Chapter 1
The hot July sun beamed down on me, but I was in no mood to beam back. The scorching heat had baked the bleachers to a hundred degrees, and my backside was on fire. Talk about having a hot booty for all the wrong reasons. If I could afford a pair of breezy capris, I’d be sporting them instead of these shabby short-shorts; right about now, my big old thighs were getting fried like chicken. Not cool. Not cool at all.
It was bad enough this basketball game already had me heated. Instead of popping my collar with pride, I was asking, Why? What was the matter with Charles’s game? See, in the beginning, I sat cozy in my front-row seat watching my baby put Crown Heights to shame. Again and again, he glided effortlessly across the concrete, danced his way to the baseline, jumped up to the sky, and then swishhhh, the ball was in there. In there every time. Then all of a sudden—blip—Charles started losing steam, missing shots galore.
Where, oh where, did my baby’s skills go?
But hold up. Wait a minute. Let me keep it real. Charles is not my baby. He’s just my homeboy, my dream boy, someone I’ve known since the second grade and started secretly crushing on in the eighth. And to be honest, I wouldn’t know what to do with Charles if he fell into my lap.… I never even had a boyfriend before.
Still, Charles was the main reason I stayed glued to my seat. He’s a picture of loveliness you just can’t turn away from. Soaring six feet tall, covered in the creamiest dark brown skin—how could I not stay benched in order to make goo-goo eyes at him?
But the problem with his game remained. Charles was now hogging the ball without making a single hoop. I was so disappointed, I was tempted to leap from my seat, snatch the rock, and land a couple of wicked jump shots my dang self. This was one of the hottest games of the summer, seemed like everybody from the Stuy was present, and I wanted Charles to handle the court like I knew he could. Around the way, Charles is known as the shot-blocker, always ready, never scared, commanding the court like a king. But today, he was playing like a court jester, straight-up clowning himself.
Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I yelled between cupped hands, “Yo, Charlie, what are you waiting for? Don’t hold the ball. Dunk it like a doughnut!”
I was alone at this game, and yelling crazy with the rest of the crowd. That’s how I get down when it comes to basketball. I get amped and rowdy, yes sir.
As Charles dribbled up to the net, I leaned forward in anticipation, counting on him to score. Instead, he passed the ball to a clumsy teammate who ended up missing the shot. I was ready to yell at him again, when a girl sitting one row behind me suddenly shouted to her friend, “Yo, check out this trick coming our way.”
“Good lawd, she’s lookin’ mighty stink in pink!”
“Yeah, homegirl must shop at Sluts-Are-Us.” They busted into a fit of loud laughter, sounding like a pair of goofy hyenas.
Tired of watching Charles foul and fumble, I twisted around to sneak a peek at these girls. Both broads were light-skinned, their heads done up in braids, and their necks twisted to the far right. I looked to my right, and—boom!—I spotted their target: a golden-brown model-thin bombshell cutting across the basketball court. She was decked to the nines in a super-tight pink terry cloth jumpsuit, and her long shiny hair was flowing in the wind. A pair of black dazzling sunglasses hid half her face, and to complete her luxurious look, a deluxe tan Gucci tote bag hung from her right shoulder, although it looked kinda flat, like she wasn’t carrying anything inside. Ms. Thing resembled a hoochied-up high-fashion model, so I decided to give her the nickname Gucci Girl.
I’m quick to give somebody a nickname; it’s just something I do. Like, my real name’s Kate, but I secretly call myself Diamond. Why? First of all, because I’m hard as a rock, my skin dark as coal, and I’m as cool as ice.… Well, at least I try to be cool. Most of all, I dig the name Diamond because my real name is straight-up corny for a girl from the hood.… But it’s the name I was given by my deadbeat parents, so oh well, whatever, just call me Kate.
Gucci Girl slowly made her way across the court, tossing her long hair, switching her booty so hard, I thought her hip bones would break. The bounce in her step was determined, like she was trying to prove something to somebody. What did she have to prove? Fly as can be? Don’t ask me. Shucks, if I dared walk next to her wearing my shabby gear, onlookers would’ve sworn I was a bum begging homegirl for a handout.
I was in a sorry state. And the sad thing? No matter how many times I try to come across like a million bucks, I come rolling out the house looking like a million wooden nickels. But what could I do? I’d landed on the Johnsons’ doorstep resembling a rag doll, and based on my first shopping spree with my foster mother, Lynn, it seemed like I would stay looking raggedy.
