Street Divas Page 3

  We were brought up in foster care. Back in the old days, Ta’Shara and I were like two peas in a pod. There wasn’t a damn thing that we wouldn’t do for each other. Had to. Nobody else gave a damn about us, especially not any of the sorry muthafuckas who took us in just for that little paycheck that came with us. The real nightmare began when I got tits and ass. Suddenly my foster daddies and play uncles wanted to play with my small nipples and hairless pussy.

  Muthafuckas used to split my shit wide open on the regular, leaving me crying and bleeding all over the place. Being two years older, I’ve always believed that it was my responsibility to look after Ta’Shara—that is, until my baby sister flipped the script and started thinking that she was better than me, just because some Huxtable-wannabe couple was pumping her head with college bullshit. Since Ta’Shara’s been living with them, they’ve been treating me like I’m something that is stuck to the bottom of their shoes. The sacrifices I’ve made over the years suddenly no longer matter, even the night I sliced one of our foster fathers up for eyeballing Ta’Shara’s young titties. That shit landed me in a group home for two years.

  At first I thought I fucked up. Getting separated from my sister meant that I could no longer look out for her. I had to toss that shit up to the man above and hope for the best. Meanwhile, I got educated into the street life quick, fast, and in a hurry. Ain’t no sense in lying and saying that I didn’t want this life. I did. After seeing all the power some of the girls had up in there. Those bitches said jump and everybody got their bounce on. What got me was how hard everybody was flossing. They were boosting shit and getting paid like a muthafucka. A bitch like me who ain’t never had nothing was down with that shit.

  The price? I got my ass beat and raped by a couple of carpet munchers. Most of us did in that group home. The shit has been well worth it. I got cliqued up with a real family—a family that has my back and I definitely have theirs. We’re together until the world blows up. That shit is a fact.

  I hear a faint sniff, and my gaze cuts back over to my sister. My heart twists as if a knife has been plunged right into the center of it. What have I done?

  Heat rushes up my neck. The time for babying her ass is over. “Stop playing the victim. You did this shit. Your boy’s blood is on your muthafuckin’ hands. You remember that shit!”

  I watch as Ta’Shara’s tears grow fatter and roll faster down her filthy face. I ain’t doing nothing but spitting the truth. She refuses to look my way or say jack shit to me. That pisses me off more. “Put on your big-girl panties and own your shit. That nigga was neck-deep in the game. The only reason your ass ain’t lying dead next to his ass is because we share the same blood. I did your ass a favor.”

  Silence.

  Her blatant disrespect has my blood boiling. For the first time, I think I would’ve been better off if I’d capped her ass as well. After the thought crosses my mind, guilt attacks me. What the fuck is wrong with me?

  “Shit.” I drop my head and stare at the limo’s floor. I don’t like examining the shit I have to do out here in Murder City. A part of being a leader is about making some cold and bold moves and keeping your emotions out of it. But tonight . . . ordering Ta’Shara’s rape . . .

  It’s a fucking new low.

  I stare out the dark window. I am my sister’s keeper. I am my sister’s keeper. I feel the threat of hot tears burning the backs of my eyes, but once again, I fight those muthafuckas off. There’s no point in crying about shit out here. You either get or get got. Plain and simple. I understand these rules and so did that pretty boy Profit. Only Ta’Shara has been acting like she doesn’t know how shit works out here. Well, tonight she got a long overdue education.

  Silence.

  “That little shit that went down with you and my boys was a small price to pay for your life,” I tell her. “Remember that shit. If you’re thinking about opening your big mouth to the po-po, let’s just say that I heavily advise against it. We got other muthafuckas we can touch.” I scoot across the seat until I’m right up on her so I can whisper in her ear, “Like Tracee and Reggie.”

  Ta’Shara’s head bounces up, and her large, brown eyes widen to the size of two silver dollars.

  “Uh-huh. I thought that might catch your attention.” My lips curl into a tight smile. “You know I’ll do it, too, don’t you? I’ll be happy to take care of your precious foster parents. Then what will you do?” I ask, searching her eyes. “Mmm? Where do you think you’ll end up? Out here on the street?” I laugh. “You think that you can handle that?”

