The Kat Trap (11 page)

“Ho, I done told you to get ya ass outta here.”

“C’mon, baby,” the nigga said, pullin’ her by the arm, tryna keep her from comin’ up on me. “Let it go.”

I stared at her long and hard. “That nigga must got some real good dick to have you pullin’ fuckin’ knives out on me and talkin’ all reckless n’ shit. But it’s all good.” I opened the door again, lookin’ at her one more time. “As far as I’m concerned, ya ass is dead to me. So when he beats ya ass and fucks up all ya change, you got what the fuck ya ass deserves. And for the record,
bitch
, the only
ho
in this room is
you
. So do you, boo.” She broke away from her nigga, and as she came chargin’ toward me, I slammed the door in her face. As I ran toward the stairwell, all I heard was her yellin’, screamin’ and cursin’ how she and my aunts were gonna fuck me up.

B
y the time I got back ’cross the water, I had already blazed two blunts and was feelin’ right. But I ain’t gonna front, I felt fucked up for callin’ my moms a bitch ’cause no matter what, she’s still my moms. But how she came at me was real fucked up. Moms or not, I’m not the fuckin’ one. Still, a bitch broke down and called her to apologize.

“What?” she snapped when she answered her cell. Of course she knew it was me, thanks to caller ID.

“I’m only callin’ to apologize for callin’ you out ya name. But other than that—”

“Oh, hell no! Fuck ya apology, you disrespectful little bitch. I’ma bust that ass when I see you. You really fucked up, Kat. I don’t give a fuck what you think I did or didn’t do for you, I’m still ya gotdamn mother. I ain’t never disrespect my mother, and she used to beat my ass with any-and-every-gotdamn-thing she got her hands on…”

That’s because ya ass was fast ’n hot,
I thought, rollin’ my eyes.

“…But you, I just let your ass run wild. And now you done took it too muthafucking far. Since you think you so gotdamn gangster with yours; since you think you grown enough to talk slick and greasy to me, I promise you, ya ass is gonna see what it’s like to really get it in with a Brooklyn bitch ’cause me and ya aunts—”

I couldn’t believe this shit. My own mother was on some high school shit, talkin’ like she was gonna have me jumped. For a woman who didn’t drink or get high, the way she acted sometimes made me wonder. This was so over the top for me. The crazy thing was, she really had no idea
who
I was or
how
I got down. And I aleady knew in my heart, if they tried it, it would be messy. There was no way I was gonna ever let a bunch of bitches jump me, especially some old ones, family or not.

All the years she let her niggas disrespect her ass, and not once did she stand up to any of ’em. She’d fight a bitch in the streets before she went upside a muhfucka’s head for puttin’ his hands on her. She’d let him run her nerves down into the fuckin’ ground, stressin’ and wringin’ her hands over a sorry nigga. And not once did she think ’bout, or consider, how that shit was gonna affect me—all that yellin’ and screamin’ and cursin’ and cryin’ and beggin’ and breakin’ shit. Not once did she fuckin’ consider me! All the
years she allowed me to do me without structure or restrictions or rules, she didn’t raise me, and she damn sure didn’t show me love. The streets did. Now all of a sudden she wanna be on some tough-girl shit, talkin’ ’bout she’s my mother and deserves to be respected. As far as I was concerned, she was a day late and a dollar too fuckin’ short.

I lit another L. “Listen,” I said, cuttin’ her off, and takin’ a pull off my blunt. “I ain’t call you for all that. Do what you feel ya gotta do. I’m not pressed. I shouldn’t’ve called you a bitch, but I said it, and I can’t take it back. Nor do I wanna. ’Cause, keepin’ it real, you
are
a bitch.”

“I’m your mother!” she yelled.

“Then get over ya’self and start actin’ like one.”

“Kat, watch how the fuck you talk to me! I’m not one of them whore-ass bitches you run with.”

“I can’t tell,” I said back.

“What?!?” she screamed.

“You heard me.”

“Kat, what did I ever do to you for you to be so fucking hateful?”

Although I wanted to scream on her ass, I kept calm. I figured it didn’t make sense to have both of us yellin’ and screamin’ like two wild bitches. “Okay, so either you really don’t have a clue or this is your version of selective amnesia.” I sighed, pausin’. I let the silence steady my voice and give me time to think before I spoke ’cause a bitch was ready to blast her ass. As I said, I’ve kept a lotta shit in with this woman. Out of respect. Out of some fucked hope that one day we’d have something that resembled a mother-daughter connection. But the older I get, the clearer this picture becomes. We will never, ever, be fuckin’ close, and a bitch is tired of wishin’ and hopin’ for shit that ain’t gonna happen. And
I’m fuckin’ done with tryna hold on to somethin’ that ain’t worth holdin’ on to. Yes, I know I’m ’posed to honor and respect my mother no matter what, but dammit…a bitch can only take but so fuckin’ much. And right about now, this bitch had reached her limit.

