Niya Page 3

  “Yeah, it’s me, nigga. You calling to see if I’m still breathing?”

  “Where the hell have you been? I went to meet up with you, but you never showed up.”

  The urgency in White Boy’s voice made me stop walking.

  “You tried to set me up, nigga. Sent a goon to take my shit and shoot me!”

  “Now, why the fuck would I do that? You the only one out here I can trust. I wouldn’t do no shit like that. Can we hook up?”

  I laughed into the phone. “After what you did, hell no. I could have—”

  “Listen to me. I didn’t do that shit. How long have I been doing this with you? Why would I rob you now?” As White Boy spoke, I saw Jamilla turning the corner.

  “Yeah, well, miss me with all that shit you talkin’. I hit that nigga a few times, and I hope he’s not still breathing. I’ll hit you up if I change my mind.”

  I hung up the phone as Jamilla walked by me. At first, I thought she was ignoring me, but by the look of things, she was closed off to the world. I walked behind her for a good block before I decided to call out her name. She didn’t hear me until the third time.

  “Jamilla.”

  She stopped walking and turned around. When she saw me, she rolled her eyes and picked up her pace. I walked a little faster until I caught up to her.

  “Where are you going in such a hurry? I wanted to—” I stopped talking once I noticed that she had been crying.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked as she walked away. Again, I caught up to her. I took her arm and tugged on it to make her stop.

  “Nothing is wrong. You got my notebook?”

  I diverted my eyes from hers. I hadn’t even thought of her notebook until she brought it up now. I guessed I had too much going on even to remember it. “I don’t have it on me, but I will get it back to you. Tell me what’s wrong, though.”

  She looked at me, and I hadn’t seen that much pain in someone’s eyes since the last time I looked in the mirror. “Life. That’s what’s always wrong.”

  “I hear that. Look, I don’t know if you drink, but I just got a bottle. Wanna go to the courts? Maybe talk, hang out a bit?”

  She looked at me as if she was trying to read me. I smiled as I thought of what could possibly be going through her head. I had been a total dick the first time we spoke. She was probably trying to understand my kindness and why I was showing any to her.

  “I don’t want to talk about what’s wrong. Just get me drunk.”

  I knew how she felt. Sometimes drowning your reality in liquor felt like the only way out . . . for the moment.

  Chapter 6

  Jamilla

  The air felt nice. It smelled like rain would soon come and rip us apart. The breeze cooled us New Yorkers and blessed us with a much-needed hiatus from the blazing night’s heat that came with summer. Thirty minutes into Niya’s bottle, and I was already half past drunk.

  “Why did you take my notebook from me? Did it make you feel any better to read what I wrote?” I asked her, praying that she had never cracked it open.

  “I didn’t read it. I did it out of anger. I will give it back to you the next time I see you.”

  I took a swig off her bottle and handed it to her. “Have you seen Rodney?” I asked. I was doing it again, but I had to know.

  “No. He called, but there’s nothing left to say.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked, hoping that she didn’t go off on me again.

  “Yeah, I’m sure. I’m too hurt to go back to that. Whatever that was, ’cause it wasn’t a friendship.”

  I frowned and continued with our conversation. “I forgive you, and we are talking right now. Is it fair to hold a grudge when you have been forgiven?” I watched her. Even though she was drunk, it didn’t impair her thought process.

  “What he did to me . . . that’s unforgivable. He was supposed to be my friend. He betrayed me, and I will never forgive him.”

  A long silence fell between us. I didn’t know what to say. As for her, she just looked lost in her own thoughts.

  “What he said . . . is it true?” I finally asked.

  She tried to hand me the bottle, but I shook my head no, and she downed the rest of the harsh liquor. “Maybe, maybe not,” she said. As she answered my question, big raindrops started to fall, causing us to jump up and head for our building.