From the jump, my clothing situation was all jacked up. After being removed from yet another nightmarish foster home, I wound up in a temporary group home, where most of my clothes had gotten stolen.
As soon as Lynn and Ted received me, Lynn pounced on my emergency clothing allowance. “We’re going shopping,” she had announced in a loud official voice. Now I thought I was grown enough to take myself shopping. But oh well, I guess I thought wrong.
On shopping day, however, my head was all gassed up. After Lynn’s big production over my clothing predicament, I just knew we’d swagger through Macy’s, with me picking out this fly shirt and those fabulous jeans. But nope, as soon as we got off the A train in downtown Brooklyn, I found myself stomping through a no-name store filled with no-name clothes, and the clothes were so tacky and cheap-looking, I wanted to cry. Lynn aimed straight for all the clearance sections, racking up three pairs of blah-blah baggy jeans, two pairs of nameless shorts, five plain-Jane T-shirts, and a bag of white giant grandma underwear. I almost got me a new pair of sneakers—until I made the mistake of opening my big fat mouth. “But these are rejects,” I said, frowning at the wannabe-leather white frights. (Reject sneakers are way more obvious than reject clothing, feel me?)
Lynn stared at me with her big bubble eyes and said, “Okay, they’re rejects, and?”
“And they’re not cute,” I explained. “I’ll get clowned on.”
“By who?” Lynn demanded.
“Kids around the way … kids at school—”
“Do these kids put any food in your mouth?”
“No.”
“Do these kids put a roof over your head?”
“No.”
“Okay, now do you see my point?”
“Yes,” I lied. But no, I did not see her point. All I could see were kids pointing and laughing at me if I rocked those cornball sneakers on my feet. Lynn must’ve sensed I was lying, because she raised one eyebrow and glared at me for what felt like an hour. Without saying a word, she yanked the sneakers from my shopping basket and placed them back on the shelf.
“What happened?” I asked in disbelief.
“How about you get no new sneakers and keep the raggedy pair you have on,” Lynn explained. “Bet that’ll teach you not to worry about what other people say. See, you’re going to learn to think differently while living in my home.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, hoping she’d change her mind and buy me a different pair.
Lynn just looked at me with one raised eyebrow and shrugged. “It’s too late for sorry.”
It took all of my might not to roll my eyes at her. Instead, I looked off into the distance, dreaming of a better day.
Man, I was pissed—but I wasn’t surprised. First of all, Lynn was decked out in rejects, too, looking like corn on the cob in her long drabby yellow skirt, and her whack-as-ever hairstyle—I’m saying, who wears a part in the middle of their head in the twenty-first century? So I could see how she felt justified considering her lack of fashion taste.
Second of all, I had already been warned about how Lynn gets down by my social worker, Ms. Tisha Adams, best lady in my life. Before I stepped foot inside the Johnson household, Tisha had prepped me like I was about to go into the ring. “Don’t let Lynn scare you,” Tisha warned. “She’s really soft on the inside, but comes off hard, and comes out fighting. You just have to get used to her.”
Well … it’s been close to six months now in the Johnson household, and so far, I’ve been okay. Ted is crazy cool. I’m getting used to crazy Lynn. And I just have to make the best out of my situation. My parents voluntarily terminated their parental rights when I was one years old; they aren’t coming back for me. I don’t know who, what, when, where they are … and I don’t have any other family members coming forward. So all I can do now is lay low in the Johnson household. At least here I get fed. Got a roof over my head. I don’t get hit. Guess I really don’t need to be dolled up in order to survive.
Clearly, Gucci Girl’s heart was beating solely for fashion. Seemed like she couldn’t live without radiating style and flash. Her fierce sexy strut was killing all the boys sitting in my row, and the females were gasping for breath too, examining homegirl harder than an algebra test. I swear the game almost came to a complete stop upon Gucci Girl’s grand arrival.
“Charles, don’t look!” That’s what I wanted to scream. Nevertheless, Gucci Girl was gangster enough to hijack everybody’s attention—including Charles’s. So what could I do? I couldn’t blame her; I couldn’t hate. If you have it like that, you need to rock it like that. Trust, if I had it like that, I would be rocking it fierce and lovely too.
Of all places to sit, Gucci Girl chose to squeeze in right next to me. Who needed this extra body heat? And the minute she sat down, the jealous broads behind us huffed an extra loud, “Oh buh-rutha!”
Gucci Girl wisely played deaf.
