Street Divas (10 page)

“I'm your
great
-auntie. I'm your grandmother's sister.”

Christopher twists up his face with disbelief while fat tears skip down his face. “I want my momma,” he whines.

I ain't gonna lie—something in my chest starts hurting and I look away.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

“Who in the fuck is that now?” Python hisses.

“I don't know.” I storm back toward the front door.

“Who is it?!”

“MEMPHIS POLICE!”

C
urled into a ball at the foot of the bed and still dressed in my prom dress, I feel like a zombie. I didn't sleep a wink last night. It ain't every fucking day that someone finds their best friend after they'd been brutally raped and beaten and trying to hoof it home in a bloody silk robe and barefooted. Shit. I still can't believe last night happened, just like I can't believe that Drey and I didn't get Ta'Shara to a hospital. Instead, we dropped her off on her doorstep like an unwanted baby.

How could I fucking do that to my own best friend?

What makes it worse is that I know Ta'Shara would have never done no fucked-up shit like that to me. But no matter how many times I review the shit in my mind, I can't see what I could've done differently. If those fucking Vice Lords were mobbin' that goddamn deep outside an emergency room, I got to believe that it was because one of their own was up in there, and in my and Drey's paranoid minds, we concluded that someone had to be Profit.

If not, then where in the fuck is he? He has to be dead. I can't believe for a second that he would've allowed his girl to be raped and beaten the way she was when he still drew breath. He loves her too much for that shit to go down like that. Profit is cool, even if he is a grimy Vice Lord.

“GD and VL don't mix,” I moan, burying my head into my hands. But how many times had I told Ta'Shara that shit? Too damn many to count, if I want to be real with it. So why is this shit hitting
me
like it's such a fucking surprise?

I rest my head on my knees and start rocking back and forth.
What am I supposed to do now?
Should I call or should I drive over to the Douglas's?

Maybe I should do nothing, mind my own business. It ain't like niggas don't die every day, sticking their noses in shit where it don't belong. I agree with myself to stay out of it, but two seconds later, I'm dying to pick up the phone. But if I call, it might raise suspicions. What if I drive over and pretend that I was dropping by to talk about the prom last night?

That might work.

Then again, I don't know if I'm a good enough actress to pretend that I don't know what happened to Ta'Shara last night. Fuck. What if I start crying before I even ask to see if she's home?

“Goddamn it, T. Why didn't you stay away from him?” My throat squeezes tight and I nearly choke on a sob.

My door explodes open, and my older sister, Cleo, in all her ghetto glory charges into the room and dives into the lower bunk bed that we've been sharing for far too damn long. Her boyfriend must've just dropped her off because she's wearing the same clothes that she left out of here in last night.

I sniff and wipe away the last of my tears.

Cleo pops her head above her pillow. “What the hell is the matter with you?”

“Nothing,” I lie, and struggle to pull myself out of bed. Maybe I can hide in the shower before—

“Essence! Essence.” My five-year-old lil brother, Jamie, runs into the room. “Nana said for you to fix us some breakfast!”

Behind him comes my six-year-old cousin, Kay, who has one half of her hair braided while the other half is sticking up all over her head. “I want some waffles!”

Jamie turns around and pushes her. “No! I want pancakes!”

Goddamn it. I don't feel like dealing with this shit.
“Cleo?”

“Don't look at me.” She plops over and then buries her head underneath the pillow.

“Thanks a fucking lot.” Cursing and rolling my eyes, I climb out of bed and stomp my way up to the kitchen so I can feed these brats like they are my kids. When I pass the living room and see two of my brothers and their girlfriends lying around, I get even more heated. All these niggas around and none of them can feed these kids? But sure enough, when I start cooking, here they come.

“What are you cooking?” Kobe asks, reaching over and pinching off a piece of bacon.

I slap his hand away and bark, “None of your business. Now go on.”

He laughs and steals an even bigger piece. “What? You must be mad because that nigga Drey didn't spring for no hotel room last night. I told you his ass was cheap. Muthafucka be bitching and complaining about the prices on the ninety-nine-cent menu at McDonald's.”