“You want the truth, huh,
mother?
Well, how ’bout I give it straight.
You
opened up your fuckin’ legs!
You
chose dick over me.
You
never had time for me.
You
treated me fucked up. No, you never beat me; you fuckin’ ignored me. But as far as I’m concerned, that’s worse than if you woulda beat my ass every damn day. Some kinda attention woulda been better than nothin’ at all. No matter how hard I tried to love you, you never wanted to love me back.”

“What kinda shit is that! Of course I loved you. I gave birth to you. I raised you. I made sacrifices. If that’s not love, then I don’t know what to tell you.”

I was so fuckin’ done with her. “You sacrificed what? What was it that you really gave up, huh?”

“My life!” she snapped. “I gave up my fucking dreams.”

“And that’s
my
fault? Oh, please. That’s a bunch of shit. The only thing you spent ya life dreamin’ ’bout was some nigga, and how big his dick was. The only thing you gave up was ya pussy. You couldn’t be so bothered to be a fuckin’ mother. But that’s my fault, right? It’s my fault ya ass tricked ya money and life up on dick, yeah, okay. Well, was it my fault ya ass got pregnant? Was it my fault ya ass had a bullshit job and we had to live paycheck to paycheck? Was it my fault my father fucked a slew of bitches and got locked up on ya ass? Was it my fault the niggas you ran behind tryna love didn’t love you back? Yeah, it’s all my fault that ya ass never wanted nothin’ more than what ya already got. That’s right, Juanita, blame me for your fucked-up, miserable life.”

“Oh, now you done gone from callin’ me bitch to Juanita. This is the disrespectful shit I’m talkin’ ’bout. If you were in front of me, I’d knock your fucking teeth out.”

“I seriously doubt I would sit there and let you get that off,” I said, takin’ two hard pulls on my blunt. I needed a drink. I got up from my seat and went downstairs to my bar to pour some Rémy in a glass. I tossed it back, then poured another. “If you didn’t put ya hands on me when I was a kid, what the hell makes you
think
I’d let you put ya damn hands on me now? But tell me this. When you gonna start actin’ ya age instead of tryna be on some ’round-the-way-chick shit? You can’t compete with me, sweetie. If anyone has ever been jealous, it’s been you,” I said, walkin’ back upstairs, then over to my balcony. I opened it and stepped outside.

“Kat, I’m tellin’ ya ass right now. Keep disrespectin’ me, okay, and see what happens the next time you bring ya ass to Brooklyn. I’m not gonna tell you no more. You had better start showin’ me some muthafucking respect or you are gonna find ya ass beat the fuck down.”

“Like I said, you need to act ya age, instead of runnin’ ’round actin’ like you still in ya twenties. You need to really let it go. If you want me to respect you like a mother, then, like I said, try actin’ like one. Then again, you wouldn’t know how to do that since you’ve never tried it. But you right. I don’t respect ya ass. I never have ’cause you never gave me a reason to. Please don’t come at me ’bout no damn respect ’cause at the end of the muthafuckin’ day, if a bitch wants respect, then she gotta know how to give it, real talk.

“And, sweetie, please be clear. Just like you, I’m a grown-ass woman. And there’s no fuckin’ way I’ma let you, your sisters, or
any other fuckin’ bitch jump me or put their hands on me and shit’s gonna be all sweet. I don’t give a fuck if ya gave birth to me or not. It is what it is. Now, like I said, I apologize for callin’ you a bitch. But I will never apologize for not likin’ you or for not respectin’ you. You brought that shit on ya’self. You’ve always been weak when it comes to a nigga. I’ll be damned if I ever take responsibility for you bein’ a fucked-up, neglectful mother. I’m done with you. Go get married, live a happy life, and leave me the fuck alone. You don’t exist to me.”

I snapped my phone shut on her ass before I said somethin’ else that couldn’t be taken back. When I finally walked back into the house and looked in my wall mirror, it was then that I noticed a bitch had been cryin’.

I don’t need this shit right now,
I thought as I tossed the cordless on the sofa, then climbed my ass up and around the spiral staircase. I was fuckin’ drained and decided to take a long, hot shower, then take my ass a nap.

“Bitch, why you didn’t call me back?”

