Caught Up by Amir Abrams Page B

of him being my boo from my head. “No.”
    â€œThat’s what it is. You gonna be at my people’s party, right?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œTrue. I’ma holla at you then, a’ight?”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œTrue. Tell Sash I’ma get up wit’ her a li’l later.”
    We disconnect. I walk over and set Sasha’s phone down on her dresser, then go back through the pile of clothes she has on her bed. This time I go through each outfit with a renewed purpose—to look fly.

13
    â€œM aybe I shouldn’t have worn this,” I say, feeling uncomfortable as I step out of her car and my heeled foot hits the curb. “I feel naked.”
    â€œGirl, stop. You got that fire, boo. And you thick ’n’ curvy in all the right places. You better stop playin’ ’n’ work what ya momma gave you.” She slaps my butt. I jump. “Ooh, you have a nice bouncy booty, too. I don’t even know why you be hidin’ it in all them corny clothes. Show some boob crack! Show some booty crack! Ninjas are visual. They need to see what they think they might be gettin’ even if you ain’t really tryna give ’em nothin’. They’re like dogs. You gotta know how to dangle a bone in front of ’em long enough to get whatever it is you want outa ’em. Then all you gotta do is give him a li’l treat for his generosity.”
    I shake my head. “Oh, I don’t need a guy to buy me things. All I have to do is ask my parents or one of my brothers and they’ll just get it for me.”
    She rolls her eyes. “Well, ex cuuuuse me, Miss Uppity. We all don’t have Mommy and Daddy’s wit’ endless bank.”
    â€œI’m not uppity,” I say defensively, shutting her car door. “And my parents work hard. We’re not rich.”
    â€œMmph. Whatever. Everyone doesn’t have it like you, Miss I Get Whatever I Want. Some of us started from the bottom ’n’ had to scheme our way up on top.”
    She stops, digs in her purse and pulls out a compact mirror. She checks herself in it. Glides a coat of lipgloss over her lips then blows herself a kiss before finally snapping her compact shut and tossing it back down into her bag.
    â€œC’mon, let’s go.”
    We walk up to the house. There’s like six guys on the side of the two-story house that looks like it’s seen better days, shooting dice and smoking. And I want nothing more than to go over and watch and listen and learn. But Sasha isn’t trying to hear it.
    â€œGirl, please. Leave them dust busters alone. They ain’t pushing no real paper. You need a baller in ya life. Not some lightweight.”
    Begrudgingly, I follow behind her trying to mask my disappointment. There’s a group of ten guys either standing or sitting on the porch in wife-beaters and sagging jeans with sparkling chains dangling from their necks, blinged-out watches on their wrists—a few have huge diamonds in their earlobes—drinking and smoking weed. One by one, Sasha introduces me to all of the thugged-out guys.
    I smile, feeling like I’ve just died and gone to thug heaven.
    They all say, “What’s good . . .”
    I eye them, taking in their bulging muscles. Most of them look as if they’ve spent most of their time in the gym lifting weights, sculpting their bodies. A few look like they will shoot first and ask questions later. I feel a tingly sensation creep down my spine at their hoodness as they all drink me in with their wandering eyes.
    â€œMa, you fine,” a tall, dark-skinned guy with half-sleeve tattoos on both of his arms says, licking his lips. “Where you been hidin’ all my life?”
    â€œAway from you,” Sasha jumps in, playfully pushing him out of the way. “Now back up off my girl.”
    I glance at her; surprised she’s called me her girl . I mean, just a few weeks ago I was corny