The Accidental Diva Page 11

  As they sauntered away, loudly whispering, “He’s so thug-life!” Billie turned to Jay with a triumphant smile. “I have street credibility!”

  “I feel so objectified.”

  “Oh, you like it.”

  “No amount of you running around with me could give you street credibility.”

  “What? Are you kidding?” Billie started strutting around, launching into NWA’s “Fuck the Police.”

  Jay burst out laughing.

  “What? Okay, so I’m repping the wrong coast, but whatever. I can be hard when I wanna be. I’m tougher than leather.”

  “You’re tougher than pleather.”

  Billie punched Jay in the arm and giggled. Life was good.

  * * *

  • • •

  When they finally reached Walt Whitman, it was about four. The tall, red-bricked buildings that made up the development took up a whole block. Everyone was outside, basking in the Indian summer weather. Old ladies sat gossiping on benches while elementary school–aged girls played complicated hand-clap games. Somebody’s mother screamed out the window for Rafiq to leave Ms. Parker’s daughter alone before she came down there and stopped him herself. Teenaged boys huddled together, laughing uproariously as they dissed each other for sport. The block was abuzz with the percussion of basketballs bouncing off walls and double-Dutch jump ropes scraping the concrete.

  They stood on the sidewalk outside the development, looking up at the tenth floor of the tallest building.

  “That’s me and K’s bedroom window.”

  “Do his parents still live there?”

  Jay shrugged and turned around to face the street. He pointed to a laundromat on the corner. “That used to be a bodega back in the day. I almost got arrested right out front.”

  “What?”

  He nodded in a let’s-not-make-a-big-deal-out-of-this way.

  “How old were you?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Oh.” Silence. “What happened?”

  “I was just being stupid. That was one of the places where I used to sell. The thing is, when you’re doing so much dirty shit—and I mean various forms of illegal behavior—you can’t ever sleep on your surroundings. You absolutely cannot, not even for a second. You got to always be aware, checking for plainclothes cops and shit. Cars you ain’t never seen. Unfamiliar-lookin’ niggas. After a while, it’s just instinct. You immediately know when the block’s hot, and then you gotta get the fuck outta there. You’re in so much shit, you could get got for anything at any time, you know?

  “The thing is, that day I was thrown off my game cuz I was high. It was an accident. I hate being high. I mean, high on some ill shit. You know I’m not a drug-type person.”

  “No, I know,” Billie said.

  “My man gave me a cigarette that was laced with PCP.”

  “PCP?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Huh. I always thought PCP was an urban legend. Like one of those generic ‘just say no’ drugs that Nancy Reagan would always preach the evils of, but that no one was really doing.”

  Jay looked at her like she was an alien. “You thought PCP was an urban legend?”

  “Well, I don’t know…” She trailed off, deciding to speak less. “Anyway, so what happened?”

  “So, I was all fucked up. It makes your heart beat really fast, and everything’s on fast-forward. This white cat came up to me and asked if I had any dope. Shit, I shoulda known right then he was shady. When I reached into my back pocket for my bags, he pulled out a nine and his badge. I don’t even remember thinking, I just took off. And the PCP made me fast. I was out. I ran and ran and, you know, I finally lost him.”

  “Jesus, Jay.” Billie clutched her heart.

  “I hid under a garbage truck for three hours, tweaking and sweating and shit. It was awful.”

  “Honey.”

  “And it wasn’t that I was particularly scared. It ain’t in me to be shook. Besides, I woulda ended up in Juvy, and I knew half the niggas in there. The thing is, you don’t stroll out of Juvenile Hall and end up a normal person chillin’ on Wall Street with a 401(k). Chances are, you’re going right back in. You don’t know how else to be.” Jay shook his head. “It wasn’t for me. I had too much shit to take care of.”

  Billie was speechless. Her heart broke for him, but at the same time, deep deep down, she found it sort of exciting.

  Jay changed the subject. “Okay, enough reminiscing. You look like a deer in headlights. Let’s go.” He grabbed her hand, kissed it, and led her to Yellow Andre’s building.