“What?” I asked, wakin’ up all groggy ’n shit. I’d slept so damn hard I wasn’t sure if it was day or night. I had to look around to see where I was. After I took my shower, I remembered goin’ back downstairs to get me another shot of Rémy and ended up takin’ the bottle and a glass into my media room, smokin’ another blunt, and listenin’ to that crazy chick Amy Winehouse’s
Back to Black
CD. The last song I remembered hearin’ was “Tears Dry on Their Own” before dozin’ off.

I yawned and stretched. “Girl, what time is it?”

“It’s almost five-thirty.”

“Damn,” I said, sittin’ up. “I musta been tired as hell.”

“I thought I told ya ass to make sure you called me back.”

“Unh-uh, don’t do it. My mother got on her bullshit again. So you really don’t want it, ho. Not today.”

“Oh, shit. That bad?”

“Worse,” I said. “She worked my fuckin’ nerves down into the ground so bad I had to take three blunts and a bottle to the head to calm my ass down.” I gave her the 4-1-1 on my visit with my moms and her nigga, then told her ’bout the phone conversation we had.

“Damn,” Chanel said. “That’s fucked up. And she really threatened to have your aunts jump you?”

“Yeah, ain’t that some shit? But I tell you what. Let ’em try it.”

“Kat, girl, you know I always got ya back. But fuckin’ with ya crazy-ass aunts is like walkin’ through Iraq bare-assed. They fuckin’ crazy. You might wanna take that ass whoopin’ and keep it movin’ ’cause I ain’t tryna rock with ’em.”

I had to laugh ’cause she was right. Them bitches were noodles. First, there was Rosa, the oldest. She was forty-three with six kids and two grandchildren. Although she stopped usin’ cocaine ten years ago, she still drank and carried a razor under her tongue and had no problem slicin’ a bitch. Young, old, nigga, bitch, or in between—if ya came at her sideways on some greasy slick shit, she was gonna bring it to ya ass swift and clean. She wasn’t one for a bunch of talkin’, she’d just start slicin’. You wouldn’t even know you’d been straight-edged until ya ass hit the concrete. She lived over in the Pink Houses, another one of Brooklyn’s housin’ projects.

Next was Elise. She was thirty-six and had spent almost eight years in prison for arson and aggravated assault and battery charges she got in ’95 when she set her sons’ father on fire while he was sleepin’. He had gotten some other bitch in her buildin’ pregnant and Elise wasn’t havin’ it. She dropped her sons off over my grandmother’s, then went back and torched his ass without blinkin’ an eye. She’s been home for close to four years and lives over in Red Hook with my two teenaged cousins.

Then there was my youngest aunt, Patrice, who was twenty-eight. She still lived with my grandmother over in Brownsville and only fucked niggas who were either drug dealers or gun runners. The bitch still boosted for a livin’, drove a Range Rover, and always stepped outta her buildin’ like she was that chick. But
aside from the high-end wears and truck her nigga bought, the nutty bitch doesn’t own a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of. Just dumb, dumb, dumb!

However, on some real shit, she was the prettiest outta the four of ’em. With her jet-black hair flowin’ down the center of her back and extra slick bangs, she had that Pocahontas look about her, with a body like a damn hourglass. Crazy thing, you would think that she and I would have been close since we were only three years apart and both fly bitches.
Not!
That bitch
hated
me, and make no mistake, there was no love lost between us where I was concerned either. But, keepin’ it real, she was the only one of my aunts I used to look up to when I was growin’ up. That’s until the slimy bitch fucked my man, but that’s another discussion for another time.

“Yeah, them bitches are crazy,” I said, laughin’. “But they can get it, too. I’m not lettin’ none of them hoes put their hands on me, and not rock with ’em. No, it’s gonna be poppin’. And I already know Pat don’t really want it.”

“I hear you,” she said. “But I’ma hafta sit this one out if shit pops off. I can’t get caught up in no family–feud type shit. I saw how they get down when they jumped on that bitch, Tiny, at ya cousin’s barbecue last year in Prospect Park. They wore that ho out. No, thank you, ma’am…I ain’t fuckin’ with ya aunts. The summer is comin’ and a pretty bitch ain’t tryna have her face dug out, and I definitely ain’t tryna look like burnt toast. Please. I got no time tryna mend some damn fire burns.”

I bust out laughin’, thinkin’ back on how the three of them had set it off on that bitch for talkin’ slick to Patrice over some dumb nigga they both were fuckin’, even though Patrice was really the one who provoked the shit.

