Caught Up (3 page)

“Ohmygod, stop!” I bite the inside of my lip to keep from laughing.

“No. You need to stop being so naïve. Kennedy, those kinds of boys will do nothing but use you up, then break your heart. You remember Nyla's cousin Sheema, right?” I nod. “Well, she hooked up with some thug from Newark, and now she's a druggie and pregnant.”

“A druggie?”

“Yes. All she does is smoke marijuana all day.”

“That doesn't make her a druggie.”

“Well, it makes her stupid; that's for sure. And three months pregnant.”

“And you blame that on her boyfriend?”

“Correction. Her
thug.
And, yes, I do. He is and was her demise. Now back to you. Since when you start vying for the attention of thugs?”

I don't tell her that I've secretly lusted for bad boys since like forever. I'm not in the mood for a long, drawn-out lecture from her. Or being under her judgmental scrutiny for having a deep affinity for the street life.

I shrug. “I'm not vying for their attention. I'm simply trying to have a little fun. You know. Do something different.”

She narrows her eyes. “So what is this, some sort of teen life crisis? You want to do something different, go snowboarding. Go paragliding. Go shopping for a pair of red hooker heels. But you don't go rifling through the trash for a boyfriend.”

I wave her on as she navigates traffic, my hand absently tracing the thick leather piping of my purse. “You're such a hater.”

“I am most certainly not,” she says, feigning insult. “I simply hate seeing my dearest bestie in the midst of making the most tragic mistake of her life. I thought I was going to collapse right there in the middle of the floor seeing the two of you all cozied up like that.”

I laugh. “Then I guess he and those sexy lips of his would have been the ones to resuscitate you. It would serve you right for how rude you were to him.”

“Ewww. Not! Leave me dead on the ground. Please and thank you! I wouldn't want that boy's hood cooties anywhere near me, or my mouth.”

I laugh and playfully suck my teeth. I decide to not mention that he thought she was stuck-up. It wouldn't matter to her, anyway, what he thought of her. She knows she's a snob. Well, as she says it, “I know I have snobbish ways.”

She snorts. “I was not rude. I just wasn't interested in being nice.”

“Same difference, girly. Same difference.”

“I
mean, like, seriously, Kennedy. What do you even see in them hoodlums? They are so . . .”

“They're so . . . how can I delicately say this? They are so . . .”

“
Beneath
you,” she says pointedly, shooting a glance over in my direction as she pulls around her circular driveway.

“Ohmygod, Jordan!” I exclaim, shaking my head. I can't believe she thinks that. That because a guy doesn't live in a gated community, or attend a private school, or drive a luxury car gifted to him by his parents (or grandparents) that he isn't worthy of dating, or falling in love with. “You are so out of control right now. What a classist thing to say.”

She rolls her eyes, parking her car in front of the cobblestone walkway that leads to her front door. “No. You're the one out of control, Kennedy. Practically ready to kiss some derelict, and in public no less.” She shakes her head, turning off the engine. “Is this some kind of crazy phase you're going through? I mean. We've been best friends for, like, forever, so you can tell me if it is. Because it seems to me like you might be struggling with some sort of teen life crisis or something.”

I sigh, opening the car door. “
Noooo,
it's not a
phase
. And the
only
thing I'm struggling with at the moment is
you.
”

She opens her door, popping the trunk open. “Struggling with
me?
All I'm doing is stating the obvious.”

I raise a brow at her. “Oh, really? What exactly is that?”

She grabs her bags, slamming the trunk shut. “That the only thing any boy from the
ghetto, hood, slums
, or whatever they're calling it these days can ever do is use and abuse you, Kennedy. They'll break your heart. Then toss you out like last night's trash while they lie in wait for their next unsuspecting suburban victim.”

I frown. “Ohmygod! That is so not true. Having my heart broken has nothing to do with someone's socio-economic status, where they're brought up, or what race they are. Heartbreakers and users come from all walks of life.”

“Well, that might be true. But they're being bred in the ghetto,” she says dismissively. “Kennedy, I can't believe you're being so naïve right now.”

“Well, that makes the two of us,” I say defensively. “I can't believe you're being so dang biased.”

“I'm not biased. Face it, Kennedy. Most of those so-called thug boys you're so fascinated with are high-school dropouts, use drugs, sell drugs, are in gangs, and in and out of juvy.”

“That is so not true. There are plenty who graduate high school and even go off to college.”

She laughs, shaking her head while sliding her key into her door. “
Plenty?
Yeah, right. Wishful thinking. Try
plenty
of prison-bound losers. I don't know what TBS special you've been watching. But you need to either change stations, or remove those rose-colored lenses you're looking through. There are
plenty
of dropouts. There are
plenty
hanging on street corners.”

