The Girl of His Dreams (2 page)

He groans. “I'm sure Coach is gonna kill us in practices. Oh, snap. I meant to ask you. What's good wit' that lil biscuit you snatched up last week at the mall, yo? She was lookin' right. She let you beat that thing-thing up, yet?”

“Nah, son. I told her I'm not tryna marry her, just test-drive that booty.”

He keeps laughin'. “Yo, I heard that. So what she say after that?”

“What
who
said after
what
?” I hear as I step up to my locker and start twirlin' the combination to my lock. It's Quanda, wearin' this tight-fittin', low-cut white shirt, a short plaid skirt, white knee-high stockin's and black heels, lookin' like a fake Catholic school girl. Her long weave, with short bangs, is hangin' down her back, brushin' the top of her butt cheeks. This broad stay frontin' like she's Indian.

“Yo, what's good, Quanda?” Cease says, pullin' open his locker. “How was ya summer?”

She rolls her eyes at him. “Don't speak to me, boy.” She turns her back to him, placin' a hand up on her hip as she leans her fine frame up against the bank of lockers.

Cease laughs, shakin' his head.

She shoots him a look. “Annnnyway, beat it!” Oh, and did I mention this broad's a loudmouth headache. And she loves drama—lots of it. But wit' a name like Quandaleesha why would I, or anyone else, expect anything less?

“A'ight, yo,” I say to Cease, stuffin' my book bag in my locker, then shuttin' the door. “I'll get at you durin' lunch period.”

“A'ight, bet,” he says, walkin' off.

Quanda's starin' at me, lookin' mad tight. “Why you unfriend and block me on Facebook?”

I sigh. “ 'Cause you be buggin', yo.”

She puts a hand up on her hip. “Oh, puhleeze. How am I buggin', boy? You the one buggin' for breakin' up with
me
.”

I suck my teeth, walkin' off toward my homeroom. “Yo, you can stand here and play stupid if you want, but I don't have time for this.”

“Well, you better make time, boo-boo,” she says, walkin' up behind me wit' a hand up on her hip, “ 'cause if you think you're gonna dump me and move on to the next chick, you got another think comin'. I already beat up one of your lil hoes at the rink last weekend. And you already know I have no problem doin' it again. Now that we back in school, you are not gonna be tryna play me with none of these hoes up in here. So go 'head and be up in some other chick's face and see what happens. You've been warned.”

“Yo, whatever,” I say, walkin' into homeroom just as the bell rings.

B
y fourth-period lunch, mad heads are talkin' 'bout this new biscuit, wit' the stacked cakes and light brown eyes, floatin' 'round the buildin'. They're goin' on and on 'bout her small waist and long, sexy legs, and monster booty, talkin' 'bout she's supermodel fine. I mean, these thirsty mofos are pumpin' her up to be some real live dime-piece that I have yet to lay my eyes on. So until I see it for myself, I ain't beat to believe the hype. I pull out my phone and hit Chantel real quick wit' a text tellin' her I wanna get at her after school. I slide my phone back down into my pocket.

“Yo, fam, word is bond,” Cease says, tryna convince me how bad she is as he's chompin' on sunflower seeds. “I'm tellin' you, yo. I don't know who she is, or where she came from, but I'm tryna find out, fast, ya heard?” He tells me she's in his third-period biology class. “Man, listen. Nobody could stop eyein' her. Even Mr. Greene wit' his old azz kept starin' at 'er.”

I laugh. Mr. Greene is like a hunnid years old. Well, not really. But he looks it. And his wife is mad young, like in her thirties or somethin'. She's like his fourth or fifth wife. And he already has three kids wit' her. But like eight or nine other kids wit' his other wives. Cease and I joke 'bout how he's old as dirt, and how he's old enough to be most of his kids' grandfather.

“That old dude stays snatchin' up chicks.”

“Yeah, man; even in them old-azzzz suits he stays rockin'. Mr. Greene's one of them old-school players for real, yo.”

It's just me 'n' Cease sittin' at the table right in the middle of the cafeteria so we can see who's comin' 'n' goin' and what's 'bout to pop off. By the end of the week, our table will be packed wit' all the popular heads at the school. And e'eryone else who wants to be in our space will be at the tables closest to ours. That's just how it is. The first two days of school peeps are just tryna get back into the groove, then it's block-party central up in this piece.

“Anyway, yo. Back to shorty. I'm tellin' you, fam, she's bad as hell.” He shakes his head, leanin' up in his seat. “Wait 'til you see her, fam.”

