Caught Up by Amir Abrams

else to say. My parents buy me anything I want within reason. Not that I ever ask for much.
    Now, I’m looking at her and kind of feeling sorry for her, understanding a little bit better why she’s the way she is. Mean-spirited.
    Sasha keeps talking as she pulls clothes from off the rack. “Soon as I turned sixteen that trick told me I was grown ’n’ needed to finance my own needs. If I wanna eat, I gotta buy my own groceries.”
    I blink.
    â€œAnd that ole greedy heifer was still gettin’ EBT benefits for me up until last year.”
    She sees the confusion on my face.
    She lets out an annoyed sigh. “Food stamps. Girl, keep up.”
    â€œOh. Okay. What about your dad?”
    She screws her face up at me. “My dad? Why you askin’ ’bout him? What, you a social worker now?”
    I apologize for asking. But then I turn around and I ask her how she affords all of this stuff on her paycheck if her parents don’t buy them for her.
    She bucks her eyes, then scrunches up her face. “See. Now you still doin’ too much. But since you asked, I’m on the ballers ’n’ boosters program.”
    I give her a confused look.
    She sucks her teeth. “You don’t know much of anything, do you?” She shakes her head. “You suburban hoes got a lot to learn. I forget y’all kinda slow.”
    â€œNot knowing what something is doesn’t make me slow,” I say, feeling insulted by her.
    â€œYeah, okay. Whatever. I only rock wit’ ballers who can finance my wears. And if they not tryna come up off them dollars, then I roll up on the boosters ’n’ put my order in. They can get whatever you want. From the knock-offs to the official ish.” She pulls what I’m sure she believes is an official Louis Vuitton bag from off a hook, holding it up. “I’m serious ’bout mine. This bag costs almost fifteen hunnid in the store, but, thanks to my connect over in the Bricks, I got it for only three hunnid.”
    Although I don’t personally carry the coveted luxury bags, my mom does. And I’ve been inside enough Louis Vuitton stores in my lifetime to know what’s real and what’s not. This poor bag she’s holding up, bragging about, isn’t legit.
    â€œThat’s nice,” I lie. I don’t have the heart to tell her that she’s been scammed. Bamboozled. Then again, it’s not my business and I don’t want to be “doin’ too much,” as she said.
    She tries to give it to me. “Here, you can rock it today, if you want. I’m goin’ to serve ’em my Gucci satchel.”
    I shake my head. Decline the offer. Although it’s a really good replica of the real thing, I wouldn’t be caught dead carrying it. “Oh, no thanks. I appreciate the offer, though.” I point over to my lipstick (that’s the name of color) Tumi crossbody bag. “But my little ole bag will do just fine.”
    She makes a face, tossing the bag back into her crammed closet. “Suit yaself.” She shuts the door, then walks over to her bed and tosses an armful of clothes onto the center of it. “Pick through these outfits ’n’ see which one you wanna rock. I’ll be right back.”
    She heads for the door, leaving me wondering what I’m getting myself into by befriending her. Reluctantly, I sift through the pile of designer clothes on her bed. Everything she’s pulled out is skimpy. But I won’t lie. A lot of it is very nice. Still. The idea of having all of my business out doesn’t sit right with me.
    But I did say I wanted to be adventurous this summer, didn’t I?
    Five minutes later, Sasha comes back into the room carrying a bottle of Hennessey and two shot glasses. “I brought us some Hen dog to get the party juices flowin’.” I eye her as she pours herself the first shot. I quickly say no thanks when she’s about to