I sigh.
It's time I face the blaring truth
, I think, following behind Jordan as she lets herself into her house replete with shopping bags galore.
There's nothing I can ever say that will make an ounce of sense to her about my affinity toward boys from the hood. So there's no sense in wasting my breath trying to explain it.

She drops her bags onto the marble floor of her foyer. I walk behind her as she heads toward the kitchen. No one else's here. Her parents oftentimes work long hours. They are both corporate attorneys who work out of a Madison Avenue law firm in New York City. Like me, Jordan is the youngest. But instead of having three older, overprotective brothers, she has three older sisters who spoil her rotten. I so envy her for that. I wish I had sisters. I mean. Having older brothers is kind of cool. But they can be annoying. And bossy; especially when they're trying to be my fathers.

Anyway, like my siblings—who are all in the armed forces (my nineteen-year-old brother, Kent, is in his second year as a cadet at the Naval Academy; my twenty-one-year-old brother, Keith, just graduated from West Point; and my twenty-three-year-old brother, Kenneth, is a commissioned officer in the Air Force)—her sisters all live out on their own. So, for the most part, she has this big gigantic house all to herself, to do whatever she wants long before her parents' commute home comes to an end for the night.

“You want anything to eat?” she asks as she's grabbing two bottles of Fiji water and a large bowl of strawberries from the fridge. “I can heat up some chicken strips if you want.”

I shake my head, reaching for the latest issue of
Seventeen
magazine lying on the aisle counter. “No. I'm fine.” I flip through the pages. I roll my eyes when I stumble on an article on Miley Cyrus and her newest love interest. Jordan tells me to grab some napkins from the marble table. I shut the magazine, grab a handful of napkins, then follow her upstairs to her room.

I love Jordan's room. In addition to having a huge king-size bed and fifty-inch flat-screen TV, she has a massive walk-in closet, a huge bathroom with a Jacuzzi tub and separate shower stall, and a balcony.

My bedroom isn't anything to sneeze at, but it's definitely nothing like hers. I'd kill to have my own private bathroom in my room.

I open my water, take a few sips, then place the cap back on, and set it down on the floor beside her bed. I kick off my shoes and flop back against the big, fluffy pillows on her bed, flipping through the magazine I've been holding in my hand.

“So, what time is Hope getting here?”

She steps out of her bathroom, completely changed into a pair of red boy shorts and a black sports bra. “She should have been here by now. You know she's almost always never on time. That girl will probably be late to her own embalming.”

I shake my head, laughing. “You're stupid.”

The doorbell chimes three times as Jordan picks up her buzzing iPhone.

“Speaking of the Miss Late, that's her now.”

She scurries out of the room and rushes down the stairs to get the ringing doorbell. A few seconds later, she returns with Hope following behind her.

“Ooh, you nasty heathen,” she says pointedly as she drops her Burberry tote on Jordan's dresser. “I heard you were going to let some
thug
kiss you right out in the open at the mall. Please tell me it's all lies.”

She looks cute. She's wearing all white, a pair of white capris with a white blouse that crisscrosses in the front. I glance down at her white Marc Jacobs leather wedged sneakers.

“Those are cute,” I say, pointing at her feet. My feeble attempt to deflect the question. “Where'd you get those?”

“Nordstrom.”

“Girl, later for them shoes,” Jordan snorts, flicking her wrists. “They are cute, though. But that's irrelevant at this moment.”

Hope's eyes widen. “Says who?”

“Says me,” Jordan counters. “Now let's get back to Kennedy and Sir Kiss 'Em on the Lips.”

I roll my eyes at her. “No. Let's not.”

“Tell Hope what his name is. B-U, right?”

“B-U? What kind of name is that?”

I groan. “It's short for Born-Universe.”

Hope blinks. “Dear God. How exotic.”

Jordan snickers. “And original, right?”

Hope rolls her eyes. “Oh, definitely. Creativity and uniqueness at its best.”

I suck my teeth. “Okay, okay; enough about my day at the mall.” I shoot my gaze over at Jordan. “How about we talk about
you
and your break-up with Howie for the umpteenth time this month?”

Hope gasps. “
Again?
What the heck is wrong with y'all? What, this is like break-up number six in the last four weeks?” She shakes her head. “Y'all need therapy.”

I laugh.

Jordan rolls her eyes. “We don't need therapy. What we need is a permanent break from each other.”

I give her a “yeah right” look.

“No. I'm serious,” Jordan insists. “I think we spend too much time together. And now we act more like brother and sister than we do boyfriend and girlfriend.”