  Ta’Shara turns her head away, but I grab her swollen jaw and jerk it back toward me. “Look at me when I’m fucking talking to you!” I grind my teeth together while I try to get hold of my temper. “Real talk: you snitch and it’s over for them. You got that?”

  She tries to pull away, but I have her chin locked in a grip so tight it’s a wonder that I don’t break the muthafucka off.

  “Got it?” I ask again.

  At long last, Ta’Shara slowly nods her head.

  I release her as the limousine rolls to a stop. A few seconds later, the door is snatched open and I jump out first.

  “Is she cool?” Treasure asks, scratching his dry dreadlocks and peering down into the backseat of the limo.

  “Yeah. She’s cool. Back the fuck up, homey.” I push him back and stare him down. “You done had all the pussy you’re going to get tonight.”

  His black glare lands on mine. “C’mon, shit. What’s another little taste going to hurt?” He smirks and grabs his dick. “I’ll be quick. I promise.”

  “I said, back the fuck up.” I shove him backward and pull my gat from the back waist of my jeans.

  “Whoa. Whoa.” Treasure’s hands spring high into the air. “All that shit ain’t necessary, baby girl.”

  “I ain’t your fucking baby girl, nigga. Show the proper respect, muthafucka, and stay in your lane.”

  “A’ight. Chill.” He tries to laugh the shit off, but I don’t even crack a smile.

  “Look. I don’t want no misunderstandings,” he says, trying again. I know his fake Rastafarian ass is more worried about Python than this Glock I have pointed at his skull.

  “What you need to understand right now is that you need to hop your ass back in the front seat so you and Dog Pound can take this piece of shit limo somewhere and get rid of it.”

  “Cool. Cool.” He steps back, crooked smile and all.

  I shake my head and roll my eyes as I turn back toward the open door. “Get your ass on out here,” I tell Ta’Shara. When she takes too long creeping out the vehicle, I reach down and jerk her out by her arm. “Shit. I ain’t got all goddamn night.” Beneath my firm grip, Ta’Shara is shaking like a leaf. I ignore this shit and drag her across a dark field behind a run-down, crack-infested apartment building toward my old but souped-up burgundy Crown Victoria.

  A couple of shots pop off in the night somewhere, but I don’t pay it any mind. Shootings ain’t nothing new out here.

  “Where are we taking her?” Kookie asks, rushing behind us.

  “Where else? My place,” I say. Snatching the back door open, I yell at Ta’Shara, “Get in!”

  Kookie don’t look too comfortable with that decision. “Ain’t they going to come looking for her there?”

  I whip my head toward her. “No. Why should they?” Face blank, Kookie bumps her gums while no words come out.

  “Exactly.” I return my attention to Ta’Shara, who is standing and quivering like an idiot. “What the fuck are you waiting for? I said get the fuck in there.”

  “LeShelle . . . please.” Ta’Shara’s cracked lips spew blood as she tries to talk. “Let me go. I p-promise I won’t say anything.”

  “I know you’re not going to say anything. If I thought that, I would’ve wasted your ass by now.” I point my gun in her direction. “Now get your ass in the back of the car.” She got moving then. After she was in, I slam the door and then turn to see Kookie looking at me and shaki
ng her head. “What?”

  “You’re a cold bitch.”

  I laugh. “You said that already.”

  “It fuckin’ deserves repeating.”

  Ten minutes later, we roll down Shotgun Row. Nobody creeps down this way unless they belong on this muthafucka. Even at this late hour, I spot the whites of niggas’ eyes as they peep out my ride and then give me a casual head nod before going back to their business. Crackheads, college kids, and the occasional Caucasian persuasions are keeping the money flowing with the corner boys.

  I pull the Crown Vic up against the curb in front of my and Python’s crib and then kill the lights and cut the engine. However, instead of reaching for the door, I lean toward the glove compartment and pull out a Baggie of blueberry AK-47 and toss it over to Kookie in the passenger seat. “Roll that shit up.”

  “Aye, aye, bitch.” She laughs, but it does nothing to break the tension layering in the car.