I watched her from the side of my eye. She slowly removed her sunglasses, stuffed them inside her bag, and daintily dug for something else, but came up empty-handed. A split-second later, she caught me off guard by leaning over and jabbing me with her elbow. “Excuse me, you got a loosey?” she asked, staring at me wide-eyed. She had the hazel eyes of a black cat. They glowed in the sun.
Hmm, this girl had a lot of nerve jabbing me like she knew me. You don’t know me. Don’t touch me. I have trust issues, okay? But I remained cool.
Poor Ms. Gucci’s right leg was moving a mile a minute, like she was having a serious nicotine fit. I felt kinda bad for her. “Sorry, don’t smoke anymore,” I explained.
Between me and you, I’m so glad I quit smoking. Never did like the taste of it. I did like the coolness I felt, though, lighting up with the older girls from my old group home. We used to sit in the park, smoking and joking till curfew. These girls rode around in fancy whips, rocked fabulous clothes, smoked weed, and got drunk. I used to feel so privileged smoking with them.… Well, not exactly smoking. As everybody inhaled and exhaled every few seconds, I took one or two puffs, then held the cig in my hand, trying to look smooth as I let it burn down to the butt. When I left that group home, I left my bad habit there too. Saved me some money and the threat of yellow teeth.
Gucci Girl rolled her eyes to the blue sky. “Got gum?”
I shook my head, and again she ho-hummed.
As I sat, wondering why this chick was treating me like a convenience store, she hit me up with another request. “The time?”
I extended my bare wrists to show her—no watch. That’s when she exploded into singsong laughter, showing off two rows of perfect white teeth.
I politely chuckled with her. Then I got to wondering how on earth a desperate smoker could have such perfectly white teeth. As a matter of fact, everything about this girl was practically perfect: her perfect jewel-like teeth, her perfect pretty-in-pink jumpsuit, and her perfect sparkling-white Air Jordans, twinkling and glistening, like they’d just been pulled out of the box. How could she dress all fresh and act a hot mess? I mean really, stop begging!
“My bad, I should’ve come prepared,” Gucci Girl suddenly said, as if reading my thoughts. Then she covered her mouth, “I just hope my breath ain’t kicking. You know I need fresh breath for my boo.”
Boo who? Gucci Girl was acting so familiar with me, as if we had met ten years ago instead of ten minutes. I wasn’t used to girls (especially girls who looked like her) coming at me so strong. Look, I’m hard. She’s soft. I had on dry clothes. She had on fizzy-fly clothes. I mean, I felt flattered by her attention, but I was still confused.
I had to find out where this girl’s head was at. I waited a few seconds, and then asked, “Who are you rooting for?”
“Okay, see the dude in the blue T-shirt?” Gucci Girl pointed a long pink fingernail in Charles’s direction. My stomach dipped down to my raggedy sneakers. I wanted to cry. Of all the guys! “Um, Charles invited you here?” I asked.
“Oh … you know Charles too?” asked Gucci Girl.
“Who doesn’t know Charles?”
“Yeah, that’s true, he is the man.” Gucci Girl smiled, more to herself than me. Then she explained, “But I’m talking about the dude in the light-blue tee, behind Charles.… See him?”
“Okay, I see him,” I said with a sigh of relief.
“Yeah, that’s my boo, Finesse. He practically begged me to come to this game. Ain’t he fine?”
“Indeed,” I agreed. Finesse did look good. He was super-tall, had velvety dark brown skin, and wore his shorts down low, just like my baby. I never noticed this cutie pie before. Matter of fact, I was just getting started with this boy-watching business, and Charles was my main focus right now.
Out of the blue, Gucci Girl patted my leg. “Girl, let me tell you, if I wasn’t here for Finesse? I’d surely be trying to holler at Charles, okay?”
“Oh, for real?” I said, hoping she couldn’t feel me trembling beside her.
“Mm, Charles could definitely get it.” Gucci Girl greedily licked her lips. “He’s looking good enough to eat, okay?”
“You better back up, broad!” Well, that’s what I wanted to say. Instead, I said, “Yeah, Charles is cute.” There was no way I was going to let Gucci Girl know about my crush. Revealing crushes has a way of backfiring. Usually, once you like a dude, he suddenly becomes very interesting to your homegirl. I mean, I never had to worry about my best friend, Felicia. But this flamboyant chick? Couldn’t trust her at all.
Suddenly, she playfully pushed my arm and said, “I don’t even believe you think Charles is just cute. That boy is not cute—he’s fine! Matter of fact, I was in his class, but he—”
“Say what?” I interrupted in disbelief. “You went to P.S. 342?”
