Look at Dom. She made good money—even if it was from stripping—and still lived in those nasty projects. I know for a fact the shoes she was wearing cost $225.00, more than her rent for several months. Now, what was that all about?
I walked over to the small rolltop desk in the corner. In one brief glance my life was chronicled: my biweekly paycheck from Platinum Records for $700.00, lying next to my bills for the month totaling $3,000.00. Twelve hundred for my lease, four-hundred-dollar car note, high car and property insurance, even higher furniture note, credit card bills, utilities, food, and oh, Lord, clothing….
Aaahhh!
Gwen Guthrie’s hit “Ain’t Nothing Going on but the Rent” was my anthem. Destiny’s Child’s old jam “Bills, Bills, Bills” was my theme song. I was definitely looking for a brother to help ease my financial tension.
My male friends brought up whatever slack my paycheck left, and I could rob Peter to pay Paul with the best of them. If that did not work, I could do a lot of creative juggling with what bills got paid when, which was not always good for my credit, but oh, well.
I do not live beyond my means because I mean to live the way I live, and nothing is going to change that.
I scooped up my bills from my friends’ prying eyes. My eyes fell on Sahad Linx’s signature on my paycheck. The bold slashing spoke of his wealth, prominence, and power.
I let my perfectly manicured finger trace the letters of his name slowly with the same sensuality with which I would one day stroke his ebony penis. Stroke it. Taste it. Kiss it. Suck it. Ride it.
“Cristal! Bring your saddidy ass over here, girl.”
Dom’s voice broke into my erotic thoughts. I slid my bills and paycheck into the drawer, crossing the room to take a seat on the couch next to Alizé. “What are you all talking about over here?”
“We tryin’ to decide on a road trip for spring break next month,” Alizé answered me, looking too cute in a form-fitting hot pink top with NASTY GIRL blazed across the front in rhinestones and a pair of Apple Bottoms jeans that were killer on her slender figure. Hot pink high-heeled boots, belt, and oversized shades—definitely Gucci—completed her look.
I would bet my paycheck that she had on pink underwear as well.
We each had our own unique look and fashion style.
Alizé was a variation of hip-hop glitterati queen for her casual wear and tailored business for anything career oriented.
Dom was straight in-your-face sex appeal, especially with the deep V-neck shirt she was wearing with a pair of House of Dereon jeans cut so low on her hips that you could see the very split of her…eh, derriere.
I was more of the sophisticate with a Park Avenue socialite sense of fashion, preferring tailored slacks and classic dresses.
And Moët? Well, God bless her soul but the poor child was so confused by her double life that she did not have time to develop her own style. She was a mix of all three of us, depending on whomever she went shopping with that week.
I looked at each of my friends again. We were so different now. Our style. Our jobs. Our goals in life. Our dreams. But back in high school we were all four girls from Newark just trying to make it through high school. Our friendship helped the years pass by quickly. Thank God we found each other.
It was the first party of the school year. Monica and I were excited even before we hopped out of the back of her father’s car, threw him a quick wave as he pulled off, and made our way inside. The gym was already packed. The lights were dimmer than they were during school. “Can I Get A …” by Jay-Z was blaring, and the dance floor was full.
“What’s going on over there?” Monica asked as a crowd gathered to the left of the gym floor.
I just shrugged because we were heading our nosy behinds in that direction.
We wormed our way through the cheering people until we stood together near the edge of the inner circle. A slender dark-skinned girl was in the middle, dancing her behind off like she was working a 9 to 5.
University High was a small school, so no one was a complete stranger whether you ever spoke to them or not. I knew her name was Keesha Lands. I had to admit that she impressed me because she was always cracking jokes in class and her gear was almost top-notch. She had on a gold herringbone chain that had to be three inches wide. And her fingernails were long and brightly airbrushed.
I thought I was a pretty good dresser, but I could not compete with Monica or Keesha. I had to babysit after school just to make extra money to buy a few designer pieces to mix with the Wal-Mart clothes my latest foster parents bought for me.
“She keep shaking like that, she gone send that chain flying, and then I know all hell gone break loose in here,” Monica joked.
“I know that’s right.”
Eventually the crowd dispersed and the party carried on. Monica and I had fun at our first high school party, laughing it up with our friends, flirting with the boys (especially the upperclassmen), and dancing just enough to be cute but not wild enough to get funky.
“Girl, I have to pee,” Monica told me, grabbing my hand to pull me behind her out the gym and down the empty hall to the girl’s bathroom.
Monica scooted into the one near the door as I checked my hair in the mirror over the sink. I started to sing “My Life” by Mary J. Blige. As Monica came out the stall and washed her hands, she started to sing along with me.
We were off-key and not doing Ms. Mary any justice.
Suddenly a third voice chimed in. We stopped singing. Startled, we both looked up to find Keesha’s slim face over the side of the stall beside the sink. As she continued to sing the bridge worse than even we did, we looked at each other, shrugged, and started singing again.
We heard Keesha’s feet hit the ground just before she dramatically bust out the stall, her head flung back, her eyes closed as she sang into her fist. She had Mary’s movements down pat.
A senior cheerleader walked into the bathroom, gave us an odd look, and turned and walked back out.
We all stopped singing, looked at each other, and burst out laughing.
The three us have been inseparable ever since.
“Why don’t we go to the shore,” I suggested, changing the direction of my thoughts to the beaches of South Jersey.
Dom immediately rolled her slanted mocha eyes heavenward as she reached in her Dolce & Gabbana bag for her always on-hand soft pack of Newport cigarettes. She lit one quickly, her peach-tinted lip gloss staining the butt. “This is my first weekend off in a month, and for one, I ain’t even trying to be around kids screaming and playing in that dirty-ass ocean all day. Secondly, if I’m gone to give up chillin’ with my man for y’all, it gots to be for more than South Jersey, ya heard me?”
A long and narrow tunnel of exhaled smoke followed her declaration.
I was used to Dom’s supposed tough-girl exterior, so I ignored her. “Moët, we already know you cannot go. So, Alizé, what do you think?”
“Let’s go to Myrtle Beach for Biker’s Week,” came a soft reply.
All our eyes darted to Moët in surprise.
“Big Mo,” Alizé teased, raising her hands to the roof with two quick pumps.
Dom watched Moët through eyes that she squinted against the silver sliver of smoke. “What the hell you gonna tell Reverend Ike and Sister Shirley Caesar?” she asked, her raspy voice condescending.
“Dom, I told you not to call my parents that,” Moët snapped, her round pretty face twisted with irritation.
Dom