Texts from Bennett (16 page)

However, the nineteen-year-old version of her had on hoop earrings that were the size of a baby’s head. She had a white wifebeater layered overtop a white tank top undershirt, both with homemade slits cut about five inches down the front, intentionally exposing her cleavage. She had long, fake gold necklaces dangling down to her stomach, and a belly-button ring with a cloudy cubic zirconia stud reflecting violet shades of sunlight off it. Her jean shorts constricted her juicy, corn-fed thighs and were cut so high that the inner pockets were exposed, hanging lower than the bottom of the shorts themselves. She had on shiny, bright-yellow platform heels that were obviously made of Tupperware or plastic or some other cheap material that only strippers seemed to know about.

Those were the shoes I saw in the basement. If I’d noticed they were plastic, I would have
known
they weren’t Harper’s.

Her hair was tightly pulled back, and she had about three full cans of hair spray hardening and adhering her side locks to her cheeks. She had on a liberal amount of concealer and eye shadow, and her lips had a blackish outline lightly drawn around them to accentuate the sparkling brown lipstick she was wearing. Her acrylic nails were plastered with a dark-red background, various white dots, and thin white lines. From a distance, it seemed that she had domino designs on her fingernails. Her fake eyelashes were unnaturally long. They looked like wings more than eyelashes. She was obnoxiously chewing a piece of gum, blowing bubbles, and nodding her head in agreement to whatever rant Tallulah was midair with when I interrupted them.

“Girl, I know! I love cats. They’re so pretty!” Mercedes exclaimed, looking at me and winking. “Not as pretty as you though, T.” She rubbed her fingers through a thatch of Tallulah’s bleached hair like they were best friends.

“Wow, thanks, Sarah. I appreciate that. You’re basically like . . . so much prettier though, your shoes are so cute,” Tallulah replied. “It’s so cool that you found my house through the missing cat
flyer. I’m excited to work with you. This is my neighbor, Mac,” she said, pointing at me, while I walked up.

“What’s up, Mac?” Mercedes said, reaching for my hand.

“Yo, what? Dude, what the hell, Mercedes?” I said, drawing my hand into my armpit to avoid shaking. I was confused.

“Geez, Mac, rude much? This is Sarah, she’s going to help me rescue cats,” Tallulah said.

Before I even had a chance to process the peculiar fact that Tallulah was calling Mercedes “Sarah,” our future felon withdrew her hand from the catsexual’s hair, took two steps back, firmly planted her heel spikes into the ground, squared her legs up inline with her shoulders, corkscrewed her upper half back forty-five degrees, tightened her legs to act as antennas probing the ground for kinetic energy, tensed her entire physique from the toes up, whiplashed her torso, applied the equation that momentum equals mass plus velocity, torqued her waist with a snap, and with a devastating right hook punched my neighbor square in the nose with terrifyingly perfect aim and flawless form. It sounded like a drunk, blind, fastly flying bald eagle smacking into the side of a barn.

Tallulah’s knees buckled under her, collapsing her body to the ground. Her nose began spouting blood from both nostrils. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head. She shriveled into a ball, screaming and squealing a cacophony of panicked expressions at the highest octave her vocal cords could register.

“Oggghhhhhhh! Sarah, where are you? Agggh! Sarah? Mac punched me! Call an ambulance!”

I didn’t make a peep. I was so shocked by what had happened that my ability to react was derailed and frozen in a trance. After nine or ten seconds, I snapped out of it, grabbed Mercedes, and pulled her away from Tallulah, throwing myself in between them.

“Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Stop punching her! What the fuck are you doing?!”

“I ain’t punchin’ that ho no more, dummy. Look at her. She’s a wrap.” Mercedes snarled and coolly walked away. “Woo! That’s better than sex! I gave that bitch the hand of God!”

She didn’t even have the courtesy to look at Tallulah,
the girl she’d just blindsided, who was on the ground, sobbing and bleeding uncontrollably. In fact, she instantly disconnected from it all and began typing a text message while walking across the street, as if nothing even happened.

Once she was completely across the street to my driveway, she yelled out, “Don’t ever try to fuck my man again, bitch!” then got into her Hyundai and sped off with Chamillionaire’s newest CD blasting from its half-busted stereo.

“Harper?! Baby?!”

Her name echoed and reverberated through the vacant hallways and staircases. No response.

