Caught Up (2 page)

“
O
hmygod!”
Jordan shrieks the minute we step out of the mall and walk into the bright sun toward the parking lot where her parents' silver 2013 Mercedes is parked. She slides her Ray-Bans on, shaking her head. “I know
you.
Were.
Not.
About to
kiss
that boy, were you? Please,
please
tell me I was imagining things.”

I eye my bestie. Take in her smooth mocha-colored complexion. Her bouncy, shoulder-length hair is done to perfection. Everything about Jordan is always, always perrrrrfect. She has on a short white denim skirt with a yellow camisole and a pair of yellow Minnetonka Ashleys. Her hips swing as she walks. She doesn't walk. She sways.

“Girl, relax,” I say, running my hand through my hair. “We were only talking.”

She stops in her tracks. Peers over the rim of her shades and says, “
Talking?
Is that what they're calling that these days?”

As we approach her car, she aims the remote in the car's direction, disarming the alarm and unlocking the doors.

“Is that what they're calling what?” I feign ignorance as I open the rear passenger-side door, tossing my bags on the seat.

“Oh, don't even try to play me. You know exactly what I'm talking about. All that googly-eyeballing the two of you were doing. Looked to me like there wasn't much talking going on. Oh, wait. I get it. It's called mental telepathy. Was he telepathically telling you how much he wanted to shove his tongue down into your throat?”

I laugh as she opens the trunk and tosses her bags inside. “Whatever.”

“Whatever nothing.” She slams the trunk shut, pulling out her ringing cell. She glances at the screen, then rolls her eyes. “Ohmygod! Why does this boy keep calling me? He's such a frickin' loser.”

She's referring to her boyfriend . . . um,
ex
-boyfriend—for today, that is. Howard. The very corny, very nerdy, six foot three, Harvard University–bound, aspiring neurosurgeon she's been dating since eighth grade. But lately, they've been breaking up like every other week over ridiculousness. Their most recent break-up was over onion rings. Onion rings! Can you believe that? He reached over and ate the last of her onion rings off her plate and it became a major catastrophic event. “He's so selfish and inconsiderate. And I'm sick of it,” she'd said as she prattled on and on about how she could never spend her life with someone like that. “I'm done with him.”

I roll my eyes at her, opening the passenger door. “Uh-huh. Girl, who are you fooling? We both know you are far from done with Mister Howard. You love that boy.”

“Well . . .” She pops her lips. “That's beside the point.” She opens the driver's-side door and slides behind the wheel, then fastens her seat belt. “He's doing too much. I mean, really. He needs to give me a chance to miss him.”

I shake my head. “And this is all over what again?” I ask, pretending to have forgotten.

She sticks the key into the ignition, then starts the engine. “It's over his lack of consideration for my feelings, Kennedy. Geesh. How many times do I have to tell you this? I thought you of all people would understand that. I can't date anyone who can't be sensitive to my needs.”

I blink. “Ohhhhkay. So because he ate the last of your onion rings that makes him inconsiderate and insensitive?”

“Yes.” She backs out of the parking space and drives away. “And thoughtless. Wait. I thought you didn't remember why we'd broke up.”

“Oh, how I've tried,” I say sarcastically.

“Whatever. I know you think it's silly. But it's the principle. He had no right eating food off of my plate without asking me first. How did he know I was finished? He didn't ask.”

“Well, were you finished?”

She gives me an incredulous look as if I've asked a trick question. “Yeah. But he didn't know that.”

I give her a blank stare.

“Oh, save it. Don't give me that look. Today's it's onion rings. Tomorrow it's him telling me what I can and cannot wear, going through my cell phone, and deleting my Twitter and Facebook accounts. I will not have my boundaries violated by any boy. Not even one I'm madly in love with.”

I wave her on, shaking my head. “Girl, please. That makes that boy greedy. Not thoughtless or insensitive. Maybe you're being just a little too hard on him. If you ask me, I think you're blowing this whole thing out of proportion.”

