The Ex Factor: A Novel (6 page)

Monica prayed that the tumors had not returned; she couldn't take another ounce of her womanhood being siphoned out. Immediately she felt as if she were drowning and holding on to her femininity by a string.

“Monica,” Sharief called, walking into her bedroom.

“Damn, you scared me.” She let out a deep breath.

Sharief sat down on the edge of her bed. He placed her feet in his lap and wrapped his hands around them. “Monica, I wanna talk to you about us.”

“I don't want to talk.” She snatched her feet back and continued to look at the ceiling. “It's a wash. We're both outta line. Truth be told, I'm not tryna be my brother-in-law's booty call. That shit's a wrap.”

“Monica—”

“Let me finish,” she said sternly. “I'm not some li'l young, get-money chick from around-da-way, tryin' to get souped up over some Common-Sense-lookin' cop niggah. This ain't the free-pussy lounge, so let's keep it real. Go home to your wife and get some brain, maybe then y'all can get back together.” She sat up in the bed. “Ya dig?”

“Have you lost your goddamn mind talking to me like that? You think this about pussy?” Sharief asked, taken aback and standing up.

“I don't know what it's about, but I do know that it's not every day your brother-in-law sucks your clit out the socket, okay?” Monica was saying all that she could to piss him off.

“Get the fuck outta here,” Sharief was in disbelief, “let me keep it real for you, since you seem to be in La-La Land. You wanted your clit sucked out the socket. You wanted me to fuck you last night, the night before, months before, years before, you wanted to be fucked 'cause you been on my dick since I met you.”

“Whatever, niggah,” she yarned. “Beat it with the bullshit.”

“Check this, ma.” He pointed his finger, upset with himself that he was allowing her to take him there. “Let me put you down on some real shit. A niggah don't ever leave his wife for the sideline broad, so you're giving yourself too much credit. If and when I leave my wife it'll be because I want to, not because your pussy is that grand!”

“It's not that grand?” she questioned. “Well, I can't tell, as much as your face stays in it! So please, all of y'all niggahs are just alike.”

“Don't compare me with anyone else!” he yelled, banging his fist on the dresser.

“Would you please, Jamal's downstairs.”

“He's sleep.”

“He can still hear you!”

Lowering his voice, Sharief pursed his lips tight. “Check it, learn keep your legs closed, since you so fuckin' stand-up.” He turned toward the doorway, then turned back around and tossed the house keys she'd given him at the foot of the bed. “From this moment on you are my wife's sister!” And with that said, he slammed the door behind him.

“Y
O
,
TASHA AND Quiana here?” Sabrena, Imani's friend and neighbor, asked her. “ 'Cause Shante needs her ass cracked! Or should we get my .22 to do it?” Sabrena was standing at Imani's front door with her neck twisted and her heavy breasts resting on her stomach. Sabrena was always in whip-ass mode, and fucking up whoever was nothing but a word. “Yo,” she chuckled, “you know how we roll. Blind, cripple, and crazy. From eight to eighty, I'll beat a bitch's ass! Straight duff a ho, pregnant and all.” Sabrena placed her hands on her hips as she walked passed Imani and into the living room, where Lil' Kim's “Put Ya Lighters Up” was on full blast. Tasha and Quiana were sitting on the couch, smoking a blunt. Imani had been out of jail since this morning, and in an effort to clear her mind she'd called her friends over for their pre-club ritual.

Despite Tasha's, Quiana's, and Imani's eyes being half closed, they couldn't help but stretch them and give Sabrena a quick once-over. Tasha and Quiana cracked a sly, one-sided smile, while Imani placed her hand over her mouth, took a deep breath, and
shook her head. God knows, they'd grown tired of telling Sabrena,
Just because Rainbow has it in your size doesn't mean you have to rock it.
Flopping down on the arm of Imani's white leather couch and throwing one thigh over the other, Sabrena wore a knockoff Louie V halter-scarf top with white-fringed denim shorts that fell just below her ass cheeks. Her size sixteen thighs were completely exposed and she didn't give a damn; as far as Sabrena was concerned she was that bitch. On her feet she wore white open-toed, three-inch riding boots that zipped on the side. And her French manicure consisted of neon pink for the base and bright white for the stripe.

Chewing gum, Sabrena blew a big bubble and popped it. “ 'Sup niggahs?” She snapped her neck from side to side. “Y'all know we been dying to bust Shante's ass.” She placed her gum on the back of her hand and reached for the blunt. “Just say the word and that bitch's days are numbered.”

