Chasing Butterflies Page 13

  The two of them go back and forth, calling each other all types of filthy names, and I’m standing here watching it unfold—shocked, frightened, and almost amazed at the level of disrespect, my eyes bouncing back and forth like two tennis balls.

  I ease back some.

  Quita—I mean, Sha’Quita—opens her mouth to say something else, but the words never make it past her lips before the Kee-Kee lady leaps into the air—well, that’s what it looks like it from here—and smacks Quita, uh, Sha’Quita down to the floor, then stands over her and punches her.

  In the head.

  In the face.

  Ohmygod. She’s practically foaming out the mouth as she fights Sha’Quita.

  I almost feel bad for her.

  Almost.

  “I keep tellin’ you ’bout ya slick mouth. You like it when I bust you in it, don’t you, Quita, huh, bish?”

  Whap!

  Whap!

  Sha’Quita yells and screams for her to get off of her. Everything is happening so fast, my head is almost spinning from it all.

  “Yo, what dafuq?!” Omar yells, racing into the room. “Kee-Kee, what the hell, yo?” He tries to pull her off of the Sha’Quita girl, but she refuses to let go. She has her by the hair, wildly punching her. Sha’Quita is kicking and screaming.

  I don’t know if I should call the police or run for my life.

  It’s like watching a horrible train wreck.

  I stay planted, watching the brawl.

  Omar is finally able to pry her hands out of Sha’Quita’s hair, snatching her up in the air. “No, get off me, Oh. I’ma kill her disrespectful azz!”

  “Chill, Kee, damn, yo.”

  Sha’Quita is still down on the floor, holding her head and face, crying. Clumps of weave are all over the floor. “I hate you!”

  “Well, I hate you, too! So, go ’head, boo! Keep runnin’ ya mouth ’n’ I’ma snatch out the resta ya scalp!”

  Omar looks over at me and shakes his head. “Yo, so I guess you’ve met ya aunt Kee-Kee.”

  32

  I’m exhausted.

  I couldn’t sleep last night.

  I spent most of the night up.

  Scared to close my eyes.

  See. I, um . . .

  Last night I experienced the most horrific sighting. In the middle of the night I climbed out of bed, thirsty. So I tiptoed down the darkened hallway, my eyes adjusting to the pitch-blackness, and felt along the kitchen wall for a light switch.

  I cut the kitchen light on.

  And shrieked in horror.

  There were hundreds and hundreds of different size bugs covering the walls, scattering all over the place. They were all over the floor, the cabinets; covered the stovetop, and crawled all over the stack of dirty dishes piling out of the sink. They even scurried out of the overflowing trash can.

  They were everywhere.

  The whole kitchen was under attack.

  Invaded by nasty bugs.

  I back-stepped out of the kitchen, then backed into someone standing in back of me.

  I jumped.

  It was Omar.

  “My bad. I heard somethin’.” He scratched himself.

  I was too distraught to even care. “W-what are all those bugs? They’re everywhere.”

  Omar looked at me, bemusement dancing in his eyes. “You really don’t know?”

  My skin itched, and I struggled not to scratch. “No. I don’t.”

  He shook his head, giving me a sympathetic look. “They’re roaches,” he said.

  My eyes widened. Oh, God. “Roaches as in cockroaches?”

  For a second, I thought I saw a mixture of sympathy and amusement swimming in his pupils. He stifled a chuckle. “Yeah.”

  I shook my head, trying to absorb all of this. “H-how does anyone live like this?”

  His brow rose. And I immediately kicked myself for how the question came out, and I found myself scrambling with an apology, trying to clean it up.

  He rubbed his eyes, then yawned. “You good. Sometimes you gotta do what you can to adapt; eventually, you get used to it, feel me?”

  I didn’t. I stood there unable to wrap my mind around ever adapting to what I’d seen. It was horrifying. The rest of the night I sat up in bed, terrified of falling asleep.

  When I finally did doze off—after fighting it for a long as I could—it was nearly daybreak.

