my tongue.
Iris and Chanel stared at me, shakin’ their heads. But I bet them bitches put down that blunt they’d been passin’ back ’n forth all night.
“Don’t stop now,” I said, laughin’, stickin’ both hands up and crossin’ my fingas. “Ya’ll bitches done got the cooties.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
O n some real shit, the other night had me lookin’ at shit sideways. I mean, I got love for my girls ’n all. But, the more I was around them bitches the less I was feelin’ ’em, especially Iris’s and Tamia’s triflin’ asses. I guess my mental was much deeper than theirs. A bitch like me was lookin’ at shit outside the fuckin’ hood, while these broads were tryna stay chained to it. That ain’t my flow. Don’t get it twisted. I love the hood and all that it brings. But I ain’t tryna live and breathe the shit every damn day, feel me? But I also knew that no matter where the fuck I went, I was takin’ me with me. If I didn’t change, then nothin’ changed. But how can a bitch ever leave her past when the shit is constantly starin’ me right in the fuckin’ face? Even if I wanted to, which I don’t, how can I ever forget where the fuck I come from when I gotta constantly keep comin’ back to it? Fuck what ya heard. The hood is always gonna be in my blood. But what’s wrong with a bitch wantin’ something better? Is it really so wrong? Hell fuckin’ no!
I don’t know why the fuck she still gotta live here, I thought as I pulled my truck up in front of my old buildin’. I flipped down my visor and checked my face, then watched as a group of kids came walkin’ down the street—three chicks and four dudes, all ’bout thirteen, fourteen, passin’ ’round what looked like a bluntas they walked and talked. They seemed to be havin’ a live discussion, cursin’ and laughin’. I glanced at the digital clock: 11:17 a.m. I smiled, rememberin’ the days Chanel, Tamia, Iris, and I would be walkin’ to catch the number 2 train to Flatbush Ave. to chill while gettin’ lifted ’n talkin’ shit. We’d be fresh to death in our matchin’ wears, rockin’ the crisp Nike Uptowns or Stan Smiths in our little bootie shorts and T-shirts knotted in the back. Our hair would be pulled back in tight ponytails with the bangs and we’d have our bamboo earrings or doorknockers swingin’ and our gold name plates danglin’ ’round our necks. And e’ery now and then we’d rock our matchin’ gold fronts. Ugh! But you couldn’t tell us bitches nothin’.
Nothin’ had really changed since I moved outta the hood and outta Brooklyn two years ago. Gunshots were still poppin’; niggas were still droppin’; bitches were still stuntin’; muhfuckas were still gettin’ high; the drug game was still live ’n kickin’. Same shit, different playas. The only difference, these little young niggas and bitches were more reckless with it than when I was out here. And now with this gang shit, the hood was real hectic.
As the group got closer to my truck, I sat a few minutes longer and watched an older woman who looked like she was in her fifties or so, carryin’ two bags and her pocketbook, walkin’ toward the group of kids. She was tryna get through the group, but no one moved outta her way so she could pass. Instead of gettin’ in a confrontation, the woman tried to go ’round ’em. But one of the young girls—sportin’ cornrow extensions and big danglin’ earrings—just had to be a little bitch ’bout it and purposefully bumped into the woman, knockin’ her bag outta her hand. Everyone in her posse thought the shit was funny and started laughin’. The woman gave them a glarin’ look, pickin’ upher things. I already knew if they tried to hurt her, I was gonna jump outta my truck and bring it to ’em. I cracked my windows to listen.
“Bitch, whut iz you lookin’ at?” the young chick asked. The woman ignored her. “Dumb, old-ass bitch, ya lucky I’m in a good mood. Or me ’n my niggas
Iris and Chanel stared at me, shakin’ their heads. But I bet them bitches put down that blunt they’d been passin’ back ’n forth all night.
“Don’t stop now,” I said, laughin’, stickin’ both hands up and crossin’ my fingas. “Ya’ll bitches done got the cooties.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
O n some real shit, the other night had me lookin’ at shit sideways. I mean, I got love for my girls ’n all. But, the more I was around them bitches the less I was feelin’ ’em, especially Iris’s and Tamia’s triflin’ asses. I guess my mental was much deeper than theirs. A bitch like me was lookin’ at shit outside the fuckin’ hood, while these broads were tryna stay chained to it. That ain’t my flow. Don’t get it twisted. I love the hood and all that it brings. But I ain’t tryna live and breathe the shit every damn day, feel me? But I also knew that no matter where the fuck I went, I was takin’ me with me. If I didn’t change, then nothin’ changed. But how can a bitch ever leave her past when the shit is constantly starin’ me right in the fuckin’ face? Even if I wanted to, which I don’t, how can I ever forget where the fuck I come from when I gotta constantly keep comin’ back to it? Fuck what ya heard. The hood is always gonna be in my blood. But what’s wrong with a bitch wantin’ something better? Is it really so wrong? Hell fuckin’ no!
I don’t know why the fuck she still gotta live here, I thought as I pulled my truck up in front of my old buildin’. I flipped down my visor and checked my face, then watched as a group of kids came walkin’ down the street—three chicks and four dudes, all ’bout thirteen, fourteen, passin’ ’round what looked like a bluntas they walked and talked. They seemed to be havin’ a live discussion, cursin’ and laughin’. I glanced at the digital clock: 11:17 a.m. I smiled, rememberin’ the days Chanel, Tamia, Iris, and I would be walkin’ to catch the number 2 train to Flatbush Ave. to chill while gettin’ lifted ’n talkin’ shit. We’d be fresh to death in our matchin’ wears, rockin’ the crisp Nike Uptowns or Stan Smiths in our little bootie shorts and T-shirts knotted in the back. Our hair would be pulled back in tight ponytails with the bangs and we’d have our bamboo earrings or doorknockers swingin’ and our gold name plates danglin’ ’round our necks. And e’ery now and then we’d rock our matchin’ gold fronts. Ugh! But you couldn’t tell us bitches nothin’.
Nothin’ had really changed since I moved outta the hood and outta Brooklyn two years ago. Gunshots were still poppin’; niggas were still droppin’; bitches were still stuntin’; muhfuckas were still gettin’ high; the drug game was still live ’n kickin’. Same shit, different playas. The only difference, these little young niggas and bitches were more reckless with it than when I was out here. And now with this gang shit, the hood was real hectic.
As the group got closer to my truck, I sat a few minutes longer and watched an older woman who looked like she was in her fifties or so, carryin’ two bags and her pocketbook, walkin’ toward the group of kids. She was tryna get through the group, but no one moved outta her way so she could pass. Instead of gettin’ in a confrontation, the woman tried to go ’round ’em. But one of the young girls—sportin’ cornrow extensions and big danglin’ earrings—just had to be a little bitch ’bout it and purposefully bumped into the woman, knockin’ her bag outta her hand. Everyone in her posse thought the shit was funny and started laughin’. The woman gave them a glarin’ look, pickin’ upher things. I already knew if they tried to hurt her, I was gonna jump outta my truck and bring it to ’em. I cracked my windows to listen.
“Bitch, whut iz you lookin’ at?” the young chick asked. The woman ignored her. “Dumb, old-ass bitch, ya lucky I’m in a good mood. Or me ’n my niggas
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