Chasing Butterflies (18 page)

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Authors: Amir Abrams

BOOK: Chasing Butterflies
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40
I
don’t know how long I’ve had my eyes closed, but I awaken—scared to death, heart pounding in my chest, hopping up off the sofa.
Not from a bad dream.
No.
To something crawling on me.
“Aaah!”
I leap from the sofa and hop up and down as if I’m doing some type of tribal rain dance.
“Yo
whatda . . .
” Omar’s head pops up from his pillow. “Yo, who that?”
I swallow. “It’s m-m-me, Nia,” I stage whisper. “S-sorry if I woke you.”
He sits up, rubbing his eyes. “Yo, what’s wrong?”
“A roach or something was crawling on me.”
He chuckles. “That’s it? Yo, them roaches ain’t thinkin’ ’bout you; just swat ’em ’n’ you good. They just a pain in the ass, that’s all.”
I blink back tears.
He says this as a matter of fact. Says it as if he’s talking about a dog hopping up in bed with you and licking your face.
These are roaches!
Not pets!
No, no, no. I’ll never be good.
He scratches the side of his head. “Yo, why you out here?”
I swallow. Think to tell him about her bed guest. But think twice about it.
I don’t need the headache.
I swallow. “I-I can’t sleep in there.”
I feel his eyes staring at me. “Is Quita home?”
Oh, she sure is. “Yes.”
Back there doing the nasty.
“She in there snoring again?”
No, mewling like some nasty wildcat.
“Something like that,” is all I say.
He sighs. “You want the sofa.”
I vigorously shake my head. “No. That’s okay. I’m fine.” Oh, but I’m really not. I am so creeped out right now. My skin is still crawling with nerves. “C-can you take me back to get more spray tomorrow?” And Bait strips?
Omar yawns. “I got you, baby girl.” He yawns again, lying back down. “Try’n get some sleep; a’ight?”
Is he serious?
Sleep?
I don’t respond.
And, within seconds, he is snoring again.
I fish my iPod out from my bag, sticking an earbud in each ear, hoping to drown out the screaming inside my head.
The sound of Nina Simone’s “Wild Is the Wind” slowly calms me. But it fills me up with so many emotions. It reminds me of Nana. It’s one of her favorite songs.
Every time I listen to this piece, it speaks to my soul.
I can hear Nana singing it. Can see her sitting at the piano, playing it.
My eyes close for a brief moment.
Then they open again.
And t-t-then . . .
Something catches my eye.
Movement.
I rapidly blink. Then squint.
Ohmygod!
Is that—?
It doesn’t take long for it to register in my mind what I see.
I quickly jump up on the sofa, more afraid now than ever before.
I shine the flashlight, feeling my knees shake.
Right here.
In the middle of the floor.
Two sets of beady little eyes are looking back at me.
Two mice.
41
Sha’Quita bursts through the bedroom door. She’s wearing zebra-print leggings and a black tank top with wedge heels. I haven’t spoken to her in three days, ever since that day out on the steps.
No. Wait.
I haven’t spoken to her ever since the night she had that boy in her bed.
“So you still all in ya feelin’s, huh, boo-boo?”
I ignore her.
Don’t even give her the decency of a glance.
She’s so not worth it.
She’s pitiful.
And she’s clearly desperate for attention.
Most bullies are.
I continue writing.
She boldly stands directly in front of me.
Challenging me.
Taunting me.
Trying to intimidate me.
My pen freezes over my journal page.
“Pick and choose your battles, Butterfly . . .”
I sigh inwardly.
“But, Daddy,”
I hear myself whining in my head,
“I don’t know how much more of her I can take . . .”
I don’t want problems with this nutty girl.
I just want to do my time and get out of here with the least amount of complications.
With very little aggravation.
But this girl likes confusion.
“Oh, so you gonna just act like you don’t see, or
hear
, me standin’ here, right?”
Right.
I am purpose driven.
Not emotionally driven.
Intellect over emotion.
Think before you speak.
Think before you act.
Think about how your behavior will affect someone else.
Think about the consequences of your actions.
Think, think, think!
Those are the principles Daddy instilled in me.
Those are the rules that I have lived by.
Up until now I’ve been fine with them.
They worked for me.
Well, guess what?
I’m tired of thinking.
My black felt pen glides across the page of my journal.
I bite my bottom lip.
The tension between this Sha’Quita girl and me is thick.
So thick that I am fighting to breathe.