  However, I was rudely awakened, deliriously, to the sound of pots and pans clanking, and cabinet doors slamming.

  Someone was in that nasty kitchen, making lots of ruckus.

  I rubbed my eyes, sweeping my gaze around the room to catch my bearings.

  Sadly, I was still not home.

  I was still here, in this nastiness.

  I pulled out my cell phone, and glanced at the time.

  It was seven a.m.

  So, basically, I’d slept for only two hours.

  And now it’s a little after eleven in the morning.

  I’m finally in the shower.

  But I couldn’t actually get in it until after I scrubbed and bleached down the walls and the inside of the tub.

  I’ve never seen such filthiness before.

  Until now.

  So here I am.

  With my Speedo water shoes on, standing under the spigot, warm water spraying down on me, scrubbing my skin with my loofah sponge and crying.

  The running water muffles my sobs.

  It seems like the only place in this cramped apartment where I might be able to have a moment and cry in peace. It’s the only place where it seems I don’t have to worry about prying eyes or ridicule or judgment. So it’s where I’ve allowed myself to get lost under the heavy stream of water, releasing a river of tears.

  I don’t know how long I’ve been crying, but when I am done shedding my last tear, my skin is practically shriveled.

  I shut off the water.

  Reach to pull back the shower curtain.

  Then stop.

  There’s a noise.

  Panicked, I hold my breath.

  Listen.

  I’m too afraid to peek out to see.

  Then there’s a grunt.

  My eyes widen.

  Ohmygod!

  What is that?

  There’s another grunt.

  And then the bathroom fills with a pungent stench that almost knocks me over.

  Someone else is in here.

  I cough and gag, then ask, “Who’s in here?” And how did you get in here?

  I’m almost afraid to know.

  Please, God, don’t let it be Omar.

  “Who do you think it is,” the voice on other side of the shower curtain says nastily.

  Ohmygod!

  No!

  Sha’Quita.

  “W-what are you doing in here? Don’t you see I’m in here using the shower?” I cover myself with my arms as if she can see me through the curtain.

  “Bisssh, and?”

  Then as if to punctuate her point, she passes gas.

  The sound echoes in the ceramic bowl.

  Loud and obnoxious, like her.

  Ugh!

  Oh, God!

  She smells awful.

  “You think I’m ’posed to hold this ish in? Girl, bye. You was takin’ mad long. And I had’a go.” She grunts again. “I knocked twice”—another grunt—“and you ain’t open ya mouth, so I pried open the door.”

  She belligerently passes more gas.

  And I swoon from the fumes.

  She smells rancid.

  And now I’m trapped inside this tiny makeshift gas chamber.

  Waiting to die a slow death by inhalation.

  I cover my nose with my washcloth, gagging.

  “Ohmygod!”

  “Trick, shut ya meat hole. You act like you ain’t ever fart before. Or take a dump.” She grunts again, then laughs. “Oh, wait. I forgot. You uppity, bougie hoes don’t fart. You poot. You don’t shit. You go number two. Bisssh, boo.”

  “This i
s so freaking gross, Sha’Quita!” I exclaim, struggling to hold my breath.

  “Then get out,” she snaps.

  I can’t. “Well, can you at least hand me my towel?” I asked, relieved that I’d packed my own bath towels and facecloths.

  She sucks her teeth. “Uh, no. If you want it, get it yaself. My name ain’t Hazel. And I ain’t ya maid.”

  The small space fills with the stench of fresh poop.

  “Can you at least courtesy flush? Please?” The request comes out muffled.

  “Courtesy flush?” She grunts again. “Uh. Where they doin’ that? We ain’t doin’ no double-flushin’ up in here. You don’t like the smell, hold ya breath.”

  She passes more gas.

  And my knees buckle.

  * * *

  Two days later, Omar had this lady Miss Peaches—um, well, he introduced her as his friend, but she kept acting like she was his girlfriend or something—take us to Walmart and CVS.

  I’d never set foot inside a Walmart my entire life until then.

  What an experience.

  That’s all I can say.

