I keep from frowning. Which part of
I’m homesick
didn’t he understand?

The
I’m
?

Or the
homesick
?

“Heck no! Never!” I hear myself shouting. But what comes out of my mouth is, “I really don’t think so.”

“Oh, nah?” he says, a tinge of disappointment resonating in his voice.

I shake my head. “It’s too fast here.” And dirty.

“Yeah,” he agrees, nodding, “it’s definitely fast-paced; you gotta know how’ta keep up. But you’ll get the hang of it if you stay.”

I sigh, feeling a wave of melancholy rush over me. The fact that I am here and not back home saddens me.

I shudder at my reality.

Omar eyes me, catching the movement. He seems to notice everything. “I know you miss ya home, baby girl. But this can be home for you, too. If you’d let it be.”

And then, just like that, I feel it coming. Tears. Hot and salty on my lower lids.

Oh, this is so not the place for a meltdown.

But my tears were threatening to spill over in any moment.

I bite into my quivering lip. Then I reach for a napkin and touch it to my eyes, hoping to cut my tears off before they pour out.

Omar stares at me, alarmed, reaching over and touching my hand. “Yo, I know this is hard for you. But you ain’t gotta go through it alone; a’ight? I got you.”

But I want Daddy.

Not him.

But he’s all you got,
I hear in my head.
Even Aunt Terri has abandoned me.

He’s all you have, Nia . . .

Sadly, this is good enough.

Not for me.

A
week has gone by since the night out at the restaurant with Omar. And I haven’t really seen him since. He comes in and out. Usually
in
by the time I’m already asleep. And
out
by the time I awake.

I get an occasional text asking if I’m
good
.

No, I’m not good.

I’m still here.

“So, how is it living with the convict?” Crystal wants to know. She and I are on FaceTime, playing catch-up. As close as I am to her, I feel like I’m a million miles away from her.

I roll my eyes. Scoot back on the bed I’ve been assigned to. Then lean back against the wall. I jerk forward, looking in back of me, up and down the wall.

No creepy crawlers.

But just in case, I lean forward, not letting my back touch the wall. “I’m
not
living with him. I’m
staying
with him for the summer.” If that’s what you want to call it, since he doesn’t technically have his own place. And he’s never here.

But, okay. The semantics aren’t really all that important.

“And he’s an
ex
-convict,” I add.

“Ohhhh, okay, touchy, I see. So how’s it going so far?”

Horrible. “It’s okay, I guess. It’s nothing like back in California. It’s . . .” I sigh. “It’s different.”

She narrows her eyes. “Uh-huh. And how’s that MoNeefa girl?”

MoNeefa? I stifle a laugh. “You mean Sha’Quita.”

“Yeah, her. Is she still acting trashy?”

“Acting?”
I giggle. “It’s what she is.”

She shakes her head. “Is she still bothering you?”

I sigh. “Depends on what side of the bed she rolls off of.”

She grunts. “
Mmph
. She sounds like she’s been raised on a cattle farm, the way you’ve described her.”

I let out a disgusted breath, glancing over on her side of the room. “More like a pigsty.”

“And,” she leans into the screen, her voice lowered to almost a whisper, “how’s it going with those cockroaches?”

I shudder in disgust, feeling my skin crawl. I glance back at the wall. “I go through a can of spray a day; just to keep them away.”

She laughs. “Hey, that rhymes. Please don’t come home writing poems about those nasty little scavengers.”

I frown. “Ugh. Not even.” I’ll most likely write about scavengers of the human kind, or not.

“Did you know there are about four thousand species of those little nasty buggers? And they have six legs. Two antennae. And some have wings? And they can actually live for weeks without their heads.
Weeks
, Nia! You could be among some headless cockroaches right now and not even know it. Be careful, Nia-pooh.”

Ohmygod! How random.

“No. I didn’t know that,” I say sarcastically. “Why don’t you tell me all about the plight of a headless cockroach. Please and thank you.”

“Well, since you insist,” she says. “Wait. Are you being sarcastic right now?”

“Um, yes,” I say, shaking my head. “You didn’t possibly think I was serious, did you?”

“Well, yes, Nia. I did. This is not the time for sarcasm. I’ve been reading up on those critters. And it sounds like a pandemic is happening over there in that apartment. And did you know that they’re filthy pests in the States, but are considered tasty treats in places like Cambodia.”

“Ohmygod! Are you serious right now? Like are you really going to spend our FaceTime talking to
me
about roaches? Huh?”

“Yes. I am. This is serous, Nia. And if you are going to be living among those disgusting little creatures, then you need to know they carry nasty bacteria on their bodies and can wreak havoc, causing all types of diseases to spread. And they can even be transported from place to—”

“Crystal, stop it! I don’t want to hear anything else about it. You’re making my stomach turn with your newfound fascination with—”

She cuts me off. “I’m not fascinated, Nia. I’m concerned.”

I narrow my eyes.

“Okay, okay. Maybe a little curious as to how my best friend is living among them.”

I frown, wishing I’d never told her about their roach problem. Okay, maybe it’s not a problem for them, since they seem okay living with them.

But it’s a problem for me.

Those things give me the creeps.

And I haven’t had a good night’s rest since I’ve been here, afraid I’d wake up to them in my bed, or crawling on me in the middle of the night.

Or worse.

Making a nest in my hair.

“Anyway,” she says, switching gears, “when are you moving to Georgia?”

I let out a frustrated breath. Aunt Terri still hasn’t returned any of my calls. I don’t know what is going on with her. I keep thinking that maybe something’s happened to her.

I hope not.

But the longer I don’t hear from her, the bleaker my future seems.

She’s my only chance at freedom from this hell.

“I don’t know,” I say sorrowfully. I swallow the lump in my throat. “I haven’t heard from my aunt.”

Crystal gasps. “Ohmygod, Nia! Not even a text?”

I sadly shake my head. “No.”

Her eyes widen. “Nia-pooh. Do you think she might be avoiding you?”

I close my eyes, willing back tears.

God, I hope that isn’t the case.

“Yes,”
I say, my voice in almost a painful whisper, before the first tear falls.