The Kat Trap (9 page)

She started shiftin’ her eyes and twistin’ her ass in her seat. That’s how I knew the bitch was lyin’. My moms always said, “Watch how a bitch acts when you confront her ass ’bout somethin’. If the ho ain’t lookin’ you straight in the eyes and if she starts actin’ all fidgety ’n shit, then the bitch is lyin’. And if the bitch grabs her shit to leave, then she done told you what you already know.” And that is somethin’ I’ve always lived by.

“You know what, bitch!” she said suddenly, gettin’ up. I slipped my hand down in my purse and grabbed my ice pick just in case this ho got froggish and tried to leap. Although I had my razor
in my napkin, a know-it-all bitch like her needed to have some sense poked up in her a few times instead of bein’ slashed up. “I’m sick of you always thinkin’ you betta than somebody else. You ain’t shit, bitch. Just because ya moms came into a little paper and moved ya conceited ass outta the hood don’t make you no better, bitch! Just because you gotta little shine, that don’t make you no better than me. Yeah, you might be bubblin’, but you still a project bitch. But a bitch thinks she’s too good for the hood now.”

I looked at this bitch like she was half-crazy, tryna figure out what the fuck me movin’ outta the hood had to do with her nasty ass. I bust out laughin’. “Yeah, tramp, I’m a project bitch, alright. Always was, always will be. But I ain’t ever been no dirty one. Can you say that ’bout ya slutty ass?”

“Won’t you bitches chill the fuck out,” Iris jumped in. “Ya’ll ’bout to fuck up my high for real for real with all this ying-yang, okey-doke bullshit.”

“Nah, fuck that,” Tamia said, snatchin’ up her bag of weed and her Phillies and Dutches. “I’m out. This bitch done fucked up my mood.”

I laughed. “Ho, run from the truth if ya want. But ya cruddy-ass just proved the shit is real. If ya pussy’s flamin’ and ya burnin’ niggas, keep it real. That’s all I’m sayin’, ho. Be a real bitch ’bout it.” The room got real quiet. Iris was shootin’ me some serious rocks, like I really gave a fuck. I knew she didn’t really want it ’cause if she did she woulda leaped. “What the fuck you ice-grillin’ me for?”

She rolled her eyes. “Fuck you, bitch.”

“Yeah, whatever,” I said. I took another toke from my blunt, leaned back in my chair, and held that shit in my lungs.

I guess the tramp had a change of heart ’cause she tossed her
shit back down on the table. “I’m goin’ to the bathroom,” she said, stompin’ off. I knew the bitch was heated that I pulled her card. Oh well.

I slowly exhaled the smoke into the air, glancin’ at Chanel. “Make sure when the bitch leaves, ya toss her glass in the trash and burn that toilet seat,” I said. She rolled her eyes. Iris sucked her teeth. I picked up my glass and sipped the rest of my drink, smirkin’.

“You know you dead wrong, Kat, word,” Iris said, regulatin’ another blunt. “That’s some real foul shit. You know we ain’t never let no niggas or dick or who’s fuckin’ who come between us. We’ve always been down for each other. Why the fuck you come at her neck like that?”

“’Cause if the bitch got herpes then we need to know. She got us smokin’ and drinkin’ behind her nasty ass. That shit ain’t fuckin’ cool. And I’ma keep shit real. Muhfuckin’ girls or not, if the bitch really does have that shit, and I catch it…I’ma shut her lights out. And I put that on e’erything I love.”

I took another deep pull from my blunt, held it in my lungs, then let the smoke twirl around my tongue.

Iris and Chanel stared at me, shakin’ their heads. But I bet them bitches put down that blunt they’d been passin’ back ’n forth all night.

“Don’t stop now,” I said, laughin’, stickin’ both hands up and crossin’ my fingas. “Ya’ll bitches done got the cooties.”

O
n some real shit, the other night had me lookin’ at shit sideways. I mean, I got love for my girls ’n all. But, the more I was around them bitches the less I was feelin’ ’em, especially Iris’s and Tamia’s triflin’ asses. I guess my mental was much deeper than theirs. A bitch like me was lookin’ at shit outside the fuckin’ hood, while these broads were tryna stay chained to it. That ain’t my flow. Don’t get it twisted. I love the hood and all that it brings. But I ain’t tryna live and breathe the shit every damn day, feel me? But I also knew that no matter where the fuck I went, I was takin’ me with me. If I didn’t change, then nothin’ changed. But how can a bitch ever leave her past when the shit is constantly starin’ me right in the fuckin’ face? Even if I wanted to, which I don’t, how can I ever forget where the fuck I come from when I gotta constantly keep comin’ back to it? Fuck what ya heard. The hood is always gonna be in my blood. But what’s wrong with a bitch wantin’ something better? Is it really so wrong? Hell fuckin’ no!