  Anyway, I decided if I had to stay in this apartment for however long, then I needed some things to make my stay halfway bearable.

  If bearable is even remotely possible.

  But, oh well. I digress.

  At CVS, I bought rubber gloves and a box of surgical masks. Then, at Walmart I picked out a portable air conditioner for the window and six cans of roach spray, along with two flashlights—one for under my pillow at night, and the other for my book bag—and three boxes of Combat Gel Baits and Bait Strips.

  Oh, and a vacuum cleaner.

  Sweeping rugs with a broom is so not it.

  But vacuuming up roaches is.

  Thank goodness for Google.

  I had to search online the best way to kill those nasty little critters.

  Miss Peaches kind of looked at me with amusement, while Omar pulled out his money and paid for my supplies. Not that I needed him to. I have my own money. Still, it was generous of him to do so.

  I think he might have felt bad for me.

  Maybe even a little embarrassed.

  But, um, obviously, not enough to put me up in a hotel.

  Miss Peaches chuckled, and said, “Good luck, sweetie. Them stubborn-ass roaches ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

  I shrugged it off.

  I know I can’t kill them all. But my mind is—and was—set on decreasing as many as I possibly can for the time I’m here. Once I’m gone, they can breed and multiply and eat through the walls if they want.

  What do I care?

  But right now, I’m on a mission.

  So, here I am—with Omar, be clear—in Sha’Quita’s depressingly dirty bedroom, with gloves on and a face mask strapped to my face, armed with a can of Raid, spraying like a wild banshee, while Omar is pulling out her furniture and vacuuming up dust and dead roaches.

  I guess this is our bonding time.

  Anyway.

  I’m frantically spraying all around the baseboards, near my bed in particular. Behind and around Sha’Quita’s bed—although, I confess, I thought to leave her side untouched since she seems to have some sort of allegiance to insects and bugs.

  All I keep wondering is, is this apartment, this bedroom the definition of a trap house?

  “Damn, she’s nasty, yo,” Omar says, yelling over the roar and crunch of the vacuum cleaner.

  I keep spraying. Never opening my mouth, but I’m wondering why he’s pretending to be surprised at how filthy she is.

  Oh, wait.

  He’s been locked up forever.

  Whatever. It’s in that girl’s genes—nastiness, obviously.

  Heck, everyone here seems comfortable living in squalor, but I’m not.

  All I keep thinking is, Sha’Quita is going to lose her mind when she walks in and sees that I’ve killed off most of her pets.

  I almost want to laugh.

  I cut my eyes over at Omar. He’s wiping sweat from his face with a washcloth he carries in his back pocket. I go back to the task of spraying while he pulls out the long dresser.

  “Aye, yo, what dafawwk, man!” he snaps.

  I look over and he’s holding up two pair of dirty panties Sha’Quita had in back of the dresser. “This don’t make no goddamn sense for a female to be this effen nasty, yo.”

  I shrug, reminding myself that this is not my problem.

  Then I pray for God to deliver me from this hell.

  33

  Welllll . . .

  I’m still in hell.

  And I’m still petrified.

  And God still has yet to answer any of my prayers.

  The most important of them all—for right now: getting me the heck out of here!

  ASAP!

  I’ve been here less than a week. And I’m wishing on every twinkling star to make like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, and find my way back home.

  Somewhere over these nasty brick buildings and polluted skies.

  I want to go home.

  Now.

  This was all a mistake. I should have never let Aunt Terri or Omar to convince me to come out here.

  I could have refused.

  I should have refused.

  But I didn’t.

  And now I feel like I’ve been locked in a closet with narrow walls and the smell of mothballs—not that I’ve ever been locked in one, but I imagine this is what it might be like—and I’m watching my entire life unfold through a tiny keyhole.

  I feel boxed in.

  And I’m scared.

  That I’ll never make it out of here, out of this apartment, this city, this state, in one piece. I pull out my cell and call Aunt Terri. The phone rings, and she answers on the third ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Aunt Terri. It’s me. Nia.”

  “Oh, hey, Nia. How’s New Jersey?”

