What's Really Hood! by Wahida Clark Page A

Wiz,” she said.
    “How the fuck you didn’t? Did I know? Did you tell me? Did you purposely not fuckin’ tell me?” Wiz paced the floor, fuming.
     “Did you fuck him, Crystal?”
    Her whole body stiffened like he had slapped her. “I can’t believe you’d even ask me some—”
    He cut her off, his stomach full of butterflies, anticipating the answer. “I ain’t talkin’ about last week! Did you ever fuck
     that nigguh?” This time her whole body went limp, and all she could do was drop her head. Wiz turned away in an anguished
     rage and punched the wall, causing a picture to fall. He chuckled. “What the fuck am I doin’?” He chuckled harder, then laughed
     to keep from crying. “Muhfuckas in the street runnin’ around talkin’ about I’m trying to turn a crackhead into a housewife.
     Fuckin’… laughin’ behind my back like I’m a clown, and you gonna go and do this dumb shit!”
    Crystal was crushed, but she mustered up enough to say, “Then maybe I should just go.”
    “Naw, maybe you should stop smokin’!” he fired right back.
    “I swear to you, Wiz, I’ma try harder, harder than I ever—”
    Wiz’s brushing past her into the bathroom cut her words off. He went straight to her Gucci pocketbook and dumped everything
     on the floor.
    “What are you…” Crystal started to say until she saw him start throwing full bottles of crack in the toilet and flushing it.
     Her habit made her blurt, “Is you crazy?” She tried to reach in the toilet and salvage one of the bottles, but Wiz pushed
     her back and dumped the rest. “Stop it! Leave my shit alone!” she screamed hysterically, beating his back. He stood up after
     flushing everything and looked at her. He could see the hysteria in her eyes. “You gonna give me some more, Wiz! Give me some
     more now!”
    “No.”
    “You ain’t my father, mutherfucka, you can’t control me!”
    “Then control yourself,” he retorted calmly.
    “I swear to God, I’ma suck every dick in Jers—”
    He turned her whole face with an open-handed slap. He didn’t slap her out of anger, so he didn’t try and hurt her. He wanted
     to make her mad.
    She lunged at his face, trying to dig her nails in, but he easily swatted her hands away and told her, “Fight.”
    And she did, swinging wildly, but doing no damage. He reached in and smacked her again. “Fight,” he repeated.
    Crystal grunted with emphasis, swinging, swinging and swinging. Wiz smacked her once more. “Fight.”
    She couldn’t anymore, because she was exhausted. She fell into his arms, sobbing like a small child, lost and turned out.
     He allowed her weight to sag against him, causing them to slide slowly to the floor. He cradled her in his arms, whispering,
     “Fight, baby girl… you’re gonna need it.”

FOUR
    F ive… four… three… two… one…
    Happy new year!!!
    The ball in Times Square dropped, signaling the beginning of 1987 and a new beginning for Crystal. She had never fought so
     hard for anything in her life, but slowly she was regaining her spirit of self, her motivation to be her best, and Wiz was
     with her every step of the way.
    Times Square on New Year’s eve was the place to be, and 1987 was no different. Everyone came out to do it up in their own
     way, but Crystal and Wiz did it big. Wiz rented a cocaine-white stretch limousine and held Forty-Deuce hostage as he and Crystal
     fucked it up in matching full-length chinchillas, diamonds smiling for every flash. They club-hopped from the Silver Shadow
     to the Red Parrot and even blessed the Latin Quarters with a paparazzi-type entrance. They owned the night, so they would
     only share it with each other.
    Back around the way, paper was steadily flowing, so much so that Wiz started selling hundred-dollar clips for fifty dollars.
     He changed the game and had nigguhsblowing his pager like crazy. Nigguhs who ain’t have their weight up couldn’t compete, and those who did had no choice but
     to do the same.