I don’t know why the fuck she still gotta live here,
I thought as I pulled my truck up in front of my old buildin’. I flipped down my visor and checked my face, then watched as a group of kids came walkin’ down the street—three chicks and four dudes, all ’bout thirteen, fourteen, passin’ ’round what looked like a blunt
as they walked and talked. They seemed to be havin’ a live discussion, cursin’ and laughin’. I glanced at the digital clock: 11:17 a.m. I smiled, rememberin’ the days Chanel, Tamia, Iris, and I would be walkin’ to catch the number 2 train to Flatbush Ave. to chill while gettin’ lifted ’n talkin’ shit. We’d be fresh to death in our matchin’ wears, rockin’ the crisp Nike Uptowns or Stan Smiths in our little bootie shorts and T-shirts knotted in the back. Our hair would be pulled back in tight ponytails with the bangs and we’d have our bamboo earrings or doorknockers swingin’ and our gold name plates danglin’ ’round our necks. And e’ery now and then we’d rock our matchin’ gold fronts. Ugh! But you couldn’t tell us bitches nothin’.

Nothin’ had really changed since I moved outta the hood and outta Brooklyn two years ago. Gunshots were still poppin’; niggas were still droppin’; bitches were still stuntin’; muhfuckas were still gettin’ high; the drug game was still live ’n kickin’. Same shit, different playas. The only difference, these little young niggas and bitches were more reckless with it than when I was out here. And now with this gang shit, the hood was real hectic.

As the group got closer to my truck, I sat a few minutes longer and watched an older woman who looked like she was in her fifties or so, carryin’ two bags and her pocketbook, walkin’ toward the group of kids. She was tryna get through the group, but no one moved outta her way so she could pass. Instead of gettin’ in a confrontation, the woman tried to go ’round ’em. But one of the young girls—sportin’ cornrow extensions and big danglin’ earrings—just had to be a little bitch ’bout it and purposefully bumped into the woman, knockin’ her bag outta her hand. Everyone in her posse thought the shit was funny and started laughin’. The woman gave them a glarin’ look, pickin’ up
her things. I already knew if they tried to hurt her, I was gonna jump outta my truck and bring it to ’em. I cracked my windows to listen.

“Bitch, whut iz you lookin’ at?” the young chick asked. The woman ignored her. “Dumb, old-ass bitch, ya lucky I’m in a good mood. Or me ’n my niggas would run ya shit.”

I shook my head in disbelief, watchin’ ’n waitin’ to see if I was gonna have to jump outta my truck and set it off.

The woman stood, back straight, head high, and raised her hands. “I rebuke you…in the name of Jesus…in the name of Jesus…in the name of Jesus…”

“Be gone, old lady, or get ya shit split,” one of the boys said.

“Though I walk through the valley,” the woman said, “of the shadow of death…I fear no evil—”

“Fuck you!” they all yelled, laughin’, then runnin’ down the street.

I was so fuckin’ disgusted. No fuckin’ respect! These young niggas and bitches were on some real extra shit. Yeah, a bitch did her dirt growin’ up: smoke, drank, fought and sliced bitches, boosted shit, got her party on and whatnot. But I was never disrespectful. Cussin’ out and disrespectin’ an old head was a no-no. I don’t give a fuck how they came at ya. You kept ya grill shut and kept it movin’. I rolled up my windows and got out of my truck.

“You alright, ma’am?” I asked, walkin’ ’round the front of my truck.

She smiled. “I’m fine, baby. Thanks. I don’t know what’s wrong with some of these kids today. They’re just runnin’ amok. No guidance. No respect. No regard,” she said, straightenin’ her rimmed glasses. “We are truly in the last days.”

“You have a good day,” I offered as I walked toward the pro
ject’s entrance, ignorin’ her comments. I really wasn’t beat for a sermon. Not today. Not any day.

“You do the same,” she said, speakin’ to my back.

My cell started ringin’ as I approached the entrance to my buildin’. I looked at the caller ID. It was Grant. I smiled, stoppin’ to lean up against the railin’. I wanted some dick. And if he turned out to be a real nigga, I was gonna fuck him down into the mattress.
I hope the nigga can fuck,
I thought, answerin’. “Hello.”

“Hey, beautiful,” he said. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“Actually, I’m on my way up to see my moms. Can I call you back?”