Gucci Girl ran her fingers through her shiny hair like a movie star and said, “Yeah … but I came in at the end of February. I just moved here from Maryland and got thrown straight into Charles’s class. Let me tell you, all the girls were on his jock. He had a different girl in his face every week. I didn’t even try to compete.”
I tilted my head and stared at Ms. Gucci for a full minute, then said, “I swear you had to be hiding in a locker somewhere, ’cause I surely don’t remember seeing you.” Surely I would’ve noticed a fabulous chick like Gucci Girl switching her butt around my junior high school.
“Well, I remember seeing you … skipping in the hallways with this tall doofy-looking chick.”
“Don’t dis,” I said. “My homegirl ain’t doofy.”
Seeing the sudden scowl on my face, Gucci Girl flipped the script back to Charles. “Well, Charles never paid me no mind in class. He didn’t even know I existed. But I changed a whole lot since the summer started. Bet he’ll notice me now.” Gucci Girl winked at me.
I didn’t appreciate the wink. Didn’t appreciate her sly grin. I had to change the subject before I got myself all worked up. “Anyway, I was asking which team you want to win.”
“Oh, I’m rooting for Finesse … whatever team he’s on.”
“Okay,” I said, disappointed. Gucci Girl was rooting for the wrong team: Crown Heights. And now I knew exactly where her head was at: up Finesse’s butt. True enough, I was mainly here for Charles and sweating him just as hard—but dang, at least I cared about my baby’s team!
Then again, I couldn’t expect every girl to be crazy about basketball. Can’t be pushing balls into a prissy princess’s court. And that’s exactly why I didn’t bother bringing any friends with me to the game in the first place.… Um … not that I had any to bring. See, my best and only friend, Felicia, had gotten accepted into this once-in-a-lifetime summer program in South Africa. And I had chosen not to go. So basically, I was stuck in Brooklyn for the rest of the summer, with no one to talk to, no one to hang with. Just stuck.
I guess that’s why my defenses were down when it came to Gucci Girl. Who else could I hang with until Felicia got back?
Well … I could’ve tried to hang with some new girls. But the thing is, I’m not crazy. New girls are way too choosy for me to try to be chummy-chummy with. You know how they do. Flash them a smile, and they just look you up and down like, Who the heck is you? Around my way, it seems like there’s nothing but fly girls or gangsters to choose from. And fly girls put the peer pressure on you just as bad as gangsters—only difference is they’re packing lipstick instead of heat. Bottom line: I wasn’t about to do flips in order to belong to any cliques. Feel me?
So with Gucci Girl by my side, I just went with the flow. Now that I had company, I was shouting at the players even louder. I was like, “What are you doing, man? Yoke the ball! Yoke it!” And Gucci Girl was like, “What do you mean, ‘yoke it’?” When the excitement died down, I turned to Gucci Girl and explained, “Hey, a yoke is like a thunderous dunk. You know—bam—in the net.…” I used my hands to show her what I meant. But my voice trailed off once I realized she was paying me no mind.
In a flash, she had whipped out her pocket mirror, and her eyes were now glued to her image. Hmm, okay. So even when it came down to her looks, Gucci Girl was clueless. She didn’t seem to know she was already fabulous. Flawless. She ogled her reflection with the deepest concentration, redoing her glossy pink lips, fluffing out her long and shiny hair.… Meanwhile I was wishing I had hair like hers.
Finally, she clicked her mirror shut. “By the way, my name’s Naleejah.” She moved her Gucci bag over and stretched out her hand to shake mine. In awe of her crazy long pink glittery nails, I was almost afraid to grab hold.
“Hello? What’s your name?” Naleejah laughed.
Oh. I wanted to say Diamond, but too late, I blurted out, “Kate.”
Kate?
If I ever did meet my parents again in this lifetime, I’d have to ask why the heck they couldn’t dump me off with a creative, exotic name with some flavor. Naleejah’s name rang in my head like a million bells. Bong! Bong! Ding dong!
“How old are you?” asked Naleejah.
“Fourteen.”
“Wow,” Naleejah exclaimed. “Fourteen and built like a brick house? Girl, if I had your body, I’d be killing the boys even more than I do now!”
Embarrassed, I skipped over her comment and asked, “Well, how old are you?” I was just curious because she wore makeup and was dressed like a twenty-year-old but had a baby face just like mine. (I have those squeeze-me chubby cheeks, and she has that wide-eyed innocent look.) Since she had been in Charles’s class, I knew she couldn’t have been that much older than me—unless she got left back a couple of times.