  “Horrible,” I whisper into the phone. “They have these nasty bugs that seem to come out late at night and take over the whole apartment; especially the kitchen.” I catch my breath, and swallow. “And I have to share a room with this really nasty girl. All she does is snarl and stare at me. No matter how nice I try to be to her, she just insists on being the opposite. Aunt Terri . . .” I pause, fighting back tears. “You have to get me out of here. Now. I can’t do this. I—”

  I stop midsentence, realizing that Aunt Terri hasn’t said. Not. One. Word.

  “Hello? Aunt Terri?”

  There’s a long silence on the other end.

  Finally she speaks. “Well, Nia. What’s the problem... ?”

  I shake my head in disbelief, staring at the screen.

  Oh, the problem is you haven’t heard a word I’ve said.

  My lips quiver. I am on the verge of tears. “Aunt T-terri,” I mutter. “I don’t like it here.”

  “You just got there, Nia. You haven’t even given it a chance.”

  “I don’t want to. I want to go home.”

  “Nia. You don’t have a home,” she says curtly.

  Her words stab me in the chest, and I feel myself slowly bleeding out.

  A sob gets stuck in the back of my throat. “I-I-I meant I want to come to you. In Georgia, Aunt Terri.”

  “And you will, Nia; just not now. You agreed to go out there for a few weeks to get to know your biological father and his family . . .”

  “Your biological father . . .”

  I cringe.

  “. . . and I expect you to hold up to your end of the deal until this matter with your father’s estate is cleared up.”

  Tears flood my eyes. “I just want to go home, Aunt Terri. I don’t care where; just not here.” I burst into tears. “I miss my daddy. And I’m so alone here. These people are crazy,” I say into the phone, sobbing. “They curse and smoke, and fight each other. I can’t stay here. Please, Aunt Terri. I beg of you . . .”

  “Listen, Nia,” she says sternly. “You need to pull yourself together. I know you miss y
our father, and you’re still grieving. But all that crying isn’t going to do anything but make you sick. Not one shed tear is ever going to bring him back. So . . .”

  Basically. Get over it.

  “. . . you need to toughen up, Nia. Stop focusing on all the negatives, and figure out a way to make it work. God’s given you a new family. And a second chance.”

  “B-b-but I don’t want a new family or a second chance. I want to get out of here. Why are you tossing me away like this? What did I ever do to you, Aunt Terri, huh?”

  “Nia. Stop this. You haven’t done anything. Like I already explained. There are some things that need to be handled first, before you can come here.”

  “W-w-w-will you send for me in t-t-three w-w-weeks like y-you p-p-promised?”

  She sighs heavily into the phone. “We’ll see. Right now, everything is up in the air.”

  Uh?

  Everything like what?

  “P-please, Aunt Terri. P-please,” I beg, my body shaking uncontrollably.

  “I have to go, Nia,” she says brusquely. “I’ll call you in a few days. Okay?”

  I sniffle. Then I reach for a wad of tissue and blow my nose. “Ohh. K-kay.”

  “Now pull yourself together, before you make yourself sick,” she says.

  “B-b-but I’m already s-sick,” I mutter just as she disconnects the call.

  I hang up with Aunt Terri, knowing for certain—now more than ever—my dubious fate.

  I’m no longer trapped in a closet.

  I’m trapped in a box.

  Being pushed out to sea.

  And a rogue wave washes over me.

  34

  “Ooh, don’t even try it,” I hear someone say. “I know you hear me talkin’ to you.”

  Pen poised over the page, my eyes flutter up from my journal.

  It’s Quita.

  Excuse me, Sha’Quita.

  Standing here, neck tilted, hand on hip.

  She hasn’t spoken to me in three days. Now all of a sudden she wants to speak.

  A big pink bubble swells out from between her glossed lips.

  “Hunh?”

  She rolls her eyes.

  Pops her bubble.

  “I saaaaaid, why you sittin’ out here on the steps like you lost?”

  Because I am.

  She snaps her gum between her teeth.

  Click-clack.