I ran upstairs and scavenged through each of the rooms, unable to locate her. Finally, it occurred to me to check in the most obvious place: our master bedroom.

“Honey?” I said with confusion and curiosity. “Darling? Baby?”

“I’m in here.”

I heard a muffled voice in our walk-in closet. The door opened slowly, by itself.

“Is she gone?”

“Yeah, she’s gone. Are you all right—what are you doing in here, honey?”

Walking in, I saw she was hiding under a pile of coats and a couple of bathrobes.

“What am I doing in here?! Uh, hello? That psychotic, white-trash bitch threatened to kill me!” she snapped, throwing aside the clothes.

“What—she tried to kill you?”

“She told me she was going to! She was going through all our stuff! I was
so
scared!”

I knelt next to her, lightly putting the back of her neck into a
gentle Thai plum, wanting to make her—my precious, harmless girlfriend—feel safe.

“Baby, are you okay?”

“No. No!
No! I’m not okay! That was horrible!
” She pushed my arms off her.

“Oh my God, baby, I’m
so
sorry. I’m here. I’m right here. Nothing will happen to you.”

She was trembling.

“That girl is so scary. She ran in here and threatened to beat me up! I was so scared! I was so scared!” Tears were swelling from her eyes. “Make them leave—make them fucking leave!”

“Shhhh. Okay. They’re gone,” I said. I tried hugging her, but she constricted her muscles and stiffened her bones, so it was an awkward, one-sided embrace.

“Shhh. Shhhh. They’re leaving right now. Okay? They’re outta here,” I assured her. “Calm down. Relax. It’s okay. Shhh,” I said.

I wasn’t fucking around anymore. I didn’t care if they had to sleep in a motel for the rest of their lives. The line had been crossed. Harper, a woman who couldn’t hurt a person if her life depended on it, was scared shitless, in my home—in
our
home.

I walked outside to find Bennett so I could bring him in to discuss it in front of the entire family. He hadn’t even made it to the house yet.

I looked across the street. I’d helped Tallulah to a sitting position to catch her bearings while I ran inside, but now she was gone. A puddle of blood appeared to have accumulated on her driveway where she’d fallen. The neighborhood was quiet. You could hear wind chimes and the white noise of distant traffic a few miles away. I sat down on my front porch. The last hour had gone by so fastly and strangely that sitting down made me realize how out of breath I was. I needed a second to gather my thoughts.

At the house across the street and one to the right, a garage door opened. Out of the cavernous, dark pit of a garage emerged Jean Paul and his bicycle. His gorgeous African mother, Mariam, soon followed.

“ ’Allo, Mac!” he said, in his British-like accent, while waving.

“Hey, Jean Paul!” I replied. “Ridin’ your bike, dude?”

“Yes!” He looked very focused on keeping his balance. “Look at this wheely, Mac!” he yelled before popping the bike’s front tire, no more than three inches off the ground, for no more than a single second.

“Ohhhh! Very good!” I said. Being anything but supportive when it came to Jean Paul meant your heart was on a milk carton.

Mariam began speaking to Jean Paul, but it was inaudible from where I was sitting. He dismounted from his bike and went to speak to her up close.

From somewhere nearby, a muffled subwoofer started rattling. Seconds later, the music having grown clearer and louder, Mercedes’s Hyundai sailed over the hill, scraping its belly on the hill’s curvy peak before its worn-down brake pads screeched against its rusty rotors, grinding it to a stop in front of my house. Mercedes and Bennett both got out of the car. Bennett, yelling at her, was holding a medium-size object in his hands as they approached where I was sitting.

“Fuckin’ crackhead bitch. Always trying to get me in trouble. What the fuck is wrong with you?” Bennett quipped.

“Oh shut up, pussy. You know half a dis shit is yo’ mothafuckin’ fault, okay?” Mercedes replied.

They stopped square in front of me. Bennett stared Mercedes dead with a side glance, but she was unphased and obnoxiously chewed her gum to prove that exact point.

“Well? You plan on saying something, you fuckin’ dirtball ass hoe?” Bennett said.

“Slow down, Bennett. I’ll shove my fist up yo skinny ass and pull yo mothafuckin’ lunch out. Don’t talk to me like I ain’t your pimp, because I is! I’mma bust yo’ nose open like that Tostito bitch across the street, ya keep talkin’ dat shit. Don’t even act like I ain’t beat yo’ ass before, lil’ nigga. Don’t.”