“She's probably hidin' what she really looks like under two coats of face paint. Chicks stay ODin' on makeup. They be havin' their faces three shades lighter than the rest of their bodies.”

He laughs. “Yo, you stupid, fam. You right, yo 'bout chicks packin' on all that face paste, but you dead wrong 'bout this one, son.”

“Nah, real rap, bruh. She's prolly some insecure, butt-ugly broad wit' crooked teeth who gotta wear a buncha war paint to cover up her battle scars.”

“Nah, fam. No makeup. No crooked teeth, from what I could tell. No nothin', just straight-up all natural. Real talk, son. She's hot like fire. I'm tellin' you, yo. Wait 'til you see her. Twenty bucks says you're gonna drool.”

“Oh, word? Ya cheap azz bettin', then I def gotta check for this broad 'cause we both know how tight you try holdin' on to ya paper.”

He starts laughin'. “Word up, fam. She's hot like that. First chance I get to holla at her, I'm goin' in for the kill. So, fall back, son. I got first dibs on that.”

“Yo, whatever, man. You already know what it is. If she's as fine as you say, it's e'ery playboy for himself.”

“Yo, that's what it is, then.”

“Well, she must be a freshman or sophomore,” I say, eyein' Quanda as she heads toward our table, “'cause she's not in this lunch period wit' us.” I shake my head, sighin'. “This broad,” I mumble under my breath, but Cease catches it.

“Who?” he asks, lookin' over his shoulder in her direction. “Aah, say no more. All I can say is I'm glad she's your headache and not mine. That girl's nuts, man. My peeps told me how she stalked the last dude she was effen wit'.”

I frown. “Mofo, fine time for you to tell me—
after
the fact.”

He laughs. “Yo, I ain't know, man. Word is bond. You said ya pops told you not to eff wit' her from the rip. But you did anyway.” He shrugs. “So I guess that's what you get for not listenin'.”

I cringe as she stops at one of the tables where six girls are sittin'—three of 'em are seniors; the other three are juniors. Only two of 'em are worth givin' second glances to. And of one 'em, I've already tapped up. So she's a no-go. I don't do repeats. Once I smash it, then dismiss it, there are no second chances. Goin' back, tryin' it again, ain't what I do. Quanda leans in, says somethin' to 'em, then points over in my direction. They all shift their gazes at me. I act like I don't peep it, shiftin' in my seat.

“Don't remind me, yo. Did you see that craziness she posted on my wall this mornin'?”

“Nah, man. I missed it. You know I ain't on the Book like that anymore. What she post this time?” I tell 'im, then tell 'im about this mornin' in the hall. He shakes his head. “Damn, son, you got that girl hooked.”

“Yeah, on stupid,” I say, feelin' myself gettin' heated. “She needs to get a life, quick. I hope she finds a hobby or somethin' 'cause, man, I ain't beat for her craziness all school year.”

He laughs, twistin' off the cap of his Sprite. “Yo, she already gotta hobby, son—
you!
” He places the bottle to his lips and gulps it down, then lets out a loud burp.

I frown, reachin' for his bag of sunflower seeds. “Whatever, yo. She needs to find another one, word is bond. I ain't beat. It's a wrap. First day of school and she's already at it tryna get some mess started. I swear she's a real bit . . .” My voice trails off as I spot this mad sexy shorty strut through the cafeteria doors, lookin' like she stepped off a video or magazine shoot. “Daaaaayum, who is that right there?”

Cease cranes his neck, then hops up, gettin' all amped. “Yo, son, that's the shorty I was tellin' you about. What I tell you, yo? She's hot to death. Check out that body, yo.”

I keep my eyes on her as she walks over toward the salad bar. She's this caramel-skinned cutie, rockin' some lil slinky black dress thingy that's wrapped 'round her body. She's definitely not from around here dressin' like that. Real rap. She's takin' hood fly to another level. I lick my lips.
Damn!
From what I can see, she got killer curves. The kind of body I wanna get up on and run my hands all over. My eyes zoom in on her juicy-apple bottom, and, no lie, I feel myself gettin' lightheaded. She's the truth! But I peep I ain't the only one checkin' this fine honey out. They all see what I see. She's that chick! Hands down, she got the whole cafeteria on pause. Kats are snappin' their necks to get a second look at her. Chicks are eyein' her, hard. Even Quanda does a double-take as she walks by, then gives her the evil eye. Oh yeah. Whoever she is, she's gonna be a real problem, fo' sho!

I keep my eyes on her as she struts her sexiness over to the cashier, her hair bouncin' 'n' swingin' past her shoulder blades. She tucks her hair behind her ears, then reaches into her bag and pays for her salad. As quickly as she appeared, she disappears out the cafeteria doors.