  They stood in the hallway outside Yellow’s door. The walls were decorated with amateur, ball-point graffiti, and the elevator smelled like piss. Jay knocked and knocked, but there was no answer. Just as they were turning away, a shapely, middle-aged Latina woman opened the door. She was quite pretty but tired-looking.

  “¡Hola, guapo!”

  “What’s up, Mrs. Jones.” Jay gave her a hug and a kiss. She looked happy to see him.

  “The livin’ could be easier. Cómo estás, baby?”

  “Good, good. Mrs. Jones, this is—”

  “I remember you! Jou still doin’ hair, mami?”

  Jay’s eyes widened. She couldn’t possibly think Billie was Tammy. They looked nothing alike, and Tammy hadn’t lived in the neighborhood for a good five years. No, no, no.

  “No, no, uh, this is my girlfriend, Billie,” Jay said quickly. “You’re thinking of the girl we all used to run with in high school, what’s her name? I know it ain’t been that long since I’ve seen you, Mrs. Jones. Anyway, Billie, this is Yellow’s mom.”

  Billie smiled and gave her a kiss on her powdery-soft cheek. She shot Jay a suspicious, slightly amused expression. Luckily, Billie was secure enough in his devotion to know that if Jay was looking nervous, there had to be an innocent reason.

  Mrs. Jones moved closer to Billie and, squinting, looked Billie up and down. “Ooooh, jou not her. My eyes is bad, but I’m so vain I no wear the glasses.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Billie.

  “¿Eres puertorriqueña?”

  “No, no, I’m black.”

  Mrs. Jones squinted suspiciously. “¿Seguro? I think somebody lied to jou, baby.” Mrs. Jones invited them into the small, cozy apartment, and they sat down on her plastic-covered plaid couch. School portraits of Yellow competed with stylized pictures of Jesus for wall space. A rainbow of rosary beads hung over the kitchen door. The apartment smelled like a cross between garlic and Lysol.

  “Yellow’s daddy was black. He left me for a peep show hoochie in nineteen eighty-two. But I no allow that incident to make me prejudiced.” She gave Billie a welcoming smile. “I’m open to all kinds.” She turned to Jay. “So whatchoo know good, guapo?”

  “Nothing much, nothing much. Is Yellow around?”

  “No, he outside watching some basketball game. At least, that’s what he said. Don’t let me find out he’s out there all loco.”

  “He ain’t, Mrs. Jones. You know Yellow’s on the up and up.”

  “I don’t know shit. Excuse me, Beelie.” Billie waved her away. “He ain’t like you, niño. I wish he’d bring home a nice girl sometime. He gotta settle down, jou know? He ain’t getting no jounger.”

  “True, true. But he’s doing all right, considering.”

  “Consider this. He out there bettin’ on games and ain’t got a dime and a nickel. If that ain’t loco, no sé.” She fixed her fawnlike eyes on Billie. “Whatchoo do for a living, baby?”

  “I write for a magazine. About beauty products…makeup, haircare, trends. That sort of thing.”

  “Really? Thass a job?”

  “I know, right? It’s fun. I’m lucky—I’m one of the few people I know who actually likes their job.”
>
  “Betchoo make money, huh?”

  “Well, not really. Magazine writing isn’t what you do if you’re looking for a big salary.”

  “At least jou get a salary. My son works at White Castle. I don’t know where his dollars go. I don’t see any of it, that’s for sure. He’s loco, my son. Always, always, always broke. Jay, you got to talk to him. He’s jour friend.”

  “I know, Mrs. Jones. He’s trying to get himself together. He’s trying.”

  “Hrmph.” Mrs. Jones didn’t believe it. She leaned in conspiratorially. “Jay?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m gonna ask a serious question.”

  “Of course. What’s up?”

  “My son’s a fruit?”

  “What? Naw, Yellow ain’t gay. Where’d you get that from?”

  “He never be bringin’ no girls over, and he’s been so funny since he came back home. Jay, I tell you he’s a maricón. I try to ask him, but he say to stay out his biz. I tell him, I say, ‘¡Mira! Andre! If I find out jou running around with little boys I’ll right away die, entiendes?’ And he just say to leave him be.”

