Chapter Three
Three
“She did WHAT with my money?” I had heard Geneva, but I needed to hear it again in order to believe it.
“She got her boobs done,” Geneva repeated.
I moved the phone from my right ear to my left. “I can’t believe she did that. I can’t believe she did that with my money!”
“Well, she said it’s an investment.”
“A what? A fucking investment!” I screamed.
“You know I am so sick of her and her bullshit. I mean, I thought that she had to have some serious surgery done, not a fucking breast enhancement!” I couldn’t believe I’d allowed Chevy to play me for a fool again.
“I’m going to call that bitch and give her a piece of my mind! ”
“I don’t know, Crystal. It’s Friday night. Chevy never goes home on a Friday night. She hardly goes home on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday—”
“That bitch!” I screamed, cutting Geneva’s ramblings off. “I’ll call her on her cell phone!”
I slammed down the phone and stormed into my bedroom to get my phone book. All I could see was red, and it wasn’t getting any better when I dialed Chevy’s phone number.
Hello, you’ve reached Chevanese Cambridge. I’m not available to take your call right now, but please leave me a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.
I slammed down the phone and threw myself across the bed.
Why the hell was I so bent out of shape over this?
Chevy was just the icing on the cake. Kendrick was the real problem; he’d been in England for more than three days and hadn’t even called.
That’s what was picking at me. And he had been so distant with me before he left.
I was beginning to think that there might be someone else.
I picked up the phone and called Geneva back.
“Hello?” The voice that answered was deep and sexy.
“Is this the man of the house?” I asked, smiling to myself.
“Um, Aunt Crystal?” the voice came back.
“Yeah, it’s me. Are you disappointed it’s not one of your little girlfriends?” I asked, laughing.
“Nah, Auntie, nah.” Little Eric wasn’t little anymore. It seemed like only yesterday that I was carrying him around on my back.
“What you been up to?” I asked.
“Nothing. You know, just working and going to school.” There was a lull and then, “Ma told you about the rap group I’m in?” Little Eric sounded excited.
“I don’t remember her mentioning it. What’s the name of the group?” I said, turning over onto my back. I noticed a crack across my ceiling. I would have to call the building superintendent about it.
“Um, we call ourselves BMF.”
“Uh-huh, and what does that stand for?”
“Well, no disrespect or nothing, Auntie, but it means Bad Motherfuckers.”
I had to bite the insides of my cheeks to keep from laughing. Little Eric had barely whispered the second word.
“Is that right?” I said, letting amusement fill my voice.
“Yeah. We are the illest underground group around!”
“I believe it,” I said. “So, when can I see this ill group perform?”
“Serious? Yo, Auntie, you can come on down to Washington Square Park tomorrow around two. We going to be battling three other groups.”
“Battling?” I said, sounding every one of my thirty-something years.
“You know, facing off with each group to see who has the illest rhymes.”
“Oh, I see. Yeah, I guess I will be there. You are my only godson, and you’re too cute for me to say no.”
“Ah, Auntie.” I could sense Little Eric blushing through the phone. “Hey, you seen Uncle Noah? I left two messages on his service and nothing.”
I sighed. I’d left a few messages of my own on Noah’s machine and hadn’t heard back either. “No, I think Noah is out of town on business.”
“Oh.” Little Eric sounded disappointed.
“Okay, boy, put your mama on the phone.”
There was a rustling and then the sound of Geneva fussing about dishes in the sink. “Hey, girl,” Geneva said and then said something else to Little Eric. “That boy is going to drive me crazy.”
“Yeah, one day, but not today,” I said, still counting the cracks on the ceiling.
“Did you get in touch with Chevy?”
“Nope, got her damn voicemail. I’ll catch her slick ass tomorrow.” I turned onto my stomach and scooted to the edge of the bed so that I could examine the Berber carpet. “What’s this Little Eric is telling me—he’s in a rap group now?” I asked.
“Oh yeah, that’s this week. That boy changes careers like I change underwear. Last month it was basketball, the month before soccer.”
“Hmm,” I said as I spotted something on my brand-new rug. It looked like powder but it was copper-colored.
“Yeah and catch this,” Geneva started and then stopped. When she started speaking again her voice had dropped down to a whisper. “There’s three of them, right? Little Eric, that boy David from the third floor, who practically lives here, and a white boy.”
Even I was taken aback. “A white boy?” I asked as I closed in on the copper speck.
“Yeah, girl—like bright white! Blond hair and bright blue eyes. White!”
“White people don’t rap,” I said.
“Well, there is that Eminem boy,” Geneva said.
“Em-who? How the hell do you know about these things?”
“Girl, I live with a teenager.”
“Umph. You know what, I gotta go—there is something on my carpet.”
“The one you brought back from Morocco?”
“The very same. Bye.”
“Later, girl.”
I hung up and jumped off the bed. That copper thing was bugging the hell out of me and I didn’t know why. I mean, it was one little speck; it could have been a piece of anything. But what?
I got down on my knees and picked it up. It was hard. I rolled it around between my fingers; it felt more like chalk. What the hell was copper-colored chalk doing in my house?