Love Me or Miss Me Read online

  I didn’t appreciate the wink. Didn’t appreciate her sly grin. I had to change the subject before I got myself all worked up. “Anyway, I was asking which team you want to win.”

  “Oh, I’m rooting for Finesse … whatever team he’s on.”

  “Okay,” I said, disappointed. Gucci Girl was rooting for the wrong team: Crown Heights. And now I knew exactly where her head was at: up Finesse’s butt. True enough, I was mainly here for Charles and sweating him just as hard—but dang, at least I cared about my baby’s team!

  Then again, I couldn’t expect every girl to be crazy about basketball. Can’t be pushing balls into a prissy princess’s court. And that’s exactly why I didn’t bother bringing any friends with me to the game in the first place.… Um … not that I had any to bring. See, my best and only friend, Felicia, had gotten accepted into this once-in-a-lifetime summer program in South Africa. And I had chosen not to go. So basically, I was stuck in Brooklyn for the rest of the summer, with no one to talk to, no one to hang with. Just stuck.

  I guess that’s why my defenses were down when it came to Gucci Girl. Who else could I hang with until Felicia got back?

  Well … I could’ve tried to hang with some new girls. But the thing is, I’m not crazy. New girls are way too choosy for me to try to be chummy-chummy with. You know how they do. Flash them a smile, and they just look you up and down like, Who the heck is you? Around my way, it seems like there’s nothing but fly girls or gangsters to choose from. And fly girls put the peer pressure on you just as bad as gangsters—only difference is they’re packing lipstick instead of heat. Bottom line: I wasn’t about to do flips in order to belong to any cliques. Feel me?

  So with Gucci Girl by my side, I just went with the flow. Now that I had company, I was shouting at the players even louder. I was like, “What are you doing, man? Yoke the ball! Yoke it!” And Gucci Girl was like, “What do you mean, ‘yoke it’?” When the excitement died down, I turned to Gucci Girl and explained, “Hey, a yoke is like a thunderous dunk. You know—bam—in the net.…” I used my hands to show her what I meant. But my voice trailed off once I realized she was paying me no mind.

  In a flash, she had whipped out her pocket mirror, and her eyes were now glued to her image. Hmm, okay. So even when it came down to her looks, Gucci Girl was clueless. She didn’t seem to know she was already fabulous. Flawless. She ogled her reflection with the deepest concentration, redoing her glossy pink lips, fluffing out her long and shiny hair.… Meanwhile I was wishing I had hair like hers.

  Finally, she clicked her mirror shut. “By the way, my name’s Naleejah.” She moved her Gucci bag over and stretched out her hand to shake mine. In awe of her crazy long pink glittery nails, I was almost afraid to grab hold.

  “Hello? What’s your name?” Naleejah laughed.

  Oh. I wanted to say Diamond, but too late, I blurted out, “Kate.”

  Kate?

  If I ever did meet my parents again in this lifetime, I’d have to ask why the heck they couldn’t dump me off with a creative, exotic name with some flavor. Naleejah’s name rang in my head like a million bells. Bong! Bong! Ding dong!

  “How old are you?” asked Naleejah.

  “Fourteen.”

  “Wow,” Naleejah exclaimed. “Fourteen and built like a brick house? Girl, if I had your body, I’d be killing the boys even more than I do now!”

  Embarrassed, I skipped over her comment and asked, “Well, how old are you?” I was just curious because she wore makeup and was dressed like a twenty-year-old but had a baby face just like mine. (I have those squeeze-me chubby cheeks, and she has that wide-eyed innocent look.) Since she had been in Charles’s class, I knew she couldn’t have been that much older than me—unless she got left back a couple of times.

  “I turn fifteen in August,” said Naleejah.

  “Oh snap, me too.” Finally, we had something in common!

  Then out of nowhere, Naleejah started eyeballing my face like a curious cat. “When did you get that?” she asked, pointing at my face. She was referring to the small C-shaped scar over my right eye. But why was she being so nosy?

  “I been had this,” I explained. “Four years ago … my gang—”

  “You’re in a gang!” Naleejah cried out.

  “I used to be,” I corrected.