  We walked in silence. When the rain began to fall harder, we ran. Once inside the building, neither of us had much to say. Our building had two sets of stairs. Each led to one side of the building. I live on the A side; she lived on the B side. We looked at each other and said good night. It was hard just to walk away. I just wanted to grab her and kiss her. The longing stare that settled in her eyes before we turned our backs on each other and parted ways told me that maybe, just maybe, if I did kissed her, she wouldn’t pull away. But I just wasn’t sure yet.

  * * *

  I felt better while inebriated. My home situation became a distant memory as thoughts of Niya and our conversation invaded my brain. I got into the house, and it was clear that everyone was asleep. I locked up, stayed quiet, and longed to pass out in my bed. I walked down the hallway, hoping that my stepdad wouldn’t come out. I made it to my bedroom door and went to turn the knob. It didn’t budge. At first, I thought that because I was drunk, I wasn’t turning the knob the right way. I stood there for ten minutes, trying to get that door open, before it dawned on me. My knob was different. They had put a lock on the bedroom door. This angered me, so I started to bang on that door like a madwoman.

  “Open up this fucking door. This is my room,” I screamed and yelled, but Marie wouldn’t open the door. Instead, she spoke to me through it.

  “Your mom said that this was my room now.”

  “I don’t give a shit. Open the door.”

  This went on for another ten minutes or so.

  “At least let me get my things.” I said, trying to sound defeated.

  “Your mother took them out already. Look in the hall closet.”

  My mother did what? I asked myself. I staggered to the hallway, flipped on the lights, and opened the closet door. A gasp escaped my lips. There were all my things. My clothes, everything I owned, was stuffed in this one little coat closet. I wanted to cry. I really did. But I couldn’t. I was too irritated, too upset, too angry. How could she do this to me? I knew what I would do. I was going to sleep on the couch, which she had told me I couldn’t sleep on. I was going to show her. With all the will in me to do no good, I couldn’t. They had flipped over the couches in the living room.

  I tried my best to flip one of them back over, but with the alcohol in my bloodstream, I didn’t have the balance or the strength. I sat on the living-room floor for a very long time, just thinking. I had a conversation with God that night, asking Him, “Why me?” I wanted to know why my life was the way it was. Why was I birthed from the woman I called Mom. I wanted to know why He had let things happen to me that would later put me right there on that living-room floor. There were so many bad people in the world who didn’t have it half as bad as me. But there I was, a young girl doing her best, and I was living a life that I felt shouldn’t belong to me. “What did I do, God? Tell me, what did I do?” I asked this so many times, I lost count.

  When no answer came, I went into the kitchen to see where I could make a bed for myself, but my mother had already made it. I guessed that was the least she could have done. I lay there and figured it all out. Ours is not to question why. Our purpose in life is to do or die, I thought. I couldn’t wait to get the fuck out of that house and just do, ’cause in the house . . . I was dying.

  Chapter 7

  Niya

  I staggered into the apartment and stopped in the kitchen. I put the plate of food that my grandma always left for me in the fridge. I checked her box of “tea” to make sure that she had enough weed in there. My grandmother never drank, hardly cursed, but her weed she had to have. I filled up her box and headed straight for my bedroom. I turned on
my underground mixtape and undressed. I had had a long day, and at that point nothing felt better than my bed. As I hummed to the rap song that came out of my speakers, I picked up my rhyme pad and jotted down some lines that came to mind.

  What do you hide? As if I am not holding back mine. But deep in your eyes, I see things that coincide, with pain from life and unbinding love. Milla, for real’ah, this fever you give me is a killa. She usin’ me for everything but my mind. Clothes, jewels, and money send chills up her spine. Her body be calling, and I’m always there to answer. ’Cause shorty looks good and giving her time to shine eats away at the anger. Baby thinks I don’t know, but with me hiding who I am, I will have to deal’ah with everything that ain’t realer . . . than you. Shit won’t last long. There’s only so much dancing you can do in a thong. When it’s over, I just hope that you are there and know that this ain’t just a song but some real shit I been feeling and was just too afraid to tell you, so I put it in this song.