It was an end-of-the-summer barbecue my cousin Manny and
his boys threw, and it was one of the very few times I wasn’t beefin’ with Patrice. The park was packed with niggas. The drinks were flowin’, the music was rockin’, and the grill was blazin’. Everbody was lit and feelin’ real good. Then, as soon as Patrice saw Tiny—who was wearin’ a burgundy weave and was stuffed in a cute Dolce & Gabbana denim mini-skirt, a sexy white midriff shirt, and a bangin’ pair of Miu Miu strappy sandals—struttin’ her big ass and double-D titties through the crowd toward the food table, Patrice started up.

“Somebody better get that fat bitch up outta here,” Patrice had said to my aunt Elise, “before I end up goin’ in her mouth. I’m sick of lookin’ at her fat ass. Damn pork roll.” Patrice and my aunt Elise were sittin’ in their beach chairs passin’ a flask of rum back ’n forth. They were definitely feelin’ good.

Of course Tiny heard her since Patrice had said it loud enough that she could. But Tiny kept it cute and igged her, keepin’ it movin’.

Elise stared at her, then grunted. “Humph. Let the bitch do her. She don’t want it. Besides, I don’t know why you mad at her ass any damn way. It’s that nigga you should be pissed at. He’s the one fuckin’ the both of you. You don’t know what the hell that nigga is tellin’ her.”

“Still, that bitch knows he’s
my
man. And she still fucks with him.”

I blinked, blinked again, then stared at this bitch, before steppin’ the fuck away. I couldn’t believe what I’d heard this ho say. I was so ready to remind her grimy ass of what she did to
me
, but decided to let it go otherwise it woulda been her and me thumpin’ out that piece. Chanel had peeped it, too. Here she was, hatin’ on the next bitch for fuckin’
her
man—who wasn’t all that—when she had done the same fuckin’ shit to me.

I laughed at how crazy the bitch sounded. “Mighty funny how what goes around, comes around,” I said, rollin’ my eyes. “Come on, Chanel, get ya shit and let’s bounce before it starts gettin’ hectic out here.”

“Excuse you?” Patrice said to me.

“Don’t,” I warned, givin’ her the evil eye. “Not today, boo-boo. Please don’t.”

“No, don’t
you
, bitch,” she said.

I laughed at her ass, but I knew if she got up I was gonna beat her face in. She kept it cute and kept her ass in her seat.

“What, you ain’t got your aunt’s back if shit kicks off?” Elise asked, lookin’ at me all indignant ’n shit.

“Basically,” I said. “You know me and Patrice don’t get down like that. Besides, a bitch didn’t come out here to be breakin’ up my nails and gettin’ all dirty ’n shit; especially for her ass.”

“Whatever, bitch,” Patrice said, rollin’ her eyes. “You know you can get it, too.”

“Is that so?”

“Both of you stop. No matter what the fuck is goin’ on between the two of you, ya’ll bitches still family, and when shit jumps off ya’ll should be puttin’ that bullshit to the side and have each other’s back. Ya’ll blood, and should never let no fuckin’ nigga come between ya’ll.”

I laughed. “No disrespect, Aunt Elise. It’s a bit too late for that. Any bitch who fucks my man ain’t no damn family of mine. And a bitch like that gets what the fuck she gets.” I looked over at Patrice and stared her down. “It’s called karma, sweetie. Obviously, she didn’t get the memo.”

Aunt Elise’s eyes widened. Patrice glared at me, but the only reason she didn’t try to get at me was because she was too focused on Tiny. Chanel and I stepped off, leavin’ them bitches lookin’ like
two fools. And just as we were makin’ our way over toward the liquor, Tiny passed us, headin’ toward where Patrice was sittin’. She offered a smile. Her beef with Patrice had nothin’ to do with me, and she knew it. I smiled back, bouncin’ my ass to Busta Rhymes’s “Touch It” remix. The deejay had that shit pumpin’. When the nigga slipped “Make It Clap” on, bitches were poppin’ them hips and niggas were tryna get they grinds on.

“Oh, shit,” Chanel said suddenly. “Looks like it’s ’bout to get messy out this bitch. Tiny and ya aunt over there beefin’.” I turned around, cranin’ my neck, and sure ’nough Tiny had her hands on her hips, and Patrice had stood up and they were goin’ back ’n forth. Next thing I knew, Tiny slapped the shit outta Patrice. Patrice stumbled backward—and that’s all it took. Tiny was yokin’ Patrice’s ass up, beatin’ her down like a nigga. That’s when my aunts Elise and Rosa set it off on Tiny, pullin’ out razors and slashin’ up her back, chest, and face. Blood was everywhere. Tiny hit the ground and all three of them started stompin’ and kickin’ her. Then Elise set Tiny’s weave on fire. Bitches started screamin and scramblin’, then guns started poppin’ off. By the time my cousins were able to get my aunts off Tiny, the bitch’s hair and scalp was in flames and she was all gashed up. Her blouse was shredded and one of her titties was hangin’ out. Poor thing! It was terrible. They fucked her up somethin’ terrible—all over some sorry-ass nigga and Patrice bein’ the trouble-makin’ bitch that she is.