  * * *

  I joined the Lady Killers at age eleven, and I was the youngest of the gang. It was easy for me to get in because of my bad-girl rep around the way, but hard for me to get out because I had pledged gangster fo’ life.

  I lasted only two months. True, I liked to fight, but the Lady Killers went for blood. There were five of us: Crash, Icy, Killah, Menace, and me—Rocky. But I was the softest out the crew. These girls thought nothing of robbing chicks for their jewels and slicing the faces of those who resisted. I witnessed plenty of lock-in-the-sock and swing-on-somebody moments. Though I never swung a sock myself, I watched girls get swung on and bashed in the face for no reason. I just stood back and laughed like it was nothing. But I really didn’t feel like laughing. My heart wasn’t in this.

  After a while, I could no longer fake it. When I told Icy, the gang leader, that I wanted to leave, no words were spoken. She just frowned and walked away from me. I thought I was free and clear to bounce. But the next day, Crash and Icy cornered me after school, in front of Fulton Street Park. Wearing her famous screw-face, Icy said, “You think you can leave us just like that?” I knew I was about to be jumped, but I wasn’t about to run. As soon as the first punch landed on my jaw, I started swinging wildly. I fought like a ferocious animal, kicking like crazy so no one could get at me. And they couldn’t. It was embarrassing for them. So Crash whipped out her box-cutter and nicked me in my face just before a crossing guard and two random men broke things up. That explains my scar … but I wasn’t about to explain any of this to Naleejah; I was lucky enough to get out of that gang alive, and I didn’t feel like reliving the experience for her nosy behind.

  * * *

  Naleejah was still staring at me wide-eyed when she asked, “Do you have any tattoos from your gang?”

  “Nah … but, um, I really don’t feel like talking about this right now. My past stays where it is. Feel me?”

  “Yeah, I feel you,” said Naleejah, staring at her nails. “We all have crap in our past. I know I do.”

  This was getting a bit too personal, so I turned my attention back to the game. By this time, my baby, Charles, was back in control. I wasn’t sure if this new swagger had anything to do with Naleejah’s captivating presence. Or could it be me catching a case of green-eyed paranoia? Whatever the case, I was just happy to see my baby ballin’ beautifully again.

  “What high school are you headed to?” asked Naleejah.

  “SOES,” I answered hastily.

  Naleejah jerked her head back. “What kind of school is that?”

  “Stands for School of Environmental Studies.”

  “Sounds special,” said Naleejah with a shrug.

  “Yeah, I know,” I replied in a smug tone. Why so cocky? Well, because Naleejah seemed to be blowing off my school, and my school is hot, the first of its kind; so she needed to be blowing kisses instead of disses. I went from Special Ed, to 7-3, to 8-1, and now I was headed to a specialized high school with nothing but A’s and praise lacing up my record. Now if that’s not gangster, I don’t know what is. Nobody can touch my school grind, okay?

  Naleejah tapped my leg and asked, “So is this game almost over?”

  I left her question dangling because the score was now tied. I couldn’t afford to miss a single play. In protest, Naleejah tapped my leg again, and that’s when I jumped up as if stung by a bee. Charles had just made a bee-you-tee-full shot (three points!) and finally won the game for his team.

  “Yeah, Fulton Street Park represent!” I yelled as I bobbed my head to an imaginary beat. Then I started singing, “We fly high—no lie—you know this.” I was feeling so hyped, so proud, as if I had played the game myself
. “Balllling!” I continued singing and bobbing my head. I happily looked over at Naleejah, expecting her to rock with me. But she leaped from her seat, brushed off her butt, and said, “Well, I gotta go catch Finesse. Nice meeting you. Bye.”

  Just like that. Not even a “Can I get your phone number?” Or “Hope to see you again.” Until then, Naleejah was cheesing and grinning all up in my face, begging for conversation. Now that she didn’t need me anymore, she was ghost? Wow.

  But I didn’t sweat her flagrantly foul move for long. I was used to people disappointing me anyway. Listen, if my own flesh and blood parents could walk out on me, what could I expect from a total stranger? Whatever.

  The Bed-Stuy boys were now shouting and high-fiving each other, as the Crown Heights cats stood on the sidelines looking dumb and defeated. The two loud girls who’d sat behind me were now standing two feet away, looking just as dumb and defeated. Their faces screwed up tight once they spotted Naleejah on the verge of diving into the throng of boys.