  Secrets, everybody has them . . . and I wish you were mine. Untold truths bury true feelings from within, but deep in your eyes, I see the need to align with a real nigga that always stays trill’ah. You the one I want beside me when I’m sittin’ on a mill. Them other bitches, I’m ready to kill. Ain’t shit real about them. They’re just looking for someone to pay their bills.

  I read over what I’d written and laughed. Wasn’t my best, but it was real. Writing down my feelings for the day always kept me sane. I always had thoughts running around in my head, and writing them down had always been better than telling them. I put down my pen and turned over to put the pad on my nightstand, and there it was. I sat up and just looked at it. I had told her that I didn’t read it, but sitting there, I wanted to. I wanted to know more about her, and this was the way to do it without asking her a bunch of questions. I needed to use the bathroom, so I got up. As I emptied my bladder, I used that time to think. I asked myself how mad I would be if someone read my notepad. I also told myself that no one would know. I washed my hands, returned to my bedroom, went into my backpack, took out some weed, and rolled up a blunt. I sat there smoking, contemplating what to do. I tried to think of other things, but soon enough, she would find her way back into my thoughts, and after her came thoughts of her notebook.

  “Fuck it,” I said out loud. I picked up the notebook and flipped it open to the first page. There was no writing on that page, just little things that she’d drawn. Lots of hearts, butterflies, and flowers, and I didn’t know why, but it made me smile. She was a great artist. Even her doodles were very detailed, very well drawn. As I flipped to the second page, I took in a deep breath of smoke. I saw writing and got a little nervous as I began to read her written thoughts.

  On the way home I look around and wonder how many of the kids out here wish that they weren’t going home at all, or maybe that they were going to a different home, at least.

  Why do you just stare? What are you trying to see? Do you see my secrets, or do you stare so you don’t have to think of your own? Do you see in me what you see in her? I hope not. I want you to see better things in me than you do in her. Tell me. I need to know. I am dying to know. I lose sleep asking, why do you stare?

  I put out my blunt. That shit was making me bug out. I knew I was high and way past tipsy, but could she be talking about me? I knew that I stared at her a lot, but I didn’t think that she’d noticed. I read on.

  When I was with him, I didn’t feel loved. Was it him, or was it me? I looked at him, my first boyfriend, and felt empty. When he was on top of me, I wished he wasn’t. Damn. Please, God, don’t say that this is what love is supposed to be!

  I have heard people say that if they could, they would want to be invisible. I have lived my life this way, and I wish I could tell them the truth about it all. Not being seen hurts more than anything in this world. Living like a ghost just eats away at your soul.

  So you write about me. Don’t ask how I know. I just do. Who else sits with a blue notepad and just stares at somebody? So why don’t you just come over and talk to me? Is it because I am not her? Yes, I know all about her. She first came with Rodney, and now . . . off the late night, she just comes with you. Guess I’ll never know.

  My fucking heart was racing a mile a minute. She was talking about me. . . . Oh shit. I picked up the blunt I had just put out and lit it back up. I sat there for a few, just smoking, with the notebook facedown in my lap. I finished off the weed before I picked the notebook back up again.

  I love that you see me. You look at me and see me. I don’t know why I think of you so much. I even question my sexuality, although you do not turn me on . . . sexually. I just wish I knew you. I wish that we could be friends. I need someone. I need someone to save me from all this emptiness. But I thank you. You see me, and that counts.

  Why does life have to be this way? Why must I be alone in a world of billions? My mother doesn’t get me, my stepfamily hates me, and everyone else just doesn’t see me.

  Finally, during our last year in high school, you left your notepad behind. I was hoping that we wouldn’t part ways without me ever knowing what you wrote about. I sat there wondering if I should. I knew that everything that you had tried to hide littered those pages. I knew that the words that were neatly printed on the page had emerged from the deepest part of your soul. Therefore, I had to look. I wanted to know what was behind those wondering eyes. I needed to know what you saw from the inside, looking out. You intrigue me; therefore, I had to know. When you came back into the class, looking for it, I handed it to you with somewhat of a better understanding of who you are.

