The Other Woman (46 page)

Authors: Eve Rabi

BOOK: The Other Woman

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I fainted when I saw the blood, but when I came around, I felt cool. As cool as Christina Aguilera in her
Dirty
video and for a while, I didn’t walk, I strutted.

Talking about music, Mocha looked at me listening to my iPod and frowned, “Gurl, whachu listenin’ to?”

“Eh, Brittany.”

“Say dat a…gain,” she said in a tone that made me hesitate to repeat what I just said.

“I said, I …was listening to
Hit me Baby One
…”

She leapt up and clamped her hand over my mouth. “Gurl,” she whispered, her eyes darting around the room, “you listen to music like dat and dey gon’ beat yo ass. Why you say dat? Huh?”

“Say …what?”

“’Sup?” Sia asked from across the room.

Mocha removed her hand from my mouth, turned to Sia, dropped her voice and pointed to my iPod. “Brittany. Can you believe it?”

“Nasssssty!” Sia said, shaking her head.

“But…but…it’s Brittany
Bitch
!” I pointed out.

“Gurl, she ain’t no bitch. She in da Mickey Mouse Club – Mousketeer! She ain’t never gon be a bitch.”

“O …kay.” I scrolled down my iPod. “
Genie
in
a
Bottle
? Christina…?”

She shook her head. “Mouse…ke…teer.”

I scratched my head.

“Put some Eve and …lil Kim and …and TLC…”

“Okay.” I never heard of most of these singers. “Destiny’s Child?”

“Nah, nah, not Destiny’s Child, but maybe Kelly Rowland!
Work
with Missy Elliot? Dat one.”

I didn’t know that song, but I said, “Sure.”

“Hey, can I keep Pink? I know she’s white and all, but she’s pretty bad. She’s got tats and piercings …”

They conferred for a moment and I heard the words
Family
Portrait
and finally they turned to me and nodded.

My smile was one of relief.

“And put some Fifty Cents in there too, cos …” Mocha looked at Sia.

“…He a mudder fuckin’ P.I.M.P!” they chorused.

So out went Brittany Spears and Christina Aguilera and No Doubt, and in came G-Unit, Missy, Ciara, Lil Kim, Tupac and a whole lot of rap. I just hoped my mother didn’t get a hold of my iPod. Somehow, I knew she’d be very disappointed if she listened to the lyrics.

I felt really bad now – Michael Jackson bad and I loved it.

Wanting to appear even more hip, I bought a batch of fake tattoos and whenever I went out with the Sia and Mocha, I plastered them all over me.

Both of them laughed at me, but, having no choice, I confessed that I hated needles and couldn’t stand the idea of one on my skin.

I think that because of the steady stream of dough I provided, they didn’t tell anyone my secret but just sniggered behind my back.

I loved being with Mocha and Sia. In spite of them getting drunk every night and smoking weed and skipping school and getting into fights with other girls, life was always entertaining.

Sia had spent a year in Juvenile Hall a few years ago. Apparently, she knifed one of her mother’s boyfriends who wanted to tuck her in at night, if you know what I mean.

That was why she was so sensitive to my plight – the plight about Harry that Mocha had manufactured.

Sia was a quiet one – she loved to get high. She lived for that. She just wanted to get high
all
the time and often, it was as if she wasn’t in the room with us.

I didn’t need to get drunk and high to have fun, I was just happy to be with people who wanted me around and who didn’t make fun of me and treat me like crap.

Mocha, although she was sixteen, and just five months older than me, slept around with anyone and
everyone
.

She thought like a guy and wanted to just score, fuck any guy and then say, “See dat ass, been there, done dat.”

She dressed like a slut – the tiniest skirts and the skimpiest tops, even though she was chubby and spilled out of her clothes. She had amazing confidence when it came to her body and always believed that hers was the best in the world. In her mind, everybody wanted a piece of her ass.

Later on I found out that had been abused when she was a toddler, but she never talked about it. As young as I was, I figured that her tough-chick exterior was simply a defense mechanism.

Getting out of the house at night became a problem. Not to Sia and Mocha – they just taught me to how to creep out at night through my bedroom window. How to keep a screwdriver under a shrub in case I needed to break into the house.

Because of that, I was able to attend to a number of wild parties at night with them, where I hung out with bikers, druggies and ex-cons. At first I was really scared of these men and women, who used the foulest of language, drank till they passed out on the floor, threated to knife each other for disagreeing about a thing as simple as to who was the original singer of
Wild
Thing
.

But Mocha shoplifted me a penknife and together, she and Sia showed me how to use it if the situation arose.

“Don’t forget now, you must hold it like
this
when you flick it.” She turned to Sia to demonstrate, “And look here,” she waved two fingers in front of her eyes.

Sitting on both my hands, I paid careful attention.

She held out the knife, her eyes bulging, her face twisted in a snarl as she slowly skirted Sia. “You wanna FUCK wid me, ma’fucker? Huh? HUH?”

“Nah, nah, nah!” Sia said in scared voice. “I’m sorry, man. Don’t cut me, man!”

“See?” Mocha said, her face returning to normal. “Like that.”

“And say things like, ‘I gon’
slice
off yo nuts, ma’fucker!’ See dudes don’ like it when gurls talk ’bout cutting off der nuts or dicks. Not even in a joke. Dey keep’away from you cos dey think you’re …” She whistled as she twirled her finger next to her temple.

“But you have to practice,” Sia said as I was leaving. “In front of the mirror.”

“Okay, I’ve got it,” I said accepting the knife from Mocha and trembling with excitement over my new toy. I had barely ever used a knife, except maybe to cut an apple. I slipped it into my boots and strutted home feeling tough and invincible.

When I looked at me in the mirror, thrusting the knife, a crazed expression on my face,
I
got scared of me and I had to look away at first. But I continued practicing – flicking my knife and saying, “You wan’ take me on, motherfucker? Eh,
ma
’fucker?”

When I showed up with a bandage around my thigh, they gaped at me.

“Who da fuck do you like dat?” Mocha asked, skirting me as if she’s ready to kick the shit out of their cash cow, even though it was the cow that was injured.

“Yeah,” Sia breathe in a husky voice, “Tell Ssssia.” Whenever Sia got mad, she had a tendency to hiss.

“Hairy?” Mocha said. “Pussy ass hairy mudderfucking Harry?” Her nostrils grew as large as her ass. “Mudderrrfuckerrr!”

“Eh, no, no, no, I eh, cut myself while eh …eh, practicing,” I said in a sheepish voice. “With the knife. You know, like, flicking it. Held it too low.”

“Hairy…hairy…he do you like dat,” Mocha, who thrived on drama, insisted.

“That ma’fuckin’, cock sssssucking, son of a white whore!” That was Sia. “I’m going to sssslice his nuts and feed it to him, one by fucking one!”

I began to silently stress about Harry’s nuts.

End of Excerpt

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