  Then a nasty coincidence occurred. Finesse stepped to Charles as soon as Naleejah sashayed up to Finesse. Why did Finesse have to ask for his ball back at this very moment? I was so mad at coincidence! Now what if Naleejah suddenly decided to lose interest in Finesse and work her sexy magic on Charles? Listen, my fantasy bubble was about to be popped if I didn’t take action.

  I must admit, it was so weird for me to be feeling this way. So anxious? So catty? So not like your girl Kate. I knew full well Charles didn’t like me like that. I was practically a boy in his eyes; even with my big old butt and boobies, Charles never once tried to holler at me. He even called me son, for goodness’ sakes.

  Still, that didn’t stop me from hallucinating. In my dreams, I called Charles my baby, and pictured red roses, candles, and hot and steamy kisses that ended with us snuggled under the covers. (Hey, you can’t get pregnant off a fantasy, okay?)

  But back in the real world, I had to deal with the straight-up facts. Naleejah might be checking for my man. So before she could even bat an eyelash at Charles, I had to cut her off at the pass.

  I hopped up from the bleacher higher than a bunny on crack and rushed up to the trio. As soon as I got within earshot, I heard Finesse making introductions. “… And this is my boy, Charlie.”

  “Hey, what’s up, shorty,” said Charles, his eyes all big and happy.

  “Hey,” said Naleejah, trying to sound sexy. Oh brother.

  Charles stared at Naleejah for a full minute, then said, “Don’t I know you?”

  “No,” said Naleejah with a straight face.

  Charles kept staring at her with knitted eyebrows. Then he shook his head and said, “I swear I met you somewhere before.”

  “Nope, wasn’t me,” said Naleejah. She didn’t even blink.

  Wow, what a good liar; I almost believed her.

  Charles relaxed his eyebrows, flashed Naleejah his bright white grin, and said, “Well, I definitely saw you cutting across the court, interrupting our game and whatnot.”

  “And I definitely saw you hit that winning shot,” said Naleejah, tossing her hair dramatically. “Congratulations are definitely in order.”

  Finesse butted in. “So I don’t get no congratulations?”

  Naleejah playfully pushed Finesse in the arm. “Oh, stop being silly. You know I’ll get to you later.” Then she turned back to Charles and said, “I really dug the way you yoked it on those boys!”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. What the heck did Naleejah know about a yoke? This fake flirty bird had my man’s head so juiced up, and his eyes so locked down, that he didn’t even notice me standing there with my mouth wide open.

  Finesse, who was definitely feeling the same jealous jitters, poked Charles in the shoulder and pointed at me. “Yo, I think she wants you.”

  Yeah, if only Charles knew how much.

  “Oh, hey, shorty,” said Charles. “Finesse, you know my homegirl, Kate?”

  “Nah.” Finesse shook his head, not interested.

  “Well, I know Kate,” Naleejah volunteered. She flashed me a plastic grin.

  I strained a smile at her, then turned to Charles and said, “When you have a second, I have something to tell you.”

  Okay, I was lying through my teeth, but so what?

  Finesse took my words as his cue to turn to Naleejah and say, “I’m out. I got some things to handle. I’ll call you later.”

  “Okay,” said Naleejah. Meanwhile, her face read, You mean I sat through this boring game just to be dismissed? I guessed Naleejah had no idea that it’s not okay to flirt with your man’s friend in front of your man. The girl really needed a clue.

  Finesse snatched his basketball from off the ground and gave Charles a good-bye pound. As soon as Finesse walked away from us, the two braided girls flew up to him, and the taller one looked over her shoulder and flashed a malicious smirk at Naleejah.

  Dumbfounded, Naleejah stood frozen in her spot for a couple of seconds. Then she thawed out and said good-bye to us. She sailed across the basketball court, looking wrecked and lost at sea. I exhaled a sigh of relief.

  Bon voyage, flirty broad!

  I seized Charles by the arm and guided him to the bleachers, as if my news was so big, he had to sit down to hear it. I had no idea what I was going to tell him, but I knew I had to figure out something before he went running after Naleejah. Hey, it was possible. I had to get my man’s attention back where it belonged. All eyes on me, see? No time to lose.