  Page after page, she revealed herself to me without even knowing it. She made me laugh, she made me sad, and thinking about her sadness also made me angry. I picked up my pen and wrote a few thoughts of my own in her notebook.

  This city holds every sound known to man, or so it seems. But when I look at you, the whole world seems to go silent. You sit as if you’re in your own realm, where love is free and tears don’t fall. I wish I knew what it is about you, but I am too afraid to speak. Hidden in darkness, too scared to let my light shine freely, I don’t know you, but I feel as if I need you. Will my apology ever mean anything to you? It’s funny how we have barely uttered a word to each other, but when you look at me, I feel like you knew me long before I knew myself.

  I wonder if you are the only one who noticed her. She is one of only two, but lost in her beauty, body, moans, and groans, I just can’t seem to find my way out.

  I see you. Always have. When you’re near, my tunnel vision kicks in. I see no one but you. But you know what I want you to know. I can see the pain that dwells far beneath your smile. I know that pain. Have felt it a time or two myself.

  No, you are not gay (lol). I just have that effect on people.

  I don’t know what it is about you, either. You just seem like the person who I want to love.... Damn. I just wrote that . . . and you’re reading it. Damn. I just couldn’t help it.

  I wrote the following as soon as I got home. I loved spending time with you. You were on my mind. It’s not my best, as I didn’t even get a chance to clean it up, but these are raw emotions. Enjoy! P.S. Don’t be mad that I read your notebook. Just look at it as it making us even!

  I added what I had written only an hour before, along with my cell number, and hoped that she wouldn’t be too pissed. I read a bit more before sleep tiptoed into my room and soon invaded my body. I fell asleep with thoughts of bringing Jamilla her notebook in the morning, and with visions of her face dancing around in my mind.

  Chapter 8

  Jamilla

  “Jamilla, wake up. You have someone here.” I heard my mother, but I was tired. I had got in late and needed to sleep off the liquor. “Jamilla.”

  “What?” I asked as I sat up out of annoyance. I rubbed my eyes and waited for my mother to speak up.

  “You have—”

  “What are you doing here?” I said.

  Niya was standing in my hous
e. Then it dawned on me that I was sleeping on the kitchen floor. Oh my God. She was standing in my kitchen. I pulled the covers over my chest and slipped my hand under them and felt around. Fuck. It was wet. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  “Get up, Jamilla. Don’t just lie there,” Marie said with an evil grin. I prayed that no one ever felt the embarrassment that I felt that morning. There I sat, soaked by my own urine, wishing that just once I could become what I dreaded—invisible.

  Everyone seemed to be staring at me, waiting for me to make a move, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t even look at Niya. I diverted my eyes, looked at the floor, and spoke. My voice was low, but she heard me. “What are you doing here, Niya? What are you doing here?”

  She took a step forward, and before she could take another, I stopped her.

  “Stay right there,” I yelled without meaning to. I just didn’t want her to get close enough to see a wet spot or, even worse, smell it.

  “I just came by to bring you your notebook. You left it outside,” she lied, having noticed how interested my mother and my stepsister were in our conversation.

  “Just leave it on the counter, please.” I never looked at her. I couldn’t.

  “Okay. Well, I guess I’ll see you around?”

  I gripped the covers and prayed her away. “Sure,” I answered. I raised my eyes just so I could watch her leave.

  “Who was that?” my mother asked after she heard the front door close. Her face was all scrunched up. I knew that Niya’s appearance would bring questions.

  “That’s the gay girl you bumped into at the graduation,” Marie answered with a smile. She knew that saying this would get my mother worked up.

  “How would you know? You sleep with her or something?” My questions wiped that smile clear off her face.

  “Jamilla, stop it. That’s a crazy question you asked her. How do you know her, this gay girl?”