Any other time, that shit would have cracked me up, but right now I just want his ass to leave me alone.

“Damn, E. Don't pout. I'm sure there's other niggas out here in the jungle. You'll get laid one of these days.”

“Ha-ha.” I flip his Katt Williams wannabe ass the bird.

“I know your girl got plenty of dick last night.”

I stop cold. “What the fuck are you talkin' about?”

“Ta'Shara. That's your girl's name, right?”

He steals another strip of bacon, but this time I snatch it out of his hand. “Yeah. And?”

Kobe shrugs. “
And
I heard she got busted into the set last night. Her sister sanctioned the shit—even took those big niggas, Treasure and Mario, to do the honors.”

“What?” I feel sick.

“Some other niggas got the honors, too. I wish that bitch would've called me. Your girl got a thick ass. Fo real.” He chuckles as he chews on his bacon.

I pop him dead in the mouth.

“What the fuck?!”

“You sick muthafucka!” I wail on him, landing punches on his head, mouth, and even his right eye. “That's my fuckin' friend, you stupid fuck!”

Kobe throws up his hands and tries to cover his face while backing out of the kitchen. “Chill, E! Damn!”

Nobody comes to his defense. Those lazy niggas on the couch do what they always do first thing in the morning. Light up, blaze, and watch the action. When I'm tired of beating his stupid ass, I run to the bathroom and just barely make it in time to dry-heave over the toilet.

Treasure and Mario?
I know those nasty niggas
very
well. They're enforcers. When Python or McGriff say do, they do without question. Most of the time they like to get their hands wet when they do their blood work. I have no trouble picturing them making those brutal bruises all over Ta'Shara's body and that crude GD carved into her ass. How the fuck could LeShelle do something like that to her own sister? Does blood mean nothing to that bitch? The Gangster Disciples and Queen Gs are my fam, too, but my blood, trifling and nerve-riding they may be, still trumps all this street shit.

My stomach clenches again and I shove my head closer to the toilet water, but again nothing comes out.

“Is your ass drunk or some shit?” Cleo barks, appearing in the doorway. “You left bacon burning in the kitchen. What if the muthafuckin' house caught on fire?”

I pull my head back up and crawl over to the door and slam it in her face.

“Well, fuck you, then.” Pause. “Are you coming to feed these kids or not?”

I roll my eyes. Let her ass figure it out. I'm tired of these muthafuckas acting like they can't do shit. I peel out of my clothes, shower, and then rush to put on something clean. Hell, the ends of my hair are still wet when I race toward the front door, and niggas are still bitching and lying around in the room.

“Where the fuck are you going?” Kobe shouts.

I slam the door so hard that I'm surprised the muthafucka doesn't break in half. Once I hop into my old, hand-me-down '89 Ford Escort, I pray real hard that the muthafucka starts up.

It doesn't.

“C'mon. C'mon. Don't do this to me,” I beg. “I swear, I'll take you in for a tune-up, wash you—anything you want, just please, please start.” I turn the ignition; it hesitates but finally starts up. “Thank you, baby. Thank you.” I peel away from the curb with a small white cloud puffing out of my tailpipe. During the ride to the Douglas's, I practice what I'm going to say and how I'm going to say it, but when I pull into the driveway, I can't remember a single sentence.

There's a car there, but not one that I recognize.

Climbing out from behind the wheel, I suck in a nervous breath. However, it isn't enough to stop the hot tears burning the backs of my eyes.
Ring the doorbell or knock?
That one question trips me up for another full minute, so I decide to do both.

The ten-second wait feels more like an hour, and when the door cracks open, it's this older, silver-haired woman. It isn't until my eyes meet hers that I see a little of Tracee Douglas in her sad, kind eyes.

“Can I help you, young lady?”

My mouth goes dry and my tongue feels like it's ten inches thick. “Um, yes. Is Ta-Ta'Shara here?”

Instantly, the older woman's eyes tear up. “I'm sorry. Not at the moment. Are you a friend of hers?”

I nod as my throat locks and my vision blurs.

The woman opens the door farther and then steps up to the threshold and touches my arm. “Do you know anything about what happened last night?”