I almost wanna get up and run after her, but I'm not about to play myself like some thirsty mofo, especially when I can have any girl I want. Besides, I can already tell she's used to kats gettin' all up in her ear. I'ma just chill, and when the time is right, she'll be tryna holla at me. Just like the rest of 'em.

Cease has a big smirk on his face.

“What?” I say, frownin' at him.

He laughs, tossin' me two napkins. “I'm waitin' for you to wipe up the drool from ya lip 'n' chin, fam.”

I wave him on, shiftin' in my seat. “Man, go 'head wit' that dumbness. Ain't nobody droolin' over that broad. I mean. She's a'ight-lookin'. But she ain't nothin' to be gettin' all nutty over. You fiends were goin' in like she was a ten or somethin'.”

“Tone, man, cut it out, yo. You stylin' for real, son. That biscuit is fine so stop frontin'. She
is
a ten. Wait 'til you see her up close 'n' personal.”

I shrug. “From here, that body's right. But I couldn't really see her face.”

He keeps laughin'. “Yo, whatever. Save that bull. I peeped how your eyes almost popped outta ya skull the minute you spotted her. So you can front if you want. But I already know what it is.”

My boy was right. I was frontin', like crazy. He knows I can spot a beauty a mile away. And that lil sexy mama is the truth. I open the cap of my Vitaminwater, then take a swig. “Man, whatever,” I say, wipin' my mouth wit' the back of my hand. “Ain't nobody even thinkin' 'bout that broad like that.”

“Good,” he says, bitin' into his cheeseburger. He looks up at me and shakes his head as I guzzle down my drink. He talks 'n' chews. “Yo, you stay drinkin' that sugar water. You do know there's nuthin' healthy 'bout that drink, right? You keep drinkin' that mess and I'ma start callin' you Sweet T.”

“Yeah, a'ight, Meathead. And get ya chin checked. Ain't nuthin' sweet 'bout me, yo.”

He starts laughin'. “Ninja, you soft as cotton.” He lifts his right arm up and flexes his bicep. “You see this, son? Rock solid, bruh. And I hit hard.”

“Hahahaha. You mad funny, yo. But you already know what it is.” I pull out my phone as it vibrates. I glance at the screen. I have a new text. “Yo, Chantel just hit me up,” I say as I open her text message.

“Oh, word? What she talkin' 'bout?”

I laugh. “What you think, fool? She comin' through later.”

“Yo, what I tell you, son?” he says, givin' me dap. “I told you she was checkin' for you.”

“Man, she ain't really my flavor, but I'ma give her a mouthful of this log.”

He cracks up laughin'. “Yo, fam, you wild. That broad's mad freaky, bruh.”

“Man, listen. I'm only givin' her what she wants. And I always aim to please.”

I text back: come 2 my crib after skool

Five minutes later, she texts back: wat x?

I shake my head.
That dumb broad
. I text: wtf, yo?! Don't play. Wat time u think? RIGHT after skool, yo!!!

I slip my phone back into my pocket. These broads stay playin' stupid.

O
oh , the haterade is on full-blast! All around me, hoes whisper as I strut by in my wears—a black knit jersey dress and black, six-inch strappy heels. And so what if my booty is bouncing real lovely as I click my way through the halls, causing all the boys to snap their necks. Point is, I'm not here for any of these tricks. And I'm definitely not thinking about any of these little boys. Chicks are phony. And, most boys are straight-up dogs. I'm not beat for either. Matter of fact, I don't even wanna be at this dumb, ghetto school. But I am. Already I can tell I'ma have problems. And ninety-nine reasons to go upside a ho's head.

“Look at her. That stuck-up ho thinks she cute.”

“Oooh, who died? She's dressed like she's goin' to a funeral.”

“I don't like that trick.”

“Video ho on deck!”

“Hooker heels in school? Where they do that at?”

“Where she from?”

“I bet those aren't even her
real
eyes.”

“Her weave's cute though.”

“All I know, that skank better not even think about lookin' at my man!” And then Drama—with a capital D—steps right in front of me, wearing some imitation Catholic schoolgirl getup and a long weave that hangs down to her butt.

All I'm tryna do is go out to my car, FaceTime it up with my girls back in Brooklyn, eat my Caesar salad, then get to my next class—World History, I think. No, Afro History—in peace. But noooo, here stands this ghetto ho blocking my way, tryna set it off. First day of school, no less. She steps up in my face, and says, “Listen, boo. I don't know who you are. But hoes aren't welcome here. So you need to go back to wherever you came from.”