  I glance up into the rearview mirror and stare at the top of my sister’s head while her attention has returned to her dirty fingernails. I’m struck by how small she looks. I’m not completely emotionally detached, but I’m struggling to get there.

  “Here you go,” Kookie says, handing over a perfectly rolled blunt and then whipping out her gold lighter. “Let’s hit this shit. My nerves are fucking shot.”

  I take the blunt, plop it in between my lips, and then lean over while Kookie brings the small flame to the bottom of the blunt. The instant I draw in a deep toke, I feel my muscles relax, my heartbeat slow down, and my million fucked-up thoughts mellow the fuck out. I still keep my gaze focused on the backseat. “You want a hit?”

  Silence.

  “Cut the shit, Ta’Shara. I know that you hear me. You want to hit this shit or not?”

  Silence.

  I grind my teeth together and then hiss, “Fine. Fuck you, then.”

  Kookie shakes her head and reaches for the door. “I’m out. I said that I wasn’t going to get involved in y’all family shit and look where the fuck I am.”

  “You ain’t got to worry. I got this shit,” I tell her.

  “Yeah. We’ll see. Catch you when the sun comes up, ho.” Kookie jumps out of the car.

  “I’m coming with you,” Pit Bull says, and scrambles out of the car, too.

  Ta’Shara and I are left sitting in a tomb of silence with the ghost of some dead nigga sitting between us. My mouth twitches for something to say, but this situation has gone beyond words. I jam the blunt back into my mouth and suck on the muthafucka until the front of the car is filled with smoke and I can fly instead of walk. “C’mon. Let’s get the fuck up out of here.” I toss the rest of the blunt into the ashtray and then climb out of the car.

  Ta’Shara doesn’t move and I have to jerk open the back door. “Don’t make me go through this shit again. If I have to get you out of the car, you’re not going to like it.” Her ass moves even though it’s slow as molasses. But when she pops up from my leather seats, I see a large smear of blood. I glance at the back of her light blue dress and see fresh blood soaking through and even trickling down her legs. Suddenly there’s a large boulder in the center of my throat and my eyes burn as if they are marinating in acid.

  Slamming the back door, I grab her left wrist and tug her toward the house. I fiddle with the lock and then rush her straight to the bathroom, despite the fact that she still makes a trail a blood through the house. I turn on the shower and force her to get underneath the spray of hot water. Even then she stands there as I rip off what’s left of her dress. Her slim, curvy body is a tapestry of black and blue bruises, and the engraved initials on the side of her ass look nasty. It’s probably going to get infected. I turn away from the shower and walk over to the vanity counter next to the sink and grab the alcohol. When I do, I catch my reflection in the mirror. I look like shit. Hair windblown and Profit’s blood sprayed across my face and clothes. I press a hand against my cheek and smear some of that nigga’s blood.

  “Fuck!” I turn on the sink’s faucet to wash this shit off when the front door slams and the whole house shakes. Python is home. “I’ll be right back.” I bolt out of the bathroom and up into the living room, but I stop dead in my tracks at the sight of Python’s large, muscular body covered in blood.

  I open my mouth to ask what the hell happened when he pushes a kid forward and tells him, “Go on into the back bedroom on the right and shut the door.”

  My gaze falls onto the kid’s face, and I see Python’s spitting image blinking up at me. “What the fuck?” I step back like they just one-two punched my ass. “Why in the hell you bring this lil nigga up here?”

  “Watch your fucking mouth. That’s my son.” He shoves the boy again. “Go on and do what I told you.”

  “Oh, hell no.” I stop the boy, turn him around by his shoulders, and shove him right back toward his damn daddy. “He can’t stay here. You need to take him back to the bitch you got him from.”

  “Don’t start with me, LeShelle. I’m in some shit right now, and I ain’t in the mood.” He pulls up his wife beater and his complete left side looks like pulverized flesh.

  “Shit. What the fuck?” I move toward him again.

  “Chris, go on in the back. NOW!”

  The kid jumps and then scrambles around me. I clamp my jaw shut. Clearly we’re going to have to finish this another time. But one thing’s for sure—that jizz baby ain’t gonna be living up in here.

  Python slumps his way over to the leather couch, and I rush to check out how bad the damage is. One plug above his hip.