“How did y'all know I had a fight with Shante?” Imani asked, sitting down in the recliner and sipping on a cup of orange juice mixed with Banana Red Cisco.

“Please, chile,” Sabrena took a pull, “er'body knows.” She blew out the smoke. “Plus, Jamillah and Itief from the Parkway catch that same bus to see their kids' daddies and they saw the whole thing.”

“I didn't see them on the bus.” Imani arched her eyebrows.

“I guess not, since you were whippin' ass!”

Imani's face lit up. “Oh, that's what they said?”

“Yeah, girl.” Quiana's eyes popped out as she received the blunt back. “They said you got wit' that ass and tore it up! They said the whole bus was rockin'. Word up.” She laughed. She passed Imani the blunt back and gave her a high five. “They said all that bitch could do was cry.”

“Humph.” Imani took a pull and slowly blew out the smoke. “I did catch that bitch a few times.”

“Yeah, and the next time it's gon' be a group effort,” Sabrena snapped. “If she know like I know, she'll keep her ass off this side of Flatbush.”

“That's wassup,” Imani agreed, “but girl, I gotta get my shit together and get rid of this niggah. I'm straight done with his ass.”

Before one of the girls could respond, the phone rang. Imani peeped at the caller ID: Monica. “Damn,” she mumbled to herself, taking one last pull off the blunt and passing it. “This bitch don't give me a chance to breathe.” Imani hadn't called Monica since she'd been home. Part of her felt embarrassed and the other part didn't feel like explaining how she'd ended up in jail fighting over Walik. She snatched the phone off the receiver. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?” Monica said, obviously pissed off. “Yeah? Where the hell, besides jail, have you been all day?”

“Monica, please.” Imani rolled her eyes. “I just need some time to clear my head.”

“You have a six-year-old son over here. He has been worried about you all day. He keeps crying, and he's being fresh. I swear if he talks about farting and shitting one more time I'ma beat his ass!”

“Look, don't beat my son, he's expressing himself ! And I'm sorry that he's been worried about me, but this shit with Walik has me fucked up right now and I just need to get it together.”

“This shit with Walik? Fuck that broke-down can't-even-sell-weed ma'fuckah!”

“There you go, he ain't never sold weed no way, straight diesel. If you gon' cuss him out, then get it straight.”

“Who you getting smart with, me? How do you spell
loser
, Imani? I'll tell you,” Monica said, answering her own question, “It's spelled
W-a-l-i-k
! You just stuck on hustlin' yo' pussy the fuck backward! Where was he when you were in jail without a bail for six months, huh? Do you know how much of my money I spent getting you a lawyer? Where was he at then?”

“For your information, he was on the come-up. Anyway, what
difference does it make, I ain't fuckin' with his chicken-lickin' ass anyway.”

“You know what, talk to your son, because I am so not feeling you right now.”

Monica called for Jamal to come to the phone. Jamal stumbled into the room and frowned up his face. “ 'Sup, Aunty…” He looked around and spotted a can of air freshener on Monica's dresser. “You just sprayed that?”

“Yeah, why? It smells like raspberries, doesn't it?”

“Naw, it smell like you been bustin' farts.” Jamal pinched his nose together. “This place smell like a sewer.”

“Imani,” Monica spoke into the phone, “I'ma beat his li'l nasty fart-talkin' ass!” She pointed to the phone. “It's your mother on the phone, Jamal, she can hear you.”

“Okay, Aunty, I'm sorry.” He smiled at her and his dimples started to glow. “Maybe you didn't fart,” he went on. “Maybe you just need to doo-doo, or did you try to doo-doo and strain too hard? One time I thought I had to fart and when I checked my Superman drawls I had a big ole dukey stain in 'em. My Imani was like,
Boy if you don't get yo' shitty ass outta here and change them funky drawls.
So,” he said, taking his fingers from his nose and pointing between Monica's legs, “maybe you need to check your drawls, maybe they shitty.”

“Jamal!” Monica squinted and held her hand up in the position of a backslap. “Don't get knocked out! Talk to your mama on the phone.” She shoved the phone at him.

“This Mama-Starr or Imani?” he asked, excited.

“How many times do I have to tell you to stop calling your mother by her first name? Starr is Nana or Grandma and Imani is Mama or Mommy to you! Now talk to Imani, I mean your mommy!” Monica rolled her eyes at Jamal and walked out of the room.

He placed the phone to his ear and started smiling. “Imani, you home?”

“Yes, baby,” she said, feeling the excitement in his voice. “I'm home.” She thought about getting on him about his nasty mouth, but hearing his voice melted her and all she could say was, “I love you, boo-boo.”