Fighting to concentrate.
I’m feeling lightheaded.
She stomps over toward the window with the AC unit and yanks out the cord. “Don’t speak then,
trick
. But I bet you won’t be sittin’ up in here suckin’ up none’a this cool air.”
Ohmygod.
She’s so petty.
She wouldn’t even have an air conditioner if it weren’t for
me
.
She’d still be up in this hotbox with that raggedy ceiling fan swirling around hot air and dust and cobwebs. But okay. It’s not that serious. She can unplug it. Heck. She can push it out the window for all I care.
First chance I get, I’m out of here anyway.
I place the cap on my pen, then shut my journal.
“I don’t want to fight with you, Sha’Quita. But it seems like that’s all you want to do. Pick fights with me. Why?”
“‘Seems like
thaaat’s
all you wanna do, Sha’Quita,’” she mocks. “‘Pick fights wit’ me. Why.’ Boo-hoo. Boo-hoo. Crybaby, bye. If I wanted to fight
you
, I woulda been beat the skin off you.” She punches a fist into the palm of her hand to accentuate her point. “I keep tellin’ you, you don’t want it wit’ these hands.”
“Then why are you always trying to start mess with me?”
“Start mess? Girl, bye. I’m far from messy. I was only effen wit’ ya sensitive butt, but since you wanna get all up in ya stank feelin’s, eff you.”
“Whatever,” I mumble.
Screw you, too.
“
What
?” she barks. “I know you ain’t even talkin’ slick under ya breath.”
She steps closer in my space.
My heart races.
Beads of sweat start to line my forehead.
I don’t look directly at her, but I watch her, her moving hands, in my peripheral vision.
Don’t flinch.
“You had better ask them hoes in the streets about me. You don’t know me.”
I’ve had enough of her mouth. “And
you
don’t know
me,
” I snap, finally looking at her.
She jerks her neck to one side. Her face is hard, her eyes narrowing into slits. “
What
, am I supposed to be scared? Am I supposed to cry? Hold on, boo-boo.” She holds a finger up. “Let’s wait for the tears.” She tilts her head. Then snaps a finger in my face.
“Not.”
I give her an impassive stare.
Try to keep my cool.
But inside I’m screaming,
GET OUT OF MY FACE!!
There go those hands again. Moving inches from my face. “Girl, I don’t know why you sittin’ there lookin’ all stupid, starin’ me down. I will take it to ya face.”
Be my guest.
I dare you.
I don’t want this girl putting her hands on me.
I swear I don’t.
But, still...
I double-dare her.
Because if she thinks I’ll just sit here and let her hit me, she has—
Daddy’s voice slices into the room.
“Don’t ever let a bully think you’re scared of them . . .”
“You lucky I’m not tryna eff up my nails today, otherwise I’d smack ya lights out.” Pointing a finger at me, she leans in and grits her teeth, trying to intimidate me. “But keep it up ’n’ you gonna feel my wrath.”
This girl is exhausting.
This time I’m determined to keep my stare locked on hers, my expression a mixture of disgust and disbelief.
But then something catches my eye.
Movement.
There’s a roach crawling up her leg.
And she is seemingly unfazed by it.
Or maybe unaware.
Her phone rings.
And, just like that, our stare down comes to a screeching halt.
She rolls her eyes. “You lucky, boo-boo.”
Oh. Okay.
“Heeeeey, boo,” she says all jolly-like. “Whaaaat? Say, word,
bish
! Yasss, yassss! When? Ooh, you know I am feenin’ for a taste of that dark chocolate. Oooh, yasss, yasssss . . . I wanna ride him like a roller coaster . . .” She laughs. “You know that’s my boo . . .”
Who isn’t?
“Bye, trick. I’m comin’ through right now. Tell him I said don’t leave.” She grabs her lip gloss from off her dresser, then shoots a nasty glare over at me before shaking her hips toward the door.
I think to tell her she has a roach crawling up her legging. But I decide to let her go on about her business with her travel companion in tow.
Nasty girl.
42
“A
unt Terri,” I whisper into the phone, two days later. It’s taken me that long to finally reach her. “Please. You have to get me out of here.”
“Well, what’s the problem
now
, Nia?” she asks, sounding the least bit concerned.
“The same stuff. These people are . . .”
“Your
blood
family, Nia,” she says matter-of-factly.
“But I don’t relate to them, Aunt Terri. They are—”
“Sweetie,” she says, interrupting me. “We’ve already had this discussion. I need at least a month or two to get things situated.”
