Twelve-year-old Brooklyn flung her mama’s bedroom door open with her six younger sisters crowded behind her. “Who dis?”
Bev gasped. She fumbled with the tattered black belt tied around her upper thigh, carelessly dropping a clogged and bloody needle onto the sheets.
The belt fell to the floor as she hopped out of bed, yanked an old hospital gown from the nightstand, and slid it on. “What the hell I tell y’all about bustin’ into my goddamn room without knockin’?”
“Nothin’.” Brooklyn shoved her hands up on her budding round hips. “Now, who dis?”
“I know I told y’all black asses.” Bev gave her girls a nervous smile, exposed the caked corners of her mouth, and desperately tussled with the knot easing up her back. She failed. She plopped back down onto the edge of the bed. Her eyes melted shut; her mouth hung open; and a growing string of spit dangled. The sweetness of dope filled her and pushed her forward. Just as it seemed she was destined to spill onto the floor, she popped up, eyes wide open.
“Don’t be bargin’ in here when my door is closed!” She wiped the dangling spit and shook it from her hand.
“We waitin’.” Brooklyn tapped her bare foot.
Bev cleared her throat. “This Stony.”
Brooklyn’s brown eyes took in Stony’s pale yellow skin and his curly red hair. He lay in Bev’s bed, bare-chested, with his back against the gray-paneled wall and a white sheet draped over the thick of his waist. He held a half-empty 40-ounce bottle of Olde English in one hand and a burning roach in the other.
Bev pointed at each of her daughters. “Stony, these is my girls,” she said proudly. “This is my oldest girl, Brooklyn; she ah . . . twelve. That’s Meechie, she’s ten.”
“I’m eleven,” Meechie corrected her.
Bev rolled her eyes and continued, “Those my twins, Rayna and Dayna, they seven, Sharia is five, and Nala is a year.”
Stony smiled, and his gray eyes filled with pleasure.
Brooklyn stepped forward, blocking Stony’s view of her sisters. “Where you meet him at, Mama?”
“You don’t question me!” Bev spat.
Brooklyn continued, “You met him at the bar?”
“What I just say?”
“At a truck stop?”
“Li’l girl!”
“On the street? You leaned into his car? He a trick . . . or a pimp?”
“He the DJ at the Red Lounge. Now get outta here before I beat yo’ ass!”
Brooklyn shook her head. “You couldn’t see he wasn’t shit, Mama?” She paused and waited for an answer.
Bev’s honey-colored cheeks flushed.
Stony cleared his throat.
Brooklyn took in the sweat on Stony’s brow. “Ain’t shit is drippin’ all over him.”
Bev hissed, “Before I stomp you, you need to take your li’l sisters and go back in y’alls’ room. Stony’s only here for the night. He’ll be gone in the mornin’.” One by one, Bev shoved them out of her room, slamming and locking the bedroom door behind them.
Stony’s stench of damp socks and ammonia crowded the living room’s doorway. “You look just like yo’ mama . . .” This was the second time he’d said that. Yesterday, in passing, and now . . .
Both times Brooklyn ignored him.
He continued, “’Cept you prettier.”
Brooklyn pursed her full lips and huffed. She’d sat in the center of the worn red sofa, her legs crossed and the television’s remote clutched in her hand. Her cinnamon-colored eyes were fixed on The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air playing on the television screen.
“You smell sweeter,” he said.
She turned up the TV.
“Like strawberries. Or better, like cherries.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Probably softer too. Much softer.”
She shifted in her seat.
“And your body’s tighter.”
She shot him a quick glance. Then looked back to the TV.
Stony chuckled. “You just a mean ol’ li’l thing, huh?” he said, then stood before her, blocking her view.
She sucked her teeth.
He snorted.
“Move!” she snapped.
He didn’t.
“Stupid ass,” Brooklyn mumbled as she stood up and turned toward the doorway.
He stepped into her path.
“What is you doin’?” Her voice trembled. She did her best to swallow the fear, but the crack in her words gave way to the rising panic.
Stony smiled, then leaned into her ear. “Relax, baby girl. It’s okay. I know you really like me.” His hot breath felt like blistering needles pricking into her skin.
“Like you? I can’t stand yo’ stank-thievin’-crackhead ass! You ain’t even worth a dump of shit! Now get outta my face!” She shoved him.
He didn’t budge.
“Move!”
“What you gon’ do?” he said evenly.
“I’ma tell my mama!”
Stony gripped Brooklyn by the cheeks and pressed his lips against hers as he whispered, “She in the bed high out of her mind, and you know it. And even when she get up and come down, who you think she gonna believe? You? A fresh ass li’l girl who’s too grown and always in her business, or me? The man she loves and is good to her. Huh?”
Silence.
“Now, relax,” he said, tasting the salt-stained tears that eased down Brooklyn’s cheeks and slid between their lips. “Be a good girl.” He placed one hand on her hip and slid the other into her pants. “You know you want it.”
She wasn’t sure when this thing started.
Her toxic jonesing for pussy love.
One day she woke up and the boom of it washed over her.
The heat.