I try to jerk my gaze away, but her large brown eyes are like a supermagnet and I just can't. “N-no. I . . . heard some rumors,” I lie, and then hope that she isn't able to read me like I think she can.

“Yes. Well . . . I'm sorry . . . um . . . Ta'Shara and her parents are still down at the hospital right now.”

“Which one?”

“I don't know if it's a good idea that you go down there.”

The knots in my stomach tighten, and I fear that she's about to turn me away. “Please. I need to see her.” Against my will, a tear skips down my face and I see that it's enough to soften her resolve.

“The Med,” she confesses while her hand moves from my arm to grip my hand. “If you go, you should know that Ta'Shara may be . . . different.”

I know.
“Okay . . . thank you.” I pull my hand away and then rush back to my car. This time it spares me the stress of pretending like it's not going to turn over. Once again, I'm racing back over to the hospital. It's frustrating because my ass catches every red light and manages to pull up behind every senior citizen putt-putting along.

I remain a bundle of nerves the entire time I park and get Ta'Shara's room number. The first thing I hear when I approach the room is a woman crying and then a man trying to calm her down.

“It's going to be all right, Tracee,” a broken male voice comforts.

“How is it going to be all right? Did you see what those monsters did to her?” she cries. “How can anything
ever
be all right again? She's dead.”

My heart drops as I stop outside the door.
Dead?

“She's dead inside,” Tracee moans. “You can just look into her eyes and see that there's nobody in there.”

“Shhhh. It's going to be okay.”

Slowly my heart starts pounding again.
She's not dead. She's not dead.

I'm so entangled with my own thoughts that I don't hear the footsteps coming up from behind me, but suddenly, a hand locks around my arm and starts dragging me away from the door. I turn around to bark, “Hey!”

But my protests shut down.

“We need to fuckin' talk,” Lucifer announces, and drags my ass to God knows where.

“W
here in the hell are you taking me?” this little girl squeaks while I drag her down another hospital hallway.

When I ignore her, her body starts trembling like she's suffering from some epileptic seizure. I ignore that, too. Mainly because muthafuckas tend to start shutting down when they think or realize that death is around the corner.

I hit an exit door that leads us outside and then shove her through it. Once I ram her tiny ass up against the back of the building, I unsheathe my Browning hunting knife and plant it against her throat.

Her eyes bug, but she don't say shit as my sharp blade bites into her skin.

“I got your attention?”

“Y-yes.”

“Good.” I fake a smile. “Now, I'm going to ask you a few fuckin' questions, and I'd appreciate if you just answer them and not waste my time by spitting out lies or testing my patience—mainly because I don't have any. Understand?”

She swallows, and as a result, her soft skin presses against my knife and a thin drop of blood rolls over the jagged blade and then drips to the concrete like a single, red pearl drop.

“Good.” I cock my head. “How was the prom last night . . . Essence, isn't it?”

She whimpers.

“That good, huh? Get laid?”

More whimpering.

“Probably weren't in the mood after all that . . . shooting and raping and shit . . . right?”

“Oh God,” Essence whines.

“No. Lucifer, honey.” I press the knife a little harder and watch a few more blood pearls drip to the concrete.

“No—What? Shit. You got it all wrong.”

“I do?” I cock my head to the side and watch the fear expand in her eyes. “What part did I get wrong? The shooting or the raping?”

“I didn't have shit to do with any of that.”

“So it wasn't you and your boy
Drey
who dropped Ta'Shara off all beaten and battered at her parents' crib last night?”

“Fuck. H-how—”

I press my knife deeper and watch the pearls turn into a rivulet. “No patience, remember?”

“Drey and I didn't have anything to do with the shooting. We found my girl walking in my neighborhood with hardly any clothes on and acting crazy and shit,” she confesses. “Drey had to knock her out just to get her into the car so we could take her to the hospital—but when we saw you and some other Vice Lords, we got spooked and decided to take her to her parents' place. I swear. T is my best friend and shit. I wouldn't do anything to hurt her. You gotta believe me.”