“No doubt, but I’ll hit you back instead. ’Cause I think you tryna front on a nigga. And I ain’t havin’ it.”

I laughed. “Is that so? Well, that’s what ya mouth says.”

“That’s what it is. I’ll hit you back later on tonight.”

“Aiight,” I said, disconnectin’ the call. My cell rang again. This time it was Chanel. “What’s up, tramp?”

“Shit,” she said. “What’s good with you?”

“I’m here in Brooklyn, gettin’ ready to go up to see my moms. Why, what’s up?”

“Well, do you. Make sure you call me later. Some shit done popped off with Tamia and these bitches from Bed-Stuy over some nigga.”

I rolled my eyes up in my head, suckin’ my teeth. “Well, that shit’s on her dumb ass,” I said. “I’ll holla back when I get back on the road.”

“Make sure you do.”
Yeah, whatever!
I hung up. A few months ago, a bitch woulda been amped the hell up, ready to strap up and wreck shop. But I ain’t fuckin’ with Tamia like that. This ho was on some extra shit, and I ain’t the one. It’d be one thing if a
bitch was straight dissin’ her and tryna get at her for no reason, but some shit over a nigga who she probably had no business fuckin’ any damn way…humph, I don’t think so. The bitch is on her own, real talk. As a matter of fact, I really wasn’t feelin’ this visit with my moms, either. But I was already there.

When I entered my old buildin’, I felt nothin’. Although the sidewalk was cleaner than I remembered, I thought back to when crack vials and needles littered the sidewalk and the playground in the back of buildin’s four and six; when empty liquor bottles and shattered glass covered the ground. I could still hear the gunshots that rang like bells; the screams of mothers who lost another child to niggas shootin’ and killin’ each other over drugs and money and pussy and block takeovers. The shit was depressin’. I had spent so much time dreamin’ ’bout gettin’ the fuck away from here, ’bout bein’ rescued from this hell hole, that my head and body were already long gone way before I ever bounced. My heart was still connected to the streets, it flowed through my blood. But it pumped at a different beat now. Don’t get it twisted. I’ma be a Brooklyn bitch ’til the day I die. This life—four generations of livin’ in the hood—is what I know, but I’d be damned if it was the only one I’d be livin’. Believe that.

I was glad the lobby was empty today. It was still dark and dirty and smelled like piss, but, usually, it’d be live and poppin’. I rolled my eyes when I got to the elevators and the shits were broken—
again.
I seriously thought about turnin’ ’round and takin’ my ass home, but decided goin’ up eleven flights of stairs in heels was much better than hearin’ my moms bitchin’ ’bout me not comin’ over. Not that I thought that she really cared one way or the other whether I came through or not, ’cause I know she didn’t, but…she’s still my moms and a bitch still liked to fan
tasize ’bout bein’ wanted and missed. Shit, I thought, goin’ toward the stairs,
e’erytime I come to this bitch these muhfuckas ain’t workin’. What the fuck!

As I climbed the stairs, I had to keep tryna not to step in someone’s piss or spit. Nasty muhfuckas! I hurried up the stairs, and by the time I got to my floor, a bitch was wore out.

I knocked three times on the gray apartment door before the locks finally clicked and the door opened. “Well, looka here,” my moms said, steppin’ back to let me in. For some reason, she had that just-got-fucked look. Her thick, curly, shoulder-length hair was tossed all over her head and her face was flushed. She pulled the belt of her red silk robe tight ’round her waist. I could tell she was naked underneath.
Yep, she been fuckin’.
“The queen has finally decided to come grace me with her presence. Why didn’t you call first?”

I rolled my eyes. “I didn’t know I needed to make an appointment.” I closed the door behind me. “Besides, you called me last week beatin’ me in the head ’bout not comin’ by or callin’ you. I told ya I was gonna come through today.”

“Well, I’ve heard that before, so I didn’t hold my breath.”

“Well, I’m here now. The least you could do is
act
like ya happy to see me. Damn.”

“Humph,” she grunted, switchin’ her ass into the kitchen. At forty-one—I ain’t gonna front—she looked much younger than her age, and still had a bangin’ body. Then again, my grandmother was only sixty-one and she still had a body that would put some of these young bitches to shame.

I took a deep, disgusted breath. Just once I wished we were more like mother and daughter than two chicks who barely tolerated each other. Not that I expected a warm, mushy welcome, but damn! Some women should never have children. I’m convinced
my moms was one of them chicks who shoulda kept her damn legs closed, or aborted ’cause she’s never had the time, energy, or interest in raisin’ me or nurturin’ me. She’d rather be locked in a room with a nigga with her legs up over his shoulders than raisin’ her own child. Sometimes I really wanna slap her. But no matter what, she’s still my moms—fucked up or not.