The passion.
The intoxication of it all, like the traveling fever of a Wednesday night tent revival. She couldn’t shake it, and she couldn’t fake it.
Loving a woman felt natural.
Their curves.
Their scent: lavender, vanilla, and sweet honeysuckle musk.
Their hair, voices, laughter, and the way they made her feel safe and secure, and beautiful.
All the things she desired, wanted, and needed . . . like Sheila.
“I love you, Sheila,” Elle whispered in her ear, causing Sheila to giggle and scrunch her shoulders, as if those words were too sweet to absorb.
Elle squeezed Sheila’s breasts through her tank top.
A moan escaped from Sheila’s full lips.
“And I know you love me too.” Elle lined heated kisses around the base of Sheila’s neck.
“I do love you,” Sheila said, allowing Elle to lift her shirt over her head.
Elle unsnapped Sheila’s bra. “Damn, these titties big.” She slid her kisses from Sheila’s neck to her nipples. Sucking the left, the right, then pushing both of her breasts together—licking and moaning from one to the other. Elle graced both nipples with a hard kiss before she looked into Sheila’s face and said, “Let me make love to you with my strap-on.”
“Strap-on?” Sheila asked shocked, slinking away from Elle’s touch. “What? Like a fake dick?” Sheila shook her head. “No. I heard dicks hurt.”
“It’s fake.”
“Still a dick.”
Elle inched closer, massaging Sheila’s nipples. “I’ll be gentle. I promise. Plus, it ain’t even that big. Wanna see it?”
Sheila swallowed. She loved Elle, but she’d never considered going all the way before—until now. “Yeah, let me see it.”
Elle reached under her bed and pulled out a shoebox. She removed the lid and lifted a strappy six-inch, pink rubber log with a mushroom-esque head and ridges, shaped like veins, running through it. “Wanna touch it?” Elle asked.
“Uh, no. And why is it pink? That’s nasty. Is that thing used?” Sheila turned her head and shooed it away.
“No, it’s not used!” Elle walked around and stood in Sheila’s face. “This was the only color they had. Plus, no dick is pretty, but it’ll feel good.” She rubbed it between Sheila’s breasts.
“How do you know? You’ve done this before?”
Elle bit into her bottom lip. Of course, she’d done this before. Except that girl didn’t really count. They were only experimenting. They weren’t a couple. But, Sheila . . . Sheila was the one. So, this was different.
Elle searched Sheila’s eyes to see if she could handle the truth. She couldn’t. “Hell, no!” Elle insisted. “Never.”
“Then where did that thing come from?” Sheila asked.
“I bought it the other day . . . I just . . . never mind. Forget it. I thought you were my girlfriend.”
“I am!”
“Could’ve fooled me. I show you a strap-on and now you’re judging me!”
“I’m not judging you. I’m jusscared.”
Elle sat down next to Sheila and reached for her hand. “I would never do anything to hurt you, Sheila. I thought you knew that.”
“I do know that.”
“Then why don’t you trust me?”
“I trust you.”
“Then let me make love to you.” Elle slid her finger along the waist of Sheila’s basketball shorts and playfully popped the elastic.
“Okay,” Sheila agreed. “But are you sure your parents won’t be home anytime soon?”
“I told you they went to a church conference almost three hours away. We have half the night to ourselves.”
Sheila slid off her shorts and her panties in one sweep.
Elle’s pussy pumped, as Sheila lay naked and waiting on her bed. Elle hurriedly took off her clothes and tossed them across the room. She strapped the dick around her waist and between her legs. It bounced as Elle walked over to the bed. “If it hurts, I promise I’ll pull out.”
Sheila locked into Elle’s gaze. “Okay.”
Elle giggled in glee as she slid onto the bed and climbed on top of Sheila, kissing from one chocolate nipple to the other. She eased the dildo in. “You want me to stop?”
Boom!
“What in Jesus’s name is going on here?” Elijah flung Elle’s bedroom door open.
Elle and Sheila sprang from the bed, both of them fumbling for their clothes. Sheila managed to grab her tank top, but her shorts were underneath Elijah’s foot. Elle grabbed the sheet and wrapped it around her body.
“Elijah! What in the world!” Elle’s mother, Violet, ran behind her husband and into their daughter’s room. Violet’s eyes scanned the scene, then honed in on Sheila. Her jaw tensed and her drawn-on brows rose higher with every word she spoke. “What. Did. You. Do. To. My. Daughter?” Violet stormed toward Sheila; Elle blocked her path. “She didn’t do anything to me! I love her!”
Violet startled and sputtered, “Wha-wha-what did you just say?”
“I love her! This is who I want to be with! This is who I choose to be with—!”
Whap!
Violet’s hand sizzled across Elle’s face. “You don’t know shit about love! You don’t love that! That is what gets you burning in hell! That is a vile familiar spirit! That is an unnatural desire! That is ungodliness! That is an abomination! You don’t love that! Love is about the sacrifices we have made for you! The plans we have for you! Love is what we tell you it is, not that faggot bitch!” She whipped around, slinging her arm and pointing toward a trembling and unconsciously rocking Sheila. Violet clenched her jaw and commanded, “Don’t you come around my daughter ever again, or I will kill you myself!” She looked over at Elijah, her eyes ablaze with fury. “Get that out of my house!”