She shoots me an incredulous look as we approach a red light. “Ohmygod! Whose side are you on here?”

“Yours, of course. When you're right, that is. Right now, however, I think you might be overexaggerating things, just a tad. I know I tease you about him being a cornball. But underneath all of his doofiness I kind of like him for you. He's a really nice guy, Jordan.”

She smiles, driving off. “And he's really cute, too.”

Yeah, I guess. If you go for guys with the light skin and green eyes. Howard sort of reminds me of a Corbin Bleu look-alike without the brown eyes, just taller and more muscled. Me, personally, I prefer guys with some color to them. Rich mahogany brown. Dark chocolate. Mmmhmmm . . . delicious.

“And he's really nice,” I repeat, ignoring her “he's really cute, too” comment.

“Well, that's true too. He has his moments. But this isn't about Howard. Or me. Or any of his annoying ways that get under my skin. This is about
you,
so don't even think I've forgotten how you were practically ready to get lost in a lip lock with some random hoodlum.”

I roll my eyes. “He's not a
hoodlum
.”

“Coulda fooled me. That boy reeked of marijuana and roach spray.”

I crack up laughing. “Ohmygod. He did not. That is so not nice. Just because he's from the hood, that doesn't automatically make him a hoodlum. He's actually a nice guy.”

“Mmmph. And how do you know that?”

“Well, I don't. Not really. I mean. He seemed nice. And he didn't come off like a
hoodlum
, as you say.”

“Well, he
looked
like one to me. And you know what they say, if he walks like a thug and talks like a thug, then . . .”

I shake my head. Any boy who wears Timberlands, hoodies, a do-rag, or sagging pants and isn't in a pair of khakis and a polo shirt, or doesn't play lacrosse, is her definition of a hoodlum.

“I know you're familiar with the expression ‘you shouldn't judge a book by its cover,' right? Maybe you should free your mind and try it.”

She takes her eyes off the road, glancing over at me. “My mind is free. And I'm not judging him. I'm merely stating an observation.”

“Yeah, an observation based on opinion. Not fact.”

“Oh, whatever. He probably sells drugs, too. I wouldn't put it past him. No judgment.”

I shake my head. “Wow. I can't tell.”

I love Jordan like a sister. I swear I do. But sometimes she can be so judgmental. And . . . well, disturbingly narrow-minded at times. Still, I wouldn't trade her for the world. She always has my back. And I'll always have hers.

Even though I know what her response is going to be, I decide to ask anyway. “Hey, you want to take a road trip over to Irvington to hang out with my cousins?”

I call it a
road trip,
because although Irvington is only like twenty-five minutes away from where we live, it's like worlds apart from the life she and I live. Where we have estates and circular driveways and tree-lined streets, they have dilapidated buildings, abandoned houses, and trash-littered streets. And they have more murders and robberies than any other town in the area. Still, I enjoy going there to visit my twin cousins Shaniqua and Kaniqua. They're my uncle Kent's—my father's brother's—daugh-ters, and they're hilarious. They live with their mother, Tiny. Well, Tiny isn't really all that little. She's more like whopper size. My brothers used to call her Auntie Big Whopper. Not to her face, though.

Jordan's car almost swerves over into the other lane as she snaps her neck in my direction. “
Irvington? Thugville?
In my parents' Benz? Oh, I don't think so. So I can be robbed? Or worse . . .
raped?
Girl, you have really lost your mind.”

I roll my eyes at her theatrics. “Ohmygod, stop! No one is going to rape you, girl. Besides, you know my cousins look out for us.”

She sucks her teeth. “Girl, please. They look out for
you
. You know your cousins Boomquisha and Boomquita do not even like me. They'd save them roaches they keep for pets from getting stomped out before they'd ever look out for me.”

I laugh. “Oooh, you're so wrong for that. And I'm dead wrong for laughing at it.”