Wait.
A month or two?
Am I hearing things?
Where is this
or two
coming from?
I begrudgingly agreed to
one
month,
after
she convinced me to come here for two weeks. Now she’s saying
or two
. When did things change,
again
? And why am I just hearing about it? I feel myself starting to get choked up.
“Aunt Terri, I agreed to two weeks. Then you said you needed another few weeks. And I unhappily said okay. Now this.”
How can she do this to me?
“Well, there’s some issues with your father’s estate that need to be cleared up first.”
Ohmygod.
I massage my left temple, trying like heck to fight back the beginnings of a headache. “What do you mean?”
“This has nothing to do with you, Nia. So don’t worry yourself. Everything will work itself out one way or another.”
I frown.
What the heck does she mean this has nothing to do with me?
This
whole ordeal has
every
thing to do with
ME
!!
“Please, Aunt Terri. I’m not going to make it here for a
whole
month, or
two
. That’s my whole summer! What about school?”
She sighs into the phone. “We’ll cross that bridge when it’s time,” she says nonchalantly.
But the bridge has already been crossed. And I’m ready to jump off!!
“Just try to enjoy your time getting to know your family.”
I bite into the side of my bottom lip to keep from screaming, but inside I feel myself about to lose it. Being fresh and disrespectful to any adult isn’t how Daddy raised me. So I keep biting, until I draw blood.
“Can I have the number for Daddy’s lawyer?” I ask, sniffling.
“Why?”
“So I can talk to him about me staying somewhere else until I can come to Georgia.”
“I don’t have his number on me,” she quickly says. “Anyway, like I said, Nia. You need to get to know them, especially your father.”
“Aunt Terri, I’m not trying to be disrespectful, but why are you trying to push me off on these people, huh? Do you hate me that much?”
“Nonsense, Nia. I don’t hate you.”
Umm. I can’t tell. “Then why are you doing this to me?”
She sighs in my ear again. “I’m doing what’s best for you, Nia. I know it’s hard for you to understand right now. But you’ll thank me later.”
I’ll never thank you. Never.
“Aunt Terri, what I need is to be with the family I
know
. Not with . . .” I pause, heaving a sigh. “These people are
crazy
. They’re a bunch of alcoholics and drug addicts.”
“Well, are they mistreating you?” she asks dismissively.
I blink. “Yes. Well, no. I mean, I guess.”
“Well, which is it? Are they or aren’t they?”
I swallow. “Not really. I mean this girl keeps trying to start stuff with me . . .”
“And do you not
know
how to fight?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then whip her tail.”
“But I don’t want to fight her. I want to come home.”
“You have no home, Nia. How many times do I have to remind you of that?”
With those words, I suddenly lose my composure, bursting into tears and sobbing into the phone.
Her words, her truth, slice into my heart.
“Nia, you need to pull it together. Crying over spilled milk isn’t going to bring your father back. He’s gone, but . . .”
Through breathless gasps, I think I hear her telling me that I need to count my
blessings
.
What blessings?
I would often overhear Daddy saying Aunt Terri was crazy.
Now I see why.
She
is
crazy!
Crazy to think pawning me off on a bunch of strangers is a
blessing
!
“Daddy always said all you ever cared about is money,” I blurt out. “And now you’ve said it yourself. You don’t want me around because you can’t get your hands on Daddy’s money.”
“Nia, you watch your tone with me, young lady. I’ve said no such thing. I don’t want what he left for you. So don’t you dare go putting words in my mouth! All I care about is getting what’s rightfully mine—my portion of
my
mother’s inheritance that
my
brother stole from me. That has nothing to do with
you
.”
“B-b-but you said I would come live with you.”
“I know what I said, Nia,” she says sharply. “But that was then. And this is now. And up until now, everything has been handed to you on a silver platter. You’ve been spoiled rotten, little girl. And right now, it’s time for
you
to get a taste of how life is on the other side.”
Ohmygod! What is she talking about? “But this place is s-so n-n-nasty,” I whine, wiping tears from my face. “And these roaches . . .”
“That’s too bad, Nia. You’re going to have to figure out a way to deal with it. Now I’m done with having this conversation. You’ll come here when I’m ready for you to come here. Until then, get over it. I’ll call you in a few weeks to check in.”
“B-b-but, Aunt Ter—”
Blooop.
The line’s gone dead.

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