Hope shakes her head. “Uh, no. Y'all need relationship counseling, hun. I hate to be the bearer of bad news. But both of you seem to have problems with communicating. You do know communication is key to any successful relationship, right?”

I chuckle. “Ohmygod, you are starting to sound like your mom.”

She giggles. “I know, right. It's getting scary. She keeps saying I'm going to end up becoming a therapist like her. But she's wrong. I'm going to practice law.”

Jordan huffs. “I'm too young for relationship counseling. That counseling stuff's for old folks who are about to get divorced.”

“Wrong,” Hope corrects. “Counseling is for anyone with problems or issues they can't solve on their own. And you, girly, I don't mean to rain on your parade. Or pull the rug from under your feet. But
you
have some serious relationship issues. My mom says it's not healthy for couples to constantly keep breaking up. She says it's a sign that there are bigger problems in the relationship.”

Oh, Lord! Here we go. Hope's about to get on her soapbox again. Oh, goodie.
I fake a yawn. Sitting here listening to this is enough to put me to sleep.

Jordan plops down on her bed. “Okay, Life Coach, I've heard enough. Next topic,
please
.”

Hope shrugs. “Well, don't say I didn't try to warn you, hun.” She pulls out her iPhone and snaps a picture of the three of us, then posts it on her Instagram page. “Hey, y'all want to go shopping in the city tomorrow, then catch a movie?”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” Jordan says enthusiastically. “Then we can go uptown to my favorite bakery so I can buy a dozen of my favorite red velvet cupcakes.”

“Ohmygod!” Hope exclaims. “You and that bakery.”

“Sorry. I can't go,” I say, biting into a strawberry. Juice squirts from my mouth. I lick my lips. “I have to work tomorrow.”

“Well, what time do you get off?” I tell her seven o'clock. “In the
evening
?”

“Uh, yeah. I go in at one.”

Hope sighs. “And why are you working again? It's not like your parents have fallen on hard times. So it's not like you
need
the money. Right? Don't they still give you an allowance?”

“Yeah, I still get my allowance.” I tell her I like working. That it makes me feel responsible and that I like earning my own money. But I leave out that the best part of going to work is that I get to see all the cute boys from the hood that I wouldn't be able to see otherwise if I weren't working in the mall.

“Oh, okay. If you say so,” she says, half interested in my reasoning. Aside from volunteering at the hospital as Candy Stripers on the weekends during the school year, Jordan and Hope prefer to live off of their parents' money. And as long as they maintain straight A's they can do exactly that. I can as well. But choose not to.

“So what's going on with that trampy girl at the job who is always eyeballing you and rolling her eyes at you every time you walk by? She sounds scary.”

I roll my eyes around in my head. “Oh, you're talking about Sasha.
Psst
. I don't know what her problem is. I've been nothing but nice to her. All she does is stare and talk about me behind my back, but she says it loud enough so I can hear her talking about me. I've never done anything to her.” I shake my head. “It's like she wants to start something with me.”

Jordan and Hope give me sympathetic looks.

“Poor thing,” Hope says, shaking her head. “She sounds like she has issues. Didn't you say, like, she's real ghetto and trashy.”

“Yeah. She is.”

“Ugh. And she talks that stupid, annoying Ebonics, too,” Jordan chimes in. “Now, that's who needs counseling.”

Hope shudders. “Ugh. That's so not cute.”

“Yeah. Tell me about it,” I say, glancing at my watch.

Jordan reaches over and grabs my hand. “Maybe she's just jealous of you.”

I groan. “I don't know what that girl's problem is. She has no reason to be jealous of
me
. She's really pretty. And has a really nice shape. And a lot of the guys who come in to order seem to always either know her or want to get to know her. So I don't think it's that. All I know is, I try to be nice to her, most times. But, she's always so nasty. So now I try to avoid having any interaction with her as much as I can help it.”

Hope gives me a pitiful look. “Well I don't know why you're working there anyway. Being around those bad elements isn't good for you. All those low-budget hood roaches.” She shakes, feigning a chill. “What if you catch something from one of them, then what? You'll have to be quarantined for the whole summer.”

I roll my eyes. “Ohmygod, Hope! Stop!”

She shrugs. “You never know.”

Jordan says, “Anyway, you be careful. That ghetto girl sounds like major trouble.” She reaches for her buzzing phone. She raises her brows and huffs when she sees who's calling her. “She sounds like she's cuckoo-crazy.”

“O-M-G!” Hope exclaims, looking from Jordan to me. “You think she might be dangerous? You know them ghetto girls are always getting arrested for fighting and stabbing each other.” Her brown eyes widen with alarm.