“Lock my damn door.” She yanked her neck ’round, glarin’ at me. “You ain’t been in that fancy place over in Jersey that long to forget where ya from. You know betta than to leave my doors unlocked.” I shook my head, latchin’ the five deadbolts. My thinkin’ is, if ya so goddamn worried ’bout havin’ ya doors kicked in, or bein’ robbed, why the hell stay? Pack ya shit and get the fuck out.

From the outside, you’d never expect the inside of my mom’s spot to be piped out with a crème-colored Italian leather sofa, plush brown carpet, marble tables, custom mirrored walls, a one-hundred-fifty-gallon tropical fish tank, and a fifty-two-inch plasma TV up on the wall.

When she came into her suit money, instead of movin’ outta the projects and investin’ in a house, she spent a grip redecoratin’ ’n shit. Then she had the nerve to go out and buy a fuckin’ 2006 Benz coupe that now looks like a damn hoopty ’cause muhfuckas stay scratchin’ it up and breakin’ into the shit. Humph.

Anyway, I asked her why she wouldn’t move, and she flat out told me, “I ain’t ever leavin’ the projects. This is where I grew up and this is where I’ma die.” Well, I looked at her ass like I would never relate. I mean, I mighta grew up in ’em, but I’d be damned if I ever wanted to stay and die in ’em. Keepin’ shit real, I ain’t nothin’ like her. She is okay with her life. She is okay with never seein’ or experiencin’ anything outside of Brooklyn. Other than goin’ to Harlem or the Bronx to visit her family, leavin’
New York—or Brooklyn, for that matter—would never happen. Oh, okay, if ya wanna count the bus trips she and my aunts make to Atlantic City to gamble. And even that’s a big production. Fuck that. A bitch like me wanted to learn and see new shit. “That’s the problem with ya ass,” my moms had once said when I told her I was gonna travel the world when I grew up, “ya ass too busy daydreamin’.”

Then when I told her I wanted to move to Jersey, she looked at me like I was outta my mind or somethin’, as if movin’ ’cross the water was a damn crime. “What the hell you gonna do way over there? Brooklyn is ya home. You might go, but ya ass’ll be back. It’s in ya blood.”

I walked into the kitchen and pulled a chair out to sit at the table.

“So what you been up to?” she asked, openin’ the refrigerator. She pulled out a carton of eggs and a pack of bacon. “You want somethin’ to eat?”

I glanced around the small kitchen and rolled my eyes up in my head. There was dirty dishes piled in the sink, and the trash was overflowin’.
All this expensive shit up in this bitch,
I thought,
and the kitchen is still nasty. Ain’t a muthafuckin’ thing changed.
Outta the corner of my eye, I peeped a roach crawlin’ alongside one of the cabinets, then another along the counter.

“Nah,” I said, shiftin’ in my seat, “I’m good. I ate already.” Yeah, I lied. But there was no muthafuckin’ way I’d eat shit outta that nasty-ass kitchen. She’d never have me eatin’ roach eggs. The thought made me frown. I hadn’t eaten outta that kitchen since I was twelve years old, and there was no way I’d start back now. “I’ve been chillin’. What about you?”

“Not a damn thing,” she said, busyin’ herself ’round the kitchen. I stared at her, takin’ in the curve of her hips and the way her
flimsy robe clung ’cross her titties, showin’ her thick nipples. For some reason, her ass and titties looked much bigger than I remembered. “You know, Alberta over in buildin’ four done got arrested for stabbin’ her husband. She walked in and caught him fuckin’ her best friend in their bed. She went off, stabbed his ass up real good, and she beat that bitch down real good, too.”

“Hmm…”
Triflin’ bitch,
I thought.
And I hope his slimy ass got his.
That was some shit. I couldn’t even imagine what the fuck I’d do if I walked in and caught my man fuckin’ one of my girls—well, uh, I do, but that’s another story for another time. Bottom line, I woulda went the fuck off, too. But I don’t know if I’da stabbed him. ’Cause unless she killed his ass, her goin’ to jail is senseless. While the world is still rotatin’ on its axis, and her ass is on lock, his muhfuckin’ ass is still gonna be out fuckin’ the next bitch. Fuck that shit, if you don’t wanna kill his ass, then slice his muthafuckin’ cock off. “Did she kill him?”