  Chapter 2

  Charles sat close to me, staring at me with his radiant brown eyes … waiting for me to say something. I was on the spot. I had nothing to say. Now I understood how heart attacks can happen.

  Think, Kate. Think!

  I fidgeted on the bleacher and looked up at the sky, hoping to find an answer there.

  “So, what’s good?” Charles asked, cocking his head to the side.

  My lips parted as if about to speak, but nothing came out.

  “Eh, girl, are you with me?”

  When I didn’t answer, Charles busted into chuckles. “Oh, you must be still in shock over that monster three-pointer I made, son.”

  When Charles laughed, his eyes squinted into slits. He looked so dang cute when he laughed. But no. I had to stay focused. I had to think of something “important” to tell him, or else I’d look like a desperate little fool, dragging him away from his boys—for what?

  And then it hit me: the game. “Nice three-pointer,” I began, “but I just wanted to ask what was up with you earlier? Tell me why you kept passing the ball to butterfingers.”

  Charles dismissed my question with a wave of his hand. “Yeah, but I won the game for my team, didn’t I?”

  “True,” I said.

  “You know I got it going on.”

  Mm, so true.

  Charles lifted the top of his jersey like he was popping his collar.

  Mm, so sexy.

  Then to torture me, he lifted the bottom of his jersey way up, and with it, he wiped the beads of sweat from his sweet chocolate face. I even caught a glimpse of his beautiful brown hairless chest, and I was tempted to reach out and touch him. But before things could get steamy, here comes Charles’s newest homeboy busting up my peep show. I don’t know the dude by name, but he’s got a really big nose.

  “Yo, Charlie, what’s the holdup?” Big Nose asked, all out of breath, like he had just been chased by dogs or cops.

  Hmm, I thought angrily, wasn’t the “holdup” obvious? Wasn’t I sitting right here, next to Charles?

  But then I realized Big Nose was probably confused. Charles is seen only with the flyest chicks, Naleejah-like chicks with fabulous clothes, hair done, and fingernails decked in flawless tips. Big Nose was probably thinking, Why is Charles wasting time on this broke-down pigeon?

  Well, if Big Nose had asked me directly, I could’ve easily answered him. See, Charles and I went way back, so I had it like that. And up until last year, Charles used to roll out the house looking just
as flat broke and bummy as me. He even served some time in foster care, and that’s when we really became cool. I’ll never forget the day Charles came up to me while I was chilling in the school playground by myself. School was over, but I didn’t want to go home; I was living in yet another jacked-up foster home at the time.

  Charles sat beside me on a swing without saying a word. He was acting strange. “What’s up?” I asked.

  “They putting me in foster care,” he blurted out. It seemed like he was trying to fight the water building up in his eyes, so I looked away from him to make him feel more comfortable. At age ten, I already felt like I had mothering skills. Don’t know how or why, but I just felt that way. Charles must’ve felt the same way, because he had come to little old me for advice.

  He held his head down and said, “I can’t believe somebody called ACS on my moms.”

  I didn’t have to ask why. Charles’s mother was forever hitting and screaming on him—even out in the street. Everybody knew it. I just didn’t know why it took forever for someone to save him from her madness.

  “You’ll be okay,” I said, getting up from my swing. I walked over to Charles, put my hand on his shoulder, and said, “They’ll get your mother some help, and you probably won’t have to stay in foster care for too long.”

  “But I don’t want to live in nobody else’s crib,” said Charles. He bit his lower lip and shook his head.

  “Don’t worry,” I said, “there’s some really nice foster parents out there.” This was half-true. I didn’t bother mentioning the other half, the meaner side of foster care. I couldn’t bring myself to tell Charles about the foster parents who treated me like the family pet, making me eat from separate utensils like I had some nasty disease. I couldn’t tell Charles about the many times I’ve been told, “We didn’t have to take you in, so you better be grateful.” Didn’t mention the times I’ve been hit for no reason, or sent to bed with no food. Wouldn’t dare tell Charles that if his mother didn’t get her act together, he’d be a ward of the state just like me, floating from foster home to foster home with no happy end in sight. So, to put Charles’s mind at ease, I just focused on the bright side.