But she's right. They don't like her. They want to fight her. And she's never done anything to either of them. Well, maybe they might have caught her rolling her eyes up in her head when she thought one of them wasn't looking, or they caught her giving me one of her looks when they said or did something that was maybe a little bit on the ridiculous side. Like the time they both had on matching pink bodysuits, a pair of those glass-looking stripper heels, and bright fuchsia china doll wigs. I didn't want to admit it, but they did look like two circus acts. Most times they do.

Still . . . those are my first cousins and they like to party and have a good time. And they don't care who doesn't like it, or them. They do whatever they want. Whenever they want.

“Don't you sometimes just want to live on the edge a little?” I ask, shifting in my seat. “Don't you ever get bored following the rules, or coloring within the lines?”

Jordan gives me a blank look. Then bats her lashes. “I do live on the edge. I'm on the edge of my seat every time I'm out with you, wondering what craziness you're going to get into next, like kissing riffraff.”

“What if I
did
want to kiss him? What's so wrong with that? He had nice lips. And he was cute.”

“Do you even know him?” She lets out a disgusted sigh. “Never mind. Nice lips or not. That's nasty. I mean. Aside from probably sucking down pig's guts and chicken claws, do you even know where that boy's mouth's been?”

I swear. Jordan can be such a joy-kill sometimes. Okay, most of the time. She'll yammer on and on about this for most of the ride to her house if I don't quickly redirect the conversation.

“You're right. I don't know what I was thinking.”

“That's just it. You weren't thinking.”

“I'm sorry, mom,” I say sarcastically. “I won't let it happen again.”

She laughs. “Yeah, right.”

“Soooo, did you end up buying that cute skirt you saw in Nordstrom?”

She shakes her head. “Oh, no. We're not even about to change subjects. Not this time. I want to know where you know that boy from.”

I tell her I don't know him. That I've only seen him a few times in the mall. That he's tried to talk to me several times, but he's always with his friends.

She shoots me a look, rolling her eyes. “So what's his name?”

“B-U,” I tell her, shifting in my seat.

She brakes at the stop sign.
“B-U?
What kind of crazy name is that?” I tell her it's short for Born-Universe.

She frowns, pulling off. “
Born-Universe?
See. What I tell you? Strike one right there. Who in the world names their child
that?”

I shrug. “I seriously doubt that's his real name. At least I hope it isn't.”

She grunts. “Does this Born U . . . B-U, or whoever he is, even have a high school diploma?”

I shrug. “I didn't ask. It's not like I was conducting an interview.”

“Well, you should have been.”

“Jordan, ohmygod! You really need to learn how to relax a bit. I think you need to lay off the
CSI
episodes. They're causing you to overreact.”

She reaches over and touches my forehead. “Kennedy, girl, either you must be coming down with something or you're an imposter. Because the Kennedy I
know
would never, ever, be caught dead trying to kiss some strange boy in the middle of a half-packed mall.”

I swat her hand away. “No, I'm not coming down with anything. And no, I'm not an imposter. Tell the truth. You didn't think he was cute when you saw him?”

“Ummm, nooo. I thought he was
ratchet.
”

I crack up laughing. She sounded so funny saying that. “Jordan, girl. Stop. There was nothing
ratchet
about him. Do you even know what ratchet is?”

“Yeah, I know what it is. Him. Jeans sagging. Underwear showing. I bet you he doesn't even know the real meaning behind wearing his pants sagging like that. Advertising his butt like that. If he only knew all he was doing was giving booty bandits something to drool about. I bet if he were in prison walking around like that he'd break his neck trying to find a belt or rope to keep his pants up over his behind. Or he'd end up wearing Kool-Aid painted on his lips and being called Bubblicious, while Big Bubba and his sweet tooth crew humped up on him.”

I playfully swat at her arm. “Ohmygod, that's so disgusting!”

“Mmmph. He's disgusting. His neck and arm inked up. And what were those teardrops on his face for. Ugh! Then top it off with a mouth full of gold. And there you have it. Ratchet. His teeth are probably all rotted out behind all that metal.”