Fat tears roll down homegirl's face at a fucking serious clip. Since I have a good bullshit detector, I have no problem believing this bitch. I ease my blade back an inch. The girl's shoulders droop in relief, but our eyes remain locked.

“Where you stay at?” When she hesitates, I return the pressure on the knife.

“On Woodfield.”

“Near Shotgun Row?”

She bobs her head.

“You a Queen G?”

She sucks in a breath and then bravely nods again.

My lips twitch. “Is your girl Ta'Shara a Queen G? Did she set Profit up?”

“Not by choice,” she whispers faintly. “She got branded last night.”

“Who sanctioned that shit last night?” I press.

Essence shakes her head. “I don't know.”

“You don't know?” I repeat, smirking.

The lil girl shakes her head.

I close my eyes and tell myself to count to ten, but I only make it to two. “That better be the one and only lie you tell me.” I open my eyes and our gazes lock again. “Who?”

The girl goes back to trembling so bad that the knife is easily slicing her soft neck. “I ain't no snitch.”

“Do I look like the muthafuckin' po-po to you?” I tilt my head to the other side while she takes a moment to reassess her situation. “Look around.”

The girl's doe eyes dart all around the back of the building.

“Either you start talking or this here is going to be your fuckin' resting place until someone starts complaining about the stench back here being so bad they have to come out and investigate. I'd imagine by then a few rats would've done a good number on those big damn eyes you got staring at me. Your skin will be a kind of bluish green color. Your internal gases will bloat your face up, and your bowels will probably empty out of you in one long shit stream. Not a good look.” I have to admit, fucking with this young girl's head is like torturing the neighborhood stray cat. It's kind of fun. “So who was it?” I press.

Tears leap over the girl's lashes while I watch her digest how fucked up her situation really is. If she is hoping for sympathy, she's staring at the wrong bitch. And frankly I ain't going to stand my ass out here too much longer before I slice her shit and go about finding this information out through other means and channels. In these fuckin' streets, a snitch ain't that hard to find.

Then ever so slowly, this tiny bitch starts tilting her chin up. A small vein pulses against her jawline as she grinds her back teeth together. She's trying to prepare herself to meet death with whatever courage she has left.

Before I know it, a smile hooks one side of my mouth while I cock my head. “You got heart. Is that what you're trying to show me?”

She doesn't say anything, but she's still trembling like a muthafuckin' leaf.

“Yeah.” I bob my head and ease the pressure off the knife a little bit. “You got heart. I can dig that shit.”

The girl's shoulders relax again.

“Doesn't mean that I'm going to let you walk your small monkey ass up out of this back alley, but I can give you kudos for it. I'm used to bitches snitching when they get scared, especially Queen Gs and their fake-gangsta asses. The only damn thing they ride hard is those kiddie dicks those grimy GD muthafuckas think they got sagging.”

Essence's jaw twitches again.

“What? You got something to say?” I challenge.

She swallows and damn near starts choking on that little bit of courage she's trying to gather up.

Yeah. It's too damn easy fuckin' with this bitch.
“Check it. Your heart is misplaced in this scenario.” I come at her from a different angle. “You claim that girl in there is your best friend, but you'd rather taste steel than get her some street justice? You'd rather let the niggas who dug her out get away with giving her a few broken ribs, a collapsed lung, a broken jaw, and whatever petri dishes of diseases they probably had? Let's not even talk about how fucked up her mind is right now. You'd be lucky if she even knows who the fuck you are if she pulls through this shit.”

More tears race down the girl's face.

I go in for more. “But I guess that's okay with you, because that's the kind of
friend
you are. You let shit slide.”

Essence shakes her head.

“If I had a friend like you, I'd slice my own damn throat.”

“It could've been anybody,” the girl says. “The whole damn school didn't like them flaunting their shit in front of them like they did at the prom. GD and Vice don't mix. I
told
Ta'Shara to leave Profit's ass alone. A lot of people told both of them. Now I gotta put my neck on the line and become a snitch? How the fuck is that fair?”

My jaw twitches. “Bitch, my name ain't Oprah. I don't want to hear your silly-ass problems.”

Essence whimpers.

“Now, this is the last time I'm going to tell you: give me a fuckin' name.”