Chasing Butterflies by Amir Abrams

Author:Amir Abrams [Abrams, Amir]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2016-08-24T04:00:00+00:00

As I hold my pen over the page to write another line, Sha’Quita grunts. “Mmph. Annnnyway. Are you gonna tell me what you be writin’ about or nah?”

Right now about you, but that’s really none of your business. “Mostly poems,” I say, deciding to be cordial, placing the cap on my pen and closing the book again. It’s obvious she doesn’t plan on going anywhere anytime soon.

I take a deep breath.

“Poems?”

“Yeah.”

She laughs. “Ooh, let me find out you tryna be the next Harriet Tubman, tryna free ya’self from ya demons.”

Blank stare.

“Or the next Erykah Badu.”

Say what?

I give her a confused look.

She sucks her teeth. “Ohmygod, Cali Girl! Please don’t tell me you don’t even know who Eryka Badu is. She’s the poet who sings all of her poetry, like Floetry does. You do know who they are, right?” She raises a brow and waits for my response.

Um. Okay.

Keep waiting.

Doesn’t she know Erykah Badu is a songwriter and neo-soul singer, not a poet?

Well, apparently not.

Heck, she probably doesn’t even know who Harriet Tubman is.

I leave her stuck in her ignorance.

“Mmph. No wonder you stay draggin’ ’round that raggedy backpack. You one of them Bohemian wannabes. You probably got a hairy bush, too.”

I frown.

How vulgar.

I clutch my journal to my chest, wondering if she even knows how to spell Bohemian. I think to ask, but there’s no way to without it escalating.

I don’t need the added drama.

Sweat rolls down the center of my back. And all I can think about it is how badly I want to be in my backyard under a palm tree, sipping one of my favorite lattes.

“So what are your plans for the rest of the day?” I decide to ask; not that I care.

Click-clack.

Click-clack.

She pats the top of her head, her jaws working overtime, chomping away. “Who knows, the day is still young. Me ’n’ my girls might go out to the park ’n’ smoke a li’l later. Why, you tryna hang?”

Wait.

Did she just ask me if I want to go somewhere with her?

It must be bad dope—or whatever it is she smokes—that has her asking me to go anywhere with her.

I shift my body on the step, thankful I’m sitting on one of Daddy’s UCLA sweatshirts.

“No. That’s okay.”

“Mmph. Fine with me. I ain’t really want you to come, anyway.”

Like I care.

I shrug, looking back up the street at the girls jumping rope. They’re still going at it. There are now a few boys on bikes intently watching each girl alternate jumping in and out of the rope. I imagine their eyeballs bouncing up and down like mini basketballs as they eye each girl’s bouncy boobs and jiggling butts.

One of the boys hops off his bike and walks over toward a fire hydrant, holding something in his hand. From here, it looks like some kind of tool. But I can’t be sure.

He calls another one of the boys over, and—

“So why you be actin’ all uppity?”

I blink. “Excuse me? Uppity?”

“Yeah, like you better than somebody.”

I’m offended.

But I know she’s entitled to her opinion.

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