“I turn fifteen in August,” said Naleejah.
“Oh snap, me too.” Finally, we had something in common!
Then out of nowhere, Naleejah started eyeballing my face like a curious cat. “When did you get that?” she asked, pointing at my face. She was referring to the small C-shaped scar over my right eye. But why was she being so nosy?
“I been had this,” I explained. “Four years ago … my gang—”
“You’re in a gang!” Naleejah cried out.
“I used to be,” I corrected.
I joined the Lady Killers at age eleven, and I was the youngest of the gang. It was easy for me to get in because of my bad-girl rep around the way, but hard for me to get out because I had pledged gangster fo’ life.
I lasted only two months. True, I liked to fight, but the Lady Killers went for blood. There were five of us: Crash, Icy, Killah, Menace, and me—Rocky. But I was the softest out the crew. These girls thought nothing of robbing chicks for their jewels and slicing the faces of those who resisted. I witnessed plenty of lock-in-the-sock and swing-on-somebody moments. Though I never swung a sock myself, I watched girls get swung on and bashed in the face for no reason. I just stood back and laughed like it was nothing. But I really didn’t feel like laughing. My heart wasn’t in this.
After a while, I could no longer fake it. When I told Icy, the gang leader, that I wanted to leave, no words were spoken. She just frowned and walked away from me. I thought I was free and clear to bounce. But the next day, Crash and Icy cornered me after school, in front of Fulton Street Park. Wearing her famous screw-face, Icy said, “You think you can leave us just like that?” I knew I was about to be jumped, but I wasn’t about to run. As soon as the first punch landed on my jaw, I started swinging wildly. I fought like a ferocious animal, kicking like crazy so no one could get at me. And they couldn’t. It was embarrassing for them. So Crash whipped out her box-cutter and nicked me in my face just before a crossing guard and two random men broke things up. That explains my scar … but I wasn’t about to explain any of this to Naleejah; I was lucky enough to get out of that gang alive, and I didn’t feel like reliving the experience for her nosy behind.
Naleejah was still staring at me wide-eyed when she asked, “Do you have any tattoos from your gang?”
“Nah … but, um, I really don’t feel like talking about this right now. My past stays where it is. Feel me?”
“Yeah, I feel you,” said Naleejah, staring at her nails. “We all have crap in our past. I know I do.”
This was getting a bit too personal, so I turned my attention back to the game. By this time, my baby, Charles, was back in control. I wasn’t sure if this new swagger had anything to do with Naleejah’s captivating presence. Or could it be me catching a case of green-eyed paranoia? Whatever the case, I was just happy to see my baby ballin’ beautifully again.
“What high school are you headed to?” asked Naleejah.
“SOES,” I answered hastily.
Naleejah jerked her head back. “What kind of school is that?”
“Stands for School of Environmental Studies.”
“Sounds special,” said Naleejah with a shrug.
“Yeah, I know,” I replied in a smug tone. Why so cocky? Well, because Naleejah seemed to be blowing off my school, and my school is hot, the first of its kind; so she needed to be blowing kisses instead of disses. I went from Special Ed, to 7-3, to 8-1, and now I was headed to a specialized high school with nothing but A’s and praise lacing up my record. Now if that’s not gangster, I don’t know what is. Nobody can touch my school grind, okay?
Naleejah tapped my leg and asked, “So is this game almost over?”
I left her question dangling because the score was now tied. I couldn’t afford to miss a single play. In protest, Naleejah tapped my leg again, and that’s when I jumped up as if stung by a bee. Charles had just made a bee-you-tee-full shot (three points!) and finally won the game for his team.
“Yeah, Fulton Street Park represent!” I yelled as I bobbed my head to an imaginary beat. Then I started singing, “We fly high—no lie—you know this.” I was feeling so hyped, so proud, as if I had played the game myself. “Balllling!” I continued singing and bobbing my head. I happily looked over at Naleejah, expecting her to rock with me. But she leaped from her seat, brushed off her butt, and said, “Well, I gotta go catch Finesse. Nice meeting you. Bye.”
Just like that. Not even a “Can I get your phone number?” Or “Hope to see you again.” Until then, Naleejah was cheesing and grinning all up in my face, begging for conversation. Now that she didn’t need me anymore, she was ghost? Wow.
But I didn’t sweat her flagrantly foul move for long. I was used to people disappointing me anyway. Listen, if my own flesh and blood parents could walk out on me, what could I expect from a total stranger? Whatever.