“I love you too, Imani, I missed you. Imani, I was crying.”

“You were?”

“Yeah I was like this.” He frowned up his face. “Boo-hoo-hoo.”

“Oh baby, I'm sorry.”

“And do you know niggahs was laughin' at me?”

“Who was laughing at you?” Instantly Imani caught an attitude. “What niggahs?”

“Them pigs. You know how they do!”

“Humph, don't I. Well, if anybody else laugh at you, you tell 'im that your Imani will beat their ass!”

“That's wassup…Imani?”

“Yeah, baby?”

Jamal started to whisper. “Uncle Rief told Aunty Monica he was gon' punch her in the face.”

“What?” Imani couldn't believe it.

“Yeah,” Jamal continued to whisper, “you should've heard him, he told her I can't even believe I was feeling you, trick. Then it was a lot of noise. Like this, crumble, crumble, crumble, raaaaahhhhh. Then Aunty Monica said, ‘Boy, is you crazy, Jamal sleep in the other room.’ Then Uncle Rief said, ‘Hol’ up, shawtie, you might see me in the streets but you 'on't know me.’ Imani, he sound just like a rapper.”

“Jamal, stop lyin'! I already told you about lyin' so much!”

“Imani, I ain't lyin', you shoulda heard him, she told him ‘My Adidas'll walk all over your face, dawg. Punk, lazy-eye niggah! Then he said, ‘Punk? Lazy-eye? You tryna flex? You booty-scratchin' fart face! Yo' breath smell like pissy eggs! And if you mess with me, I'll knock yo' teeth out and put 'em back in crooked!' Yo, that's a wild boy, Imani!”

Imani was trying her best not to laugh. She knew she couldn't
condone Jamal telling lies, but what he'd just said sounded so ridiculous that she couldn't help it. She hit the mute button and fell out. Jamal continued to ramble on. Imani took a deep breath, unmuted the phone, and resumed her conversation. “Enough with the lies, Jamal! Stop it! You know what, you can't watch the
Chappelle's Show
no more!”

“I ain't lyin', Imani! They were!”

“I mean it, now I love you and good-bye,” she said sternly. Imani pressed the end button on the phone but held the receiver in her hand. “I don't know what I'ma do with that boy.” Placing the phone back on the base, she glanced at a picture of her and Walik sitting on top of her TV. “Y'all know when I got home earlier today, I reported that bitch, Shante, to welfare.”

“Get the fuck outta here, who'd you call?” Sabrena asked.

“Welfare Fraud has a twenty-four-hour hotline, and I blew that bitch's spot up. I said, ‘Hello this is an anonymous call, and I'd like to report Shante Smith of 1252 Church Avenue, apartment 13D. She's receiving state welfare and she's working full time at Citibank in Midtown.’ I could tell that fuckin' operator felt like she'd won the lottery. She said, ‘We will get on this right away. It's people like this that keep our taxes rising. Have a good evening, miss.’ ”

“Good for the bitch,” Tasha said.

“Humph, you better be careful,” Sabrena warned as she looked around the room. “She ain't the only one with a caseworker and j-o-b, all y'all niggahs in the same boat.”

“Whatever, Sabrena.” Quiana dismissed her. “But yo' on some real shit,” Sabrena continued, “maybe you need to walk away. Walik keeps doing the same shit over and over again.”

“Walk away?” Imani snapped, getting defensive. “That's my son's father.”

“Bitch.” Quiana flicked her hand. “
You
was the one who said
you
needed to leave his ass alone and now you acting like Sabrena
crazy. Leaving his ass is quite simple, all you have to say is
Bye ma'-fucker.
”

“For real,” Tasha agreed. “Shit, all you doing is dismissing the dick, not the child support. Matter of fact, what you really need to do is call your Welfare caseworker and give her that niggah's real name and Social Security number. Hem his ass up in child-support court.”

Imani sucked her teeth. “Please, so Welfare can take the money? Spare me. Plus, I ain't giving him away so that bitch can have him all the time, hell no!”

“What the fuck is you giving away?” Quiana countered. “Imani, Walik is a bum.”

“Quiana, I know you ain't talkin',” Imani snapped, “not when you snuck and married Quinton on Family and Friends Day in the middle of the prison yard. And when he came home he still beat yo' ass and he wasn't even holdin' no paper.” Imani pointed to Tasha. “Correct me if I'm wrong but weren't you and Shay, from Norstand, pregnant at the same time?”

“Oh no you didn't!” Tasha looked at Imani like she was crazy.