I flat-out laugh in her face.

She blinks, clearly taken aback. But she quickly regroups. “Oh, you think this is funny? Well, let's see how funny it is when I punch you in your mouth.”

“Oh, really?”

Now I don't know why chicks stay testing me. I swear I think it's something in the air. Oh wait. Maybe it's this pretty face. Or these light brown eyes that almost look hazel when the sun hits them. Oh, no. That's not it. It's gotta be the silky hair that stays fly—thanks to the Dominican spot I go to over on One Hundred and Forty-ninth and Amsterdam Avenue in New York. Uh, maybe, it's this small waist that has 'em all gaggin' on hater juice. Whatever! All I know is, where I'm from, you don't step up in a chick's face and pop noise. You got beef, you swing and take her face off. Period, point blank. I'ma feel real sorry for her if she's dumb enough to let these nondescript chicks gas her into gettin' a beatdown. She's real lucky. 'Cause if this was last year, I swear she wouldn't still be standing. She'd be dropped to the ground and I'd be standing up over her body stomping her lights out. But I'm tryna change. Tryna be the better person. New school, new beginnings . . . whatever!

Point is, I miss Brooklyn!

I miss Flatbush Avenue.

I miss Fulton Street.

I miss Fort Greene Park.

I miss my old high school.

I miss my girls, Stacy, Jalanda, and Tre.

I miss the hustle 'n' bustle of the streets. Brooklyn at night is live 'n' poppin'.

At my old school, I was
that
hot chick on deck. I
still
am. But these hookers and hoes here don't know that,
yet
. They too busy hatin' and throwin' shade. But trust. They'll get the memo. And when they do, they'll know, like they did at Fashion High, that I'm that mad sexy chick—the fly girl who stays dipped in all the fly wears. The one who keeps all the boys following behind her like lost puppies, eating outta the palm of her hands. Yeah,
that
chick.

At my old school, chicks
wanted
to be me!

And all the dudes
wanted
to have me!

And I had 'em all running around in circles.

Now look at me. My life is ruined.

Over!

I'm so pissed. Why my mom felt the need to move across the river will never, ever, make sense to me. If she wanted to get away from my father, she coulda moved uptown somewhere. Heck, she coulda even moved
waaaay
out to Queens, or out on Long Island. She had a choice of
five
boroughs. And all she had to do is pick one. Then I'd still be in New York. But, nooooo. She wanted out. Out of her life with my father. Out of New York. And she just had to drag me across the bridge—well, through the tunnel—with her. Just had to disrupt my whole life . . . scratch that, my whole world, and move to corny Jersey.

Now here I am . . . !

First day of school with chicks slick talking when I walk by. Guys either tryna holla or eyeballing me all reckless and whatnot. And now I gotta deal with this chick standing here practically begging for these hands upside her head. I look her up and down, then dead in her face, letting her know ain't no punk standing here. Still, I'm not gonna toss shade and say she's ugly 'cause she's not. I mean, she's
not
as fine or as fly as
me
, but she's still kinda cute. I guess. And I'm not gonna hate on her shape 'cause she's definitely holding her own. But her body isn't bangin' like mine. And her hair . . . mmmph. Well, mine is real. Hers, a straight-up nightmare! Horrid!

“Yes, really,” she snaps, narrowing her eyes. “You'd better buy a vowel and get a clue, sweetie.”

I tilt my head. “Excuse you? Have we met?”

She twists her lips up. “No, we haven't met, trick. I'm the Welcome Committee. Here to warn you that if you even think about going after my man, I'm gonna welcome you to a beatdown, boo.”

Two of the girls in her fan club start laughing. I cut my eyes over at them, then back at Miss Ghetto. “Okay, so I've been warned. You done?”

She gets real up close and personal, ramming her face close to mine. I can smell the watermelon Jolly Rancher she's eaten on her breath.

“No I ain't done, trick. Do I
look
done to you? You'll know I'm done when I say I'm done.”

Now trust me. I already told you that I ain't scared to fight. And I have no problems taking it to a chick's face when it's warranted. But, the truth is, I'd fight a boy quicker than I would another female 'cause all most of 'em ever wanna do is scratch and pull you hair instead of bringing it to you knuckle up. I mean, really. Who has time to be all clawed up? I know I don't. Punch me, boo. Slap me, even. But don't go digging your nails in my face or tryna yank my hair outta my scalp. If we gonna fight, then let's fight. Fist to fist, toe to toe. But that ain't how most chicks tryna bring it. So I really try to avoid confrontations with 'em whenever possible, like right now. This ghetto trash is really, really pushing her luck with me. But I'm still tryna keep my cool.