The Bed-Stuy boys were now shouting and high-fiving each other, as the Crown Heights cats stood on the sidelines looking dumb and defeated. The two loud girls who’d sat behind me were now standing two feet away, looking just as dumb and defeated. Their faces screwed up tight once they spotted Naleejah on the verge of diving into the throng of boys.
Then a nasty coincidence occurred. Finesse stepped to Charles as soon as Naleejah sashayed up to Finesse. Why did Finesse have to ask for his ball back at this very moment? I was so mad at coincidence! Now what if Naleejah suddenly decided to lose interest in Finesse and work her sexy magic on Charles? Listen, my fantasy bubble was about to be popped if I didn’t take action.
I must admit, it was so weird for me to be feeling this way. So anxious? So catty? So not like your girl Kate. I knew full well Charles didn’t like me like that. I was practically a boy in his eyes; even with my big old butt and boobies, Charles never once tried to holler at me. He even called me son, for goodness’ sakes.
Still, that didn’t stop me from hallucinating. In my dreams, I called Charles my baby, and pictured red roses, candles, and hot and steamy kisses that ended with us snuggled under the covers. (Hey, you can’t get pregnant off a fantasy, okay?)
But back in the real world, I had to deal with the straight-up facts. Naleejah might be checking for my man. So before she could even bat an eyelash at Charles, I had to cut her off at the pass.
I hopped up from the bleacher higher than a bunny on crack and rushed up to the trio. As soon as I got within earshot, I heard Finesse making introductions. “… And this is my boy, Charlie.”
“Hey, what’s up, shorty,” said Charles, his eyes all big and happy.
“Hey,” said Naleejah, trying to sound sexy. Oh brother.
Charles stared at Naleejah for a full minute, then said, “Don’t I know you?”
“No,” said Naleejah with a straight face.
Charles kept staring at her with knitted eyebrows. Then he shook his head and said, “I swear I met you somewhere before.”
“Nope, wasn’t me,” said Naleejah. She didn’t even blink.
Wow, what a good liar; I almost believed her.
Charles relaxed his eyebrows, flashed Naleejah his bright white grin, and said, “Well, I definitely saw you cutting across the court, interrupting our game and whatnot.”
“And I definitely saw you hit that winning shot,” said Naleejah, tossing her hair dramatically. “Congratulations are definitely in order.”
Finesse butted in. “So I don’t get no congratulations?”
Naleejah playfully pushed Finesse in the arm. “Oh, stop being silly. You know I’ll get to you later.” Then she turned back to Charles and said, “I really dug the way you yoked it on those boys!”
I couldn’t believe my ears. What the heck did Naleejah know about a yoke? This fake flirty bird had my man’s head so juiced up, and his eyes so locked down, that he didn’t even notice me standing there with my mouth wide open.
Finesse, who was definitely feeling the same jealous jitters, poked Charles in the shoulder and pointed at me. “Yo, I think she wants you.”
Yeah, if only Charles knew how much.
“Oh, hey, shorty,” said Charles. “Finesse, you know my homegirl, Kate?”
“Nah.” Finesse shook his head, not interested.
“Well, I know Kate,” Naleejah volunteered. She flashed me a plastic grin.
I strained a smile at her, then turned to Charles and said, “When you have a second, I have something to tell you.”
Okay, I was lying through my teeth, but so what?
Finesse took my words as his cue to turn to Naleejah and say, “I’m out. I got some things to handle. I’ll call you later.”
“Okay,” said Naleejah. Meanwhile, her face read, You mean I sat through this boring game just to be dismissed? I guessed Naleejah had no idea that it’s not okay to flirt with your man’s friend in front of your man. The girl really needed a clue.
Finesse snatched his basketball from off the ground and gave Charles a good-bye pound. As soon as Finesse walked away from us, the two braided girls flew up to him, and the taller one looked over her shoulder and flashed a malicious smirk at Naleejah.
Dumbfounded, Naleejah stood frozen in her spot for a couple of seconds. Then she thawed out and said good-bye to us. She sailed across the basketball court, looking wrecked and lost at sea. I exhaled a sigh of relief.
Bon voyage, flirty broad!
I seized Charles by the arm and guided him to the bleachers, as if my news was so big, he had to sit down to hear it. I had no idea what I was going to tell him, but I knew I had to figure out something before he went running after Naleejah. Hey, it was possible. I had to get my man’s attention back where it belonged. All eyes on me, see? No time to lose.
Copyright © 2008 by Dream Jordan