  “Mrs. Jones, I really don’t think—”

  “Well then, maybe he just no have the proper tools for normal relations. I tell him when he was jung not to mess around with that marijuana and stuff. It kills jour nature.” She raised her eyebrows and looked knowingly at Billie. “She knows what I mean.”

  Billie nodded politely.

  “I’m sad, Jay. Sometimes I don’t want to live no more. Andre’s mi niño, but he no good. He stupid and weak. I wish jou were my son. Jou a famous comedian…” Comedian? “…and jou always in the paper, and my own son is such a mess.” Her voice began to shake. She widened her large eyes, blinked, and produced a tiny tear. “I am cursed.”

  “Mrs. Jones, don’t get upset. I told you to ask me if you needed anything.”

  “I’m too proud to ask. Boricuas don’t take handouts.” She sat up pin-straight.

  Looking vaguely embarrassed, Jay took out his wallet, counted out $100, and handed it to her. She shook her head, her brown curls bouncing.

  “No, no, no, guapo. I can’t take jour money. I’d rather starve and also die tragically of a broken heart.”

  “Take it. Really, it’s no problem.”

  She paused, daintily wiping a tear from her cheek. “Beelie, I’m sorry jou had to see this,” she whispered, accepting the cash. “Jou was always a good boy, Jay. Help my son. He’s a non-moneyearnin’ fruit and I know it.”

  Jay winced and stood up. “Okay, Mrs. Jones. Well, we’re gonna go see him now. You take care, though.” He kissed her and led Billie to the door.

  “Bye, joung lovers,” she trilled. “Go with God!”

  “Nice to meet you,” said Billie.

  Outside the door, Jay let out a huge sigh. “She watches too many novellas.”

  Billie wrapped her arms around his waist and looked up at him. “You’re wonderful, you know that?”

  “Aw shucks.”

  “Now, who’s the bitch that does hair?”

  “Oh that.” Jay made a waving motion with his hand. “Mrs. Jones gets mad confused. You know, she’s been through a lot. She was talking about this girl from the neighborhood, but I think she moved a while back.”

  “I only believe you because you’re so cute.”

  “Shit, whatever works,” Jay said, grateful for Billie’s naïveté. Not that he was doing anything really despicable to her, like cheating, but still. His insides were churning. He’d have to come clean soon…nothing felt right while he was keeping her a secret. It wasn’t fair to anyone, and he knew it. And he really wanted things to be right with Tammy, dammit.

  “Let’s go see your friend.”

  “Okay, but I need an ATM machine. Mrs. Jones cleaned me out.” Jesus Christ, Jay thought to himself. Women.

  The basketball court was packed. In the center of things was a handsome boy in Knicks basketball shorts and a wifebeater. Two teenagers in variations of the same outfit were arguing over who was going to play him next. The tall boy was absentmindedly dribbling and gazing at his girlfriend, Sheree, who was reclining on a crowded bench with her friends. She was licking a Blow Pop and suggestively running a pink Timberland-clad foot up and down her shapely leg.

  Jay scanned the crowd and spotted Yellow sitting alone on a cracked lawn chair on the far side of the court. Jay raised his fist in the air and Yellow nodded, but before they could head in his direction, Jay was mobbed.

  Jay looked sincerely happy to see every single person who rushed up to him. He navigated through the crowd like a politician, shaking hands, kissing babies, kissing babies’ mamas (to Billie, he seemed like a cross between Jesse Jackson and Ferris Bueller). They were all beaming with pride at their local boy made good. They always knew he was a star, and it was about time the outside world caught on.

  “That nigga Jay, whassup! How you livin’?”

  “Shady ass mothafucka, why I gotta pick up Vibe to see your face? Where you been at?”

  “Yo, son, lemme get at you a minute. You blowin’ up and shit, but don’t forget the little niggas. I been on some writing shit, too…what I gotta do to get put on?”

  “Just tell me you still gangsta. That’s all. I know you all Broadway now, and you probably got white bitches on your dick, but I’d be disheartened to find out you ain’t keeping it gangsta.”