I back up a bit, just in case I gotta hook off on her. Count to ten in my head. Then politely say, “Look, don't let the pretty face and silky hair fool you, sweetie. Step outta my face. You don't know me. And I
really
don't think you want it with me.”

“No, you don't want it with
me
. But you'll get it if you don't watch yourself. So consider yourself on notice.”

I take a deep breath. Assess the situation. Truth is, I'm really not dressed for the occasion. I'm not tryna drop my handbag and have her little sea creatures scooping it up. But I will step outta these heels and rock her to sleep if I have to. Still, I have to ask myself: Do I beat this chick down and get suspended on the first day of school? Do I slam her face into the wall and then, have to fight her little pep squad? Or do I bow out gracefully and let her
think
she's played me?

I hear my mom's voice in my head telling me to ignore this girl, warning me not to get into any trouble here, threatening to take my car from me. Telling me that this chick really isn't worth it. And maybe she's right. But I already know if this ho puts her hands on me, I'm gonna mop the floor up with her face.

I smirk. “Sweetie,
boom!
You're a real clown. Save your notices. Say what you gotta say, then step.”

“Trick,” she snaps, pointing a finger in my face.
Strike one!
“I already said it. We don't do hoes here. So if you even think about tryna ho it up with any of our boyfriends, be ready to fight.”

I shift my handbag from one hand to the other, then sweep my bang across my forehead. I fake a yawn, then flick imaginary dirt from my fingernail. “The name's Miesha, hun. And trust me. I
stay
ready for a good fight, so back—”

“Okay, ladies,” a tall, brown-skinned woman says, walking over to us. “Shouldn't you young ladies be in the cafeteria or outside in the commons area?” She eyes Drama. “Quandaleesha, you know we don't allow loitering in the halls. Is there a problem over here?”

Quandaleesha?
I keep from laughing in her face. “It's Quanda,” she snaps. “And, no, there's no problem, Mrs. Dean. It's bein' solved.”

She narrows her eyes. “Then let's break this party up,
Quanda
.” She turns to Drama's fan club. “Same thing with you, young ladies.”

“We're going now, Mrs. Dean,” they say in unison.

“Good,” she says, locking her stare back on Drama. “And, Quanda, I want you to go have a seat in my office.”

“Whaaat?! Why? What I do?”

“Nothing that I'm aware of, which is why I think we should have a chat, now.”

“But this is my lunch period.”

“Well, since you're standing out here in the hall that says to me that you've either already eaten or you're not hungry. So go have a seat in my office. I'll be there in a few. I'll only take a minute of your time. I'll write you a pass when I'm done.”

“Can't this wait until after classes?”

Mrs. Dean narrows her eyes. “Quandaleesha, this is
not
up for debate. My office. Now.”

Drama huffs, shooting me a dirty look. I shake my head as she stomps off, holding in my laugh.
Quandaleesha. Hahahaha! What a ghetto joke!

“Hi. I'm Mrs. Dean. The vice principal.” She extends her hand. “And you are?”

“Hi,” I say, shaking her hand. “I'm Miesha. Miesha Wilson.”

“Oh, yes. The transfer from Fashion High.” She takes me in. “And I see you dress the part. But as you can see, it's a little more relaxed here at McPherson. And some of the kids here might not be, um...” She pauses, then smiles. “Let's say they might not be ready for you.”

I shrug. “Yeah, I see. Well, they had better get ready 'cause I'm not changing who I am to fit in.”

Her smile widens. “And so you shouldn't. Always be you. It'll take some getting used to, but I'm sure you'll fit right in just fine here. Don't let those girls get to you.”

I run my hand through my hair. “Oh, trust. They're lightweights compared to what I'm used to.”

“I'm sure.” She glances down at her watch, then at the lunch in my hand and says, “Well, I'd better let you go have your lunch. Welcome to McPherson High.” She smiles again.

“Yeah, thanks.”

She starts to walk off, then turns back around. “Oh. One more thing. We have a zero-tolerance bullying policy here. If you have any problems with
anyone,
come see me. And it will be addressed immediately. I have an open door, no matter what the issue is.”

Sweetie boom! I have my own policy for bullies. Beat. Them. Down!
“Okay, thanks,” I say. “I'll keep that in mind.” I head toward the door that leads out into the parking lot. Pissed that I have only ten minutes left before the bell rings for my next class.

I hate this school!