wine in my glass. Chanel asks if I want more. I tell ’er no. Tell ’er I ain’t for beat any more’a that fruity-tooty shit. Tell ’er to spark up ’notha blunt. We change up the subject and start talkin’ ’bout takin’ a trip to either Italy or France.”
“Shit,” I say, takin’ the blunt from ’er. “We can do both. We young, fly, butta bitches who can do whateva da fuck we want.”
She laughs. “Hell yeah, Boo. We two siiiiick bitches doin’ it up. Oh, wait…you sponsorin’ me, right?”
I bust out laughin’. “Ho, I can’t stand nuthin’ yo broke ass stands for. You know Divine got you.”
She laughs wit’ me. “Bitch, you know Divine ain’t gonna give me ’nough paper to live it up. His cheap ass’ll only give me few bullshit gees, then ’pect me to stretch it out for da whole time we gone.”
“Well, if ya cheatin’ ass started suckin’ ’n fuckin’ top-dolla niggas instead of them nickel ’n dime muhfuckas you be chasin’, you’d have ya paper up.”
She rolls ’er eyes. “Whateva, tramp. Pass me da damn blunt.”
We go back ’n forth for a few rounds, draggin’ each otha for filth, laughin’ and whatnot ’til Eric Roberson’s joint “Dealing” starts playin’. Wit’out any thought, we shut the fuck up and go into our own lil’ zones, bobbin’ and puffin’. I’m sure ’er horny ass is imaginin’ ’im wit’ them big, juicy lips swallowin’ up ’er titties. I’m stuck in mine, wonderin’ if I should give the nigga Alex a go, or cut the nigga off now ’fore shit gets too hectic.
TWO DAYS LATER, CHANEL IS BACK UP AT THE HOSPITAL WIT’ ME. I just finished talkin’ to the doctor ’bout the baby’s progress. And so far he’s doin’ good. The doctor is optimistic he’ll make it through this. But, for now, he is still in ICU. And on some real shit, a bitch can’t stand seein’ ’im and all them otha lil’ babies in incubators wit’ all kinda tubes comin’ outta ’im. They are so tiny ’n fragile. The shit is really fuckin’ my nerves. I stare at ’im. Feel myself gettin’ all choked up.
“Do you have any idea what you wanna name ’im?” Chanel asks, cuttin’ through my thoughts.
“Huh?
“Hello, hello? Anybody home? I asked whadaya gonna name ’im?”
“Fuck if I know. All this shit is new to me.” On some real shit, I really haven’t thought the shit all the way through. It feels like shit is movin’ type-fast for a bitch. I’m torn…okay, okay, and fuckin’ scared to death. I don’t know the first thing ’bout carin’ for a baby. Shit, who knows if it’s sumthin’ I even got in me. All I know is, from the moment I laid eyes on that lil’ boy, he’s been on my brain, heavy. And I can’t turn my back on ’im.
“Well, you need to think of sumthin’, soon. We can’t keep callin’ ’im ‘baby’. Our lil’ man needs a name. I’m gonna start lookin’ through some baby books for a name.”
I grin. “Oh, he’s
“Damn straight ’cause you know I ain’t tryna stretch my snatch all outta shape tryna pump no babies outta it. So we gotta share ’im.”
I laugh. “Girlfriend, as much mileage that kat-box of yours got on it, it really ain’t gonna be that much stretchin’ goin’ on. You real loosey-goosey wit’ yours, boo. All you gotta do is squat down low and a baby’ll drop right out wit’ ya big-pussy self.”
She laughs. “Whateva, tramp. Shut ya cum-trap and come up wit’ a name for our baby. And da shit gotta be fly.”
I laugh wit’ ’er. “Yeah, you right. I don’t—”
“Umm, ’scuse me. Are you Miss Rivera?” I turn in the direction of the voice. There are two chicks—one black, the otha white—standin’ wit’ notepads. The black chick is the one talkin’ to me. She has a real strong face, mannish-like. And ’er short blonde ’fro ain’t helpin’ matters. I look ’er up ’n down. Take in ’er cheesy makeup job. The ho got on foundation that is two shades lighter than ’er neck wit’ a buncha eyeliner ’round ’er eyes. She’s a makeup artist’s nightmare. I glance down at ’er footwear.