Bennett shook his head and handed me what appeared to be a DVD player.

“This is yours. Mercedes stole it,” he said as I took it from his hands.

“Huh? You stole my DVD player?” I asked Mercedes, befuddled.

“Wait, mothafucka, you told me this was a Blu-ray player or
whatever and that it wouldn’t play my DVDs!” Mercedes erupted at Bennett.

“Yeah, I lied. You don’t take shit that don’t belong to you, dumbass. I had to tell you something so you’d bring it back.”

“Damn, Bennett! You fuckin’ hatin’ ass lil’ bitch!” Mercedes said, absolute disgust in her eyes as she eyeballed him. “So I could play my Madea DVDs in that thing this whole time?” She fumed with injustice.

“Yeah, skank, you can play normal DVDs in a Blu-ray player. You just can’t play Blu-rays in a normal DVD player. I learnt that shit when I worked at Walmart. Stupid, get a job and sophistimicate your life,” Bennett said.

They began calling each other names and yelling over each other. It was unintelligible.

“Wait! Wait! Wait! I’m confused. You
stole
my DVD player?” I asked again, with growing rage.

“First off, bitch nigga, it ain’t a DVD player. It’s a Blu-ray player. Second of all, does it look like I stole it? You holding it ain’t you?” Mercedes barked, without hesitation.

“How the fuck does that matter? You still stole it!” I said.

“I ain’t steal shit. You holding it in your hands, ain’t you? Well, calm down, bitch ass nigga.” Mercedes raised her left eyebrow, sizing me up from head to toe.

“If you took it from my house, that means you—”

“Dat ain’t even da worsest part,” Bennett interrupted. “Give him the other thing. Now. I never hit a bitch before but I swear on East Avalon Crip, I’ll bust your whole melon open if you don’t give my cousin his shit back. Bitch, I swear on the six-pointed star.
Give it back to him!
”

Whoa, Bennett was dead serious. But what was he talking about?

“Sadie, give him his shit back! I ain’t tryin’ to get kicked out of the house because you fucked up. You my girl, but this nigga is my family.
Give it back!
” he spat.

Mercedes shoved Bennett’s head back, knocking him, and herself, off balance momentarily. Once she was resituated, she reached into
her pocket and pulled out a watch with green and red stripes. I focused closely on it. It was the $2,500 Gucci watch that I bought Harper as a moving-in present. I felt sick.

“
You stole my girl’s Gucci watch?!
” I yelled, snatching it out of her hand.

“Again, you fuckin’ stupid mothafuckas. I didn’t
steal
a Got damn thing. I just
tried
to steal it. You got it back didn’t cha? Well all right then. Let’s go get some food,” Mercedes snipped.

“You stupid bitch! You stupid fucking piece of trash! How dare you?
How dare you?
” I yelled. “Get the fuck off my porch. Now. Go!” I screamed. “You’re banned from my house. Go wait for Bennett in your car, you fucking moron.”

“Fuck you, homo. I gave it back didn’t I? You should give me a reward for it or somethin’—”

“Mercedes, get yo ho ass off this man’s property and wait in the damn car,” Bennett said, shoving his nose in her face.

“You ain’t comin’?” was all she said to him.

“
Go!
” he snapped.

She marched across the grass to her car, her posterior jiggling . . . defiantly?

As she passed Jean Paul, who was parked on his bike at the edge of my driveway, watching the entire time, she stopped and studied him for a few seconds. I began to prepare myself to tackle her in case she tried to mess with him.

“You cute!” she finally said in a jubilant tone, alleviating the suspense of the moment. “Damn, I love black kids. So mothafuckin’ beautiful,” she said, opening her car door.

Before she got in her car, she elevated herself on her tiptoes, gazing at Bennett and me over its roof. She lifted both hands, flipped us off, and plopped down into the driver’s seat. She then lit a cigarette and rolled her car windows down.

Fucking Mercedes.

Little Jean Paul had only known this neighborhood to be Norman Rockwellian and enamored with him, so it must have been strange to see us all so angry. Still, he didn’t seem too bothered by it and before I knew it, he’d ridden a few houses up the block talking to Ralph, an old, retired, gray-haired cop. Ralph sprayed a hose at Jean Paul, who was giggling as he tried to evade the mist.