  “Who did this shit?”

  “That ugly, punk muthafucka Fat Ace.”

  Thunderstruck, I bounce up. “What? When? Where?”

  “Fuck, Shelle, squash the muthafuckin’ questions and do something about this shit. My goddamn guts are bleeding out.”

  “A’ight. Calm the fuck down.” I twist my face at his rude ass. “Did you at least earth that muthafucka?”

  “Shit. I don’t fucking know. Muthafucka flew out the damn window like he had on an invisible Superman cape.” Python hisses and sucks in a deep breath as he presses a finger through the hole. “Are you going to get the molasses out your ass and take care of your man or what?”

  “Hold up. Be back.” I roll my eyes and storm back toward the bathroom. Removing bullets ain’t nothing new to either one of us, but this shit couldn’t have happened on a worse night. In the hallway, his seed is standing there crying and peeing on himself. “What the fuck?” I glance down at the piss on the floor. “Ain’t your ass potty trained?”

  “T-there’s a snake in there,” the kid whines.

  “LeShelle, leave him alone and do what the fuck you’re supposed to be doing! Goddamn!”

  “Nasty ass.” I roll my eyes and then push open the bathroom door and get another surprise. The shower is still going, with thick white clouds fogging up the place, but Ta’Shara is nowhere in sight.

  “Ain’t this a muthafuckin’ bitch?”

  5

  Essence

  Morris High School’s prom is whack as hell. To get away from the lame bullshit that’s happening on the crowded gym floor, I let Drey Faniel’s fake balling ass talk me into sneaking up into the boys’ locker room. I don’t know why he couldn’t come correct like the other niggas at the prom and spring for a muthafuckin’ hotel room. Then again, it’s probably because he spends all his corner money on sneakers. Sneakers. Not bling or a tricked-out ride, but fucking sneakers. He has so many of those muthafuckas I doubt that I’ve seen his ass in the same pair twice.

  It’s all right, I guess. Drey is all right. He ain’t necessarily fine, but he ain’t going to scare nothing out of the dark either. He got a nice, even caramel color and eyes the color of Milk Duds. Nothing special. Underneath his tuxedo, I know he got a few tats. Most he got after a couple stints in juvie—a couple of six-pointed stars and a few pitchforks repping the Black Gangster Disciples. At least I’m not in this piece with someone who’s busted
like my girl Hayley’s man, Pookie. That brothah’s complexion is the color of crude oil, and he has eyes and teeth the color of butter. Despite being ugly as sin, there are plenty of girls throwing panties his way because his hustle is tight and he loves raining money on bitches on the regular.

  On the flip side, my girl Ta’Shara and Profit rocked the house. Hands down, they were the flyest couple up in here tonight. And the boldest. These weak niggas who rolled through were mad eyeballing the back of their heads. Vice Lords and Gangster Disciples don’t fucking mix in this city. But I can’t tell my girl nothing. Hell, I think Ta’Shara’s ass is crazy, yet at the same time, I admire her, too. If you don’t stand for something, then you’ll fall for anything, right?

  Shit. I can testify to that shit. That’s why my ass has been in and out of juvie since I learned how to spell the muthafucka. It’s not because I’m bad but because I’m a part of the Queen Gs’ family, and you don’t pay a membership fee to get in. You got to prove your ass is down for whatever, whenever. No questions asked. We’re the Black Gangster Disciples’ ride-or-die chicks. Period. In the course of keeping it real, I don’t mind it so much. Family is important. My momma and daddy are both locked up, so me and my brothers and sisters are being raised by my grandma near Shotgun Row. We’re all GD, and up until now, I’ve been proud of it.

  The fact that Profit and his people are Vice Lords complicates the fact that Ta’Shara’s sister is the head bitch in charge of the Queen Gs. Street politics clearly states that what’s going on can’t stand. I might not agree with my girl Ta’Shara dating a grimy Vice, but at least Profit’s ass was willing to come out the pocket and get them a nice room at the Peabody. Instead, I’m with this broke muthafucka who got my ass up against this cold-ass locker with my red dress up around my waist and my panties jacked to the side.