“Who wants to know?”
“I’m Samantha Hillinger-Brown, and this is my colleague, Dana Movella.” I glance at the white chick. The first thing I peep are a pair of white seashell earrings danglin’ from ’er lobes. She’s all dolled up in ’er Sunday best; a purple dress wit’ large white polka dots. All the bitch needs is a pair of white gloves and a Bible. “We’re with Child Protective Services.” She extends ’er hand. I glance at it, raisin’ my brow. She quickly puts it down.
“And?”
“We’re here on the matter of Baby Rivera.”
Okay, now a bitch’s radar kicks up a notch. “What’a ’bout ’im?”
“We understand your mother had been on life support until he was delivered. And we understand the father is a person of interest in her death.”
“Yeah, that’s right. What does that have to do wit’ me, or you?”
“Well, now that he’s born we need to begin planning for—”
“Oh, no, Sweetie,” Chanel cuts in, shiftin’ ’er handbag from one hand to the otha. “We don’t need no plannin’ committee. We got this. So thanks for ya interest. But you can go hop scotch on back ova to ACS. He’s in good hands.”
“And you are?” Sam the Man asks.
“I’m his aunt.”
“Can we have your name?”
“It’s Aunt,” Chanel says fuckin’ wit’ ’em. “A-U-N-T.”
I tilt my head. “So the only plannin’ there’s gonna be is what color I’m gonna paint his room.”
“Well, here’s the thing, Miss Rivera,” Miss Sunday’s Best says. “We’re here in the interest of the child. We’ve received several calls from concerned parties on behalf of the infant.”
“Concerned parties like who?” I ask, lookin’ ’er dead in ’er blue eyes.
“Well, I’m not at liberty to disclose who the parties are. However, we’d like to discuss with you some concerns…”
Right at this moment, I ain’t tryna hear shit this ho is sayin’. And although I wanna drag this bitch for filth, I know I gotta keep it cute. So I force myself to keep my mouth shut and pay attention. The bitch starts talkin’ ’bout allegations. Someone called in and told ’em that a bitch sells drugs and sits ’round blazin’ all day; that a bitch is aggressive and violent; that I assaulted my grandmother and attacked my aunts; that I get drunk and fuck a buncha men.
I blink, blink again.
“You wait one damn minute,” Chanel snaps, pointin’ ’er finga at ’em. “That’s a buncha bullshit.”
“And that may be so,” Sam the Man says. “But we still have to follow up with every call received. Our priority is for the safety and well-being of the child.”
“Hmmm,” I say, twistin’ my lips up. “And so it should be. So know this. I don’t have shit to hide. So you can ask me whateva you want. Bottom line, I have my own money, and my own home. I don’t sell drugs; neva have, neva will. And I don’t do ’em.” Okay, yeah a bitch blazes, but that ain’t none’a these hoes’ business. Besides, Kush ain’t no damn drug any-damn-way. I continue wit’ my story. “And in terms of bein’ aggressive or assaultive. I neva slapped my grandmother. I grabbed her arm. So what? The bitch slapped
“Well, did you threaten her?”
“Ho,” I snap, puttin’ a hand on my hip. “What that gotta do wit’ da baby? If I threatened ’er, then it should be the police standin’ here, not you. But since you asked. No, I ain’t threaten ’er. I warned ’er. I told ’er the next time she put ’er hands on me, I’ma forget she’s my grandmother and beat ’er old ass up. I don’t care who you are. Don’t put ya hands on me. Otha than that, I like to keep it real simple. Don’t fuck wit’ me, and I won’t fuck wit’ you. But if you bring, then I’ma sling it. And there you have it. Now go back and tell whomeva called you that I said ta fall da fuck back or get knocked da fuck back. Anything else?”
They both blink. I guess they shocked that a bitch brought it to ’em like that. These bitches got the wrong one.