  “’Sup, Nut. So, who’s your shorty?” The tall boy with the basketball was the only one with the nerve to ask. His name was Air, and he was thirteen. His father was Bone, the dealer who had first noticed Jay’s hustling abilities when he was only nine. Ever since Bone died of AIDS in jail, Jay had taken it upon himself to keep an eye on Air, to make sure he didn’t surrender to any street insanity. But the truth was, Air was such a brilliant player that none of his boys wanted to involve him in shady activities. They wanted to see him make it out. And between the demands of basketball and Sheree, Air didn’t have any time to fuck up.

  “This is my girl, Billie. And don’t be calling her no shorty.”

  “Hi, Air.” Billie smiled up at him. He was at least six-foot-five.

  “Damn, girl. You fine! What you doing with a boy’s name?”

  Billie laughed and Jay rolled his eyes.

  “Fuck you get the nerve to ask somebody about a name? Your girl’s name is Sheree-Amor.”

  “Awww, man, go ’head.” Air looked bashful and started bouncing the ball.

  “So what’s the deal? Who you playin’?”

  “Everybody. I been playin’ all day. I’m killlin’ ’em out there.”

  “Word?”

  “Yeah, man, these niggas can’t see me, man.”

  “You tired?”

  “Naw, I’m Air. You betta recognize.”

  “Your mother e-mailed me your Catcher in the Rye paper. Not bad.”

  “Word?” He shrugged, embarrassed. Then he leaned in toward Jay and whispered, “Oh, and, uh, thanks for those notes.”

  “The Cliffs Notes?”

  “Yeah. Them joints was off the hook.”

  “I loved Catcher in the Rye,” offered Billie, who immediately felt like an asshole. Air nodded uncomfortably and looked around. He was mortified by this conversation.

  “All right then, don’t let me get in your way. I’m about to get at Yellow.”

  “All right, man. Keep it gangsta.” Air pounded him on the back. Jay chuckled and moved on, dragging Billie through the crowd. What did Air know about gangsta?

  Yellow hadn’t moved a muscle since Jay entered the court. He was rail thin and slumped over in the chair. A Dodgers cap was pulled low over his butter-colored face. When he lifted his hand to punch Jay’s fist hello, Billie noticed he was shaking. She couldn’t believe she and Yellow
were practically the same age. He did not look well. Jay introduced Billie, and Yellow nodded.

  “Whassup, Yell?”

  “Chillin’.” He threw back some Red Stripe and took a bite of some Sara Lee pound cake he’d been eating.

  “I was just at your crib.”

  “Word?”

  “Your moms thinks you gay.”

  “I know. She trippin’.”

  “You ain’t getting no pussy?”

  “Ain’t trying.”

  “You need to get up off your ass. You look like shit.”

  “Aww, nigga, fuck you.” He glanced sideways at Billie. “Sorry, ma.” For the second time that day, Billie waved the comment away. Who was she, Our Miss Brooks?

  “How’s the job?”

  “I flip hamburgers. We can’t all be you.”

  “Don’t start that shit.”

  “Anyway, I quit.”

  “Tell me you lyin’.”

  “I wasn’t challenged.”

  “You got something lined up?”

  “Naw.” He finished off the pound cake and wiped the crumbs on his sweatpants. His eyes darted around, and he seemed uneasy. “The block’s hot, nigga. Watch your back.”

  “What?”

  “Streets is watchin’.”

  Jay looked around. What was he talking about? Everybody was chilling, having a good time. He squinted at Yellow. He was paranoid. Rikers had fucked him up.

  Jay said, “I’m hooking you up at the Public Theater. They need someone at the door. Taking tickets and shit.”

  “Word?”

  “It’s a job.”

  Billie tried again. “The Public Theater is very nice. It’s a nice space.” Dammit, she thought, everything she said landed with a thud.

  Yellow sucked down some more Red Stripe and managed a bleak smile. He gave Jay a pound. “My nigga.”

  “All right? So, I’m gonna get at you later. Handle your business, Yell.”

  “Peace.”

  They weren’t two steps away before Yellow Andre called Jay back. Billie watched them talk back and forth for a minute—Andre doing a lot of gesturing—and then Jay handed him some cash out of his pocket.