“Ill, I don’t want him anymore, but I do think Bobby Brown is kinda cute.”
I made hurling motions with my neck. “I’ma throw up.”
“You better take something, ’cause if you throw up on the phone and it flies over here…then we gon’ have a problem.”
Okay, maybe I’d missed something. “Naja, how would it fly over there?”
“Duh,” she said as if I was the dumbest person on earth. “Think about it, Elite,” she snapped.
“Hmmm, I just did and you know what, I don’t even think I wanna know.”
“The clock moved!” Naja yelled, excited. “It’s ten!”
I screamed, “Okay, okay. What I’ma sing?”
“Sing,” Aniyah popped her head from under the cover again, “Whatcha whatcha know bout me…”
I balled up my fist and said, “If you don’t shut your mouth…”
“Puleeze,” Sydney popped her eyes wide and rolled her neck. “She don’t wanna sing that mess. She wanna sing, ‘Let me take you to bed, lead you to places you’ve never been.’”
“What in the—let me find out that you been singing that mess and see what happens to you,” I threatened. “Now don’t let me see you pop up from the covers again.”
“I’m tired of being treated like a slave,” Sydney sighed.
“Be quiet!” I yelled.
“Come on,” Naja snapped. “We have to hurry up. We should sing a Whitney Houston throwback. Hit all the high notes.”
“Yeah, and get hung up on.”
“I can sing,” Naja said certain of herself. “I put Rihanna to sleep.”
“Wow, that’s a hard thing to do,” I said sarcastically. “Look, we don’t have time to argue. I’ll sing, you just hum…softly.”
We called the station at least a hundred times before we were able to get through.
“Hot 102,” the DJ said. “You’re on live! Who is this?”
“Ahhhhhh!!!!!!!!” Naja screamed in everybody’s ear.
I swore that if we got hung up on, I was taking her drawstring weave and slinging her ass! “Would you shut up?!”
“Ladies,” the DJ said, getting our attention. “This is Hot 102, and you’re live on the air…”
“Hey,” I said. “My name is Elite, and I’m from—”
“Brick City, in the house!” Naja cut me off. “I’m Naja, and I wanna give a shout out,” I heard her ruffling paper in the background, “to my mother at work right now, my god brother on lockdown, and to all the homies who ain’t here—”
“Naja—”
“Wait,” she carried on, “and to Al-Terik, you know I’m through with you. Cause I saw you and big butt Belinda in the corner of the cafeteria—”
“Naja!”
“Dang girl, why you so rude? You know we got company on the phone.”
“We’re supposed to be singing!”
“Okay, and what’s the problem? Sing.”
“Thank you,” I said, trying my best not to sound as aggravated as I felt. “Sorry about that…uhm…I wrote a song that I would like to sing—”
“Elite, they don’t wanna hear no poetry.”
I ignored her. “Okay, here goes. Do you want me to sing now?”
No answer.
I looked at the phone to make sure it was still on, and it was. “Hello?” My heart dropped in my chest.
No answer.
“Did they hang up?” Naja gasped.
“I think so.” I couldn’t believe this. “Hello?”
“Girl, they’re gone. Dang, why would they do that?”
I didn’t even answer. I simply hung up on her, turned on my side, and placed the covers over my head. I’m not surprised it didn’t work out. Besides, my mother was a crackhead, and I knew the furthest I was probably going to get in life was from one side of my tight ass bed to the other. Tears slid down my cheeks as I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep.
SPIN IT…
Track 2
“Good morning. Welcome to Hot 102,” the alarm clock radio echoed throughout my room, a signal that I needed to get up and get ready for school. I turned over on my back and stared at the ceiling, where my taped poster of Haneef flapped in the top left corner and sagged in the middle.
“We’re here today,” the radio continued, “with hip-hop sensation Haneef.”
“Wassup?! Everybody!” Haneef said and my heart palpitated.
“So,” the DJ spat, filled with excitement, “today is the last day to win tickets to the Haneef concert! So, if you can sing, give me a ring!”
God must have been trying to tell me something. I reached for the house phone and dialed the radio station—they answered on the first ring.
“Hot 102. Who do we have on the line?”
“Elite!”
“Say hello to Haneef.”
“I can’t,” I said in a pant. “I’m speechless.” I heard Haneef laugh…and oh, he had a beautiful laugh.
“Alright,” the DJ continued. “So you’re calling for the contest?”
“Yes.”
“Can you sing?”
“What?! Boy, don’t play with me,” I said seriously. “Can I sing? I sing all the time. Listen…” and I burst into the best soprano version of “Haaaaa…llelujah! Haaaaa…llelujah! Hallelujah, Hallelujah…Ha-lay-lu-yaaaaaa!”
“Oh…kay…” the DJ said. “I hope that’s not what you’re going to sing for us.”
“Oh, no. My song is ‘When You Touch Me.’ It’s a dedication to Haneef.”
I closed my eyes, opened my mouth, and Heaven sprang from my throat. I was naturally an alto with a sultry voice like Keyshia Cole, but I had a range like Mariah Carey, so there was no mistake that I was straight killin’ this contest! “I’m missing you baby…”
“Lee-Lee!”
Hmph. I kept singing, but I swore I heard my mother calling me by my nickname. I glanced at the clock but knew it wasn’t her, because at that time of the morning she was sleeping off her high from the night before.
“Miss when you touch me…” I continued to sing.
“Lee-Lee!”
My eyes popped wide open. That was my mother.
“Elite Juliana Parker, get yo’ fresh ass off this phone, talkin’ crazy?!”
“Ma, get off the phone! I’m doing this to win tickets for Haneef!”
“Haneef?! Who the hell is Haneef, some li’l hoodlum ass drug dealer? All you can do for Haneef right now is get his chin checked. You up here singing like you hot in the ass about somebody touching you! Keep on singing, and it’s gon’ be me reaching out to touch that ass! If anything, you need to ask Haneef if he got two dollars I can borrow. If not, then get yo’ ass off my line!”
Something