“Well,” I said, “hopefully they don’t try ’n serve me. But since my moms on her bullshit, I don’t know what might happen. She talkin’ like the next time I’m in BK they gonna swoop down on me and bring it.”

Am I really gonna have to watch my back with them bitches?
I tried
to imagine how they would come at me. I wondered if they’d wait until the next family gatherin’ and set it off. Would one of ’em try ’n trick me into comin’ over to their spot, while the rest of ’em hid in closets, then when my back was turned jump out and start swingin’ off? Would they corner me, then pull out razors and start slashin’ me up? I decided to keep my heat packed in my bag just in case.

“That’s real fucked up,” Chanel said.

“Oh well. It is what it is. I’m not pressed,
trust
. So, what shit Tamia done got herself in now?” I asked, changin’ the subject. I really wasn’t feelin’ any of her drama, but I didn’t wanna talk anymore ’bout my fucked-up mother or her crazy-assed sisters either.

“Some chick stepped to her about some nigga when she was downtown last week and threatened to whoop her ass the next time she called her man’s cell…” Okay, this is where I started zonin’ out. I was so sick of these bitches fightin’ and arguin’ over their half-assed niggas. I had no interest in entertainin’ this shit. Been there, done that. And I had no desire to ever have to whoop another bitch’s ass over a piece of dick. I swore after bangin’ Patrice’s face up that I’d never go there again. And I meant it.

About a year after I bounced on Naheem, I started fuckin’ with this nigga who everybody called B-Love ’cause he was from Bed-Stuy and got mad love from the streets for stayin’ on his grind. The nigga was pushin’ bricks and keys and had shops set up in different sections of his hood as well as in other sections of BK. He was the type of cat who knew how to get money and didn’t
give a fuck ’bout rollin’ up his sleeves, puttin’ in work and gettin’ dirty. He didn’t fuck with lightweight niggas. If you wanted him to build with ya ass, you had better come at him with some major paper and be talkin’ ’bout makin’ major moves, otherwise you’d either get laughed at or get ya wig pushed back for tryna waste his time. And he didn’t slouch when it came to takin’ what he wanted, includin’ pussy.

He was six foot two, brown-skinned, well built, and had beautiful brown eyes that sparkled whenever he smiled or laughed. The nigga stayed rockin’ a fresh, low fade cut with spinnin’ waves, crisp sideburns, and a neatly trimmed mustache. Yeah, the nigga was finer than a muhfucka, with a big, long, thick, juicy dick that he
knew
how to use all night long. But the nigga was ruthless and didn’t give a fuck who he pissed on. It was his arrogance and aggressive nature, along with his persistence, that made my pussy nut in my panties every time he looked at me.

With Naheem on lock and the money train runnin’ low, a bitch had to get back on her grind, so I went back to boostin’ to keep my shit right and keep a few dollars in my pockets at the same time. There was no way I was ever gonna pawn or sell all the jewels ’n shit Naheem had laced me with. I was still lampin’ in his spot over in Crown Heights, but that shit was gonna fold in another two months. I didn’t wanna go back to the projects and have to be up under my moms again. A bitch was feelin’ real pressed ’bout her situation. So when Patrice and I walked up into this Jamaican spot on Atlantic Avenue, I spotted the nigga, B-Love, sitting in a corner booth with two other niggas, checkin’ me out in my fly wears as we approached the counter to place our orders. I knew then I had hit the jackpot. But Patrice was already tryna get her digs in. The bitch was salivatin’, tryna get her shine on. So I played it cute, stepped aside and let her bounce
her ass around, click-clackin’ and poppin’ her gum like a real hoodrat.

“You see that nigga right there,” she had whispered. I glanced his way. “That nigga is getting paid out the ass. And word is he got a dick like a horse.”

I shrugged like I wasn’t fazed. But I already knew who he was and had heard how he was movin’. Naheem would mention his name and talk about how he wanted to cut into his pockets by takin’ over some of his spots. Besides, I had bumped into him several times at a few VIP parties, and once down in AC. He’d always have some cute chick on his arm, but the bitch wasn’t no real winner like me. And I was always on Naheem’s arm, and he loved showin’ his hood beauty off. So when B-Love kept starin’ at me instead of Patrice, I knew he knew I was
that
bitch, so I gave him somethin’ to look at. I slowly twisted my body a taste so he could get a clear view of how my jeans wrapped around my apple-bottom ass like a glove.