Elijah jerked a terrified Sheila and dragged her, half-naked, out of the room.
Elle pushed past Violet in hopes of running behind her father. She wasn’t fast enough. Violet snatched Elle back by her ponytail and slung her to the floor.
Sheila’s screams echoed down the hall. Elle winced at the thunderous sounds of Elijah’s feet as he yanked Sheila to the back door, tossed her out, and slammed the door behind her.
Violet looked down at Elle and said, “Don’t. Fucking. Move.” She walked out of Elle’s room and into the living room.
Scared, Elle did exactly as Violet demanded.
Her father’s heavy voice slipped into the room and beat into her ears. “I can’t believe this! I just can’t.”
“Calm down, Reverend, please—your blood pressure,” Violet said as she wiped the pouring sweat from the sides of her face with the back of her hand. She took two breaths to steady her nerves.
Elijah continued, “That is not right, Violet. That is Satan’s way! Where did we go wrong?”
“I told you that Ellaina-Marie was of the world. And we both know that Satan runs amok in the street.”
“I don’t care what Satan is doing out there in the street! As for this house, we shall honor God, and His ways, and the path He has set before us. Damnation shall not be brought to my door and into my home! This is not what our child has been chosen for.”
“Reverend, I don’t know what to say.” Violet sighed. “I tried to tell you.”
“I didn’t want to believe it.” He shook his head. “She brought that thing up in my house. I knew something was wrong the first day I set eyes on it. I just didn’t imagine I would find them tangled in the bed, sinning. The spirit of perversion is up in here, and I will not have it!”
“Well, Elle is our daughter, the only child the Lord has given us, and we have to pray for her.” Violet reached for her Bible and tambourine.
Elijah’s feet shook the floor as he and Violet stormed back into Elle’s room.
Before Elle understood what was happening to her, Elijah gripped a handful of her hair. Her feet tangled with the sheet, revealing her breasts and the pink strap-on.
“Daddy, noooooo!” Elle reached above her head and cupped her hands over her father’s locked fist, doing all she could to peel open his grip. She couldn’t. She resorted to digging what little nails she had into his hand. He slapped her on the side of her face, forcing her hands to fall and his grip to tighten.
With his free hand, he snatched his belt through the loops of his slacks. Violet stood beside him, clutching her Bible to her breasts with one hand and waving a tambourine to the heavens with the other.
Elijah flung his belt and flailed it like a singe of fire across Elle’s bare skin. She crossed her arms over her face and screamed, “Nooooo, Daddyyyyy!”
Whap!
“Motherrrrrrr, make him stop!”
Violet shook the tambourine and said, “For men shall not be lovers of themselves. Disobedient to their parents, unthankful, unholy.”
Whap!
Bing! went the tambourine.
Violet continued, “They did not think it worthwhile to retain the knowledge of God!” Violet stomped her feet, slapping the tambourine against her thigh.
“Daddy, please! Mother, help me, please! Somebody! I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Please make him stop!”
Whap!
Bing!
Violet continued, “And we come before You right now, dear God, the Father of Abraham, asking You for forgiveness. Requesting Your presence and Your Holy Spirit, asking You to forgive us for anything we have done to cause this shame. We beg You, Father, to cast this spirit of perversion out of our child!” Violet jumped into the air, waving the tambourine and her Bible toward the heavens.
Whap!
Bing!
“Tell this wickedness that it cannot touch Thy anointing. Flee from the fruit of our loins!” She jumped again.
Whap!
Bing!
“Please, stop! I’m sorry!” Elle’s eyes bled with pain.
Whap!
Bing!
Violet continued, “The wicked, the immoral, the drunkards, the swindlers, and the homosexuals shall not inherit the kingdom of God.”
Whap!
Bing!
“Yet Your Word says that we have not because we ask not. It says all we need is the faith the size of a mustard seed and we can move mountains. Well, this is a mountain, my Lord!”
Whap!
Bing! Bing! Bing!
“I’m calling on You to move it!” Violet’s voice screeched high into the air as she stretched her arms out to her sides, like a crucifix.
Elle cried, “I’m so sorry!” With each flaming hit, the skin on her arms and legs split open.
“In Jesus’s name we pray.”
The beating stopped. Elijah dropped the belt over Elle’s body and stood up straight. His breathing was labored, and sweat drenched his face as he wiped his wet brow with his sleeve.
Violet fell to her knees, dropping the Bible and tambourine. She pressed her palm against Elle’s forehead and sealed her prayer in tongues, “Ah shum-da-la-la.” She leaned into Elle’s face, her breathing labored, and said, “Ask God for forgiveness.”
Silence.
Violet picked up the tambourine and slapped it against the side of Elle’s head, “Ask Him!” she screamed.
Elle shuddered, expecting another blow. She ducked. Her mouth was swollen from Elijah’s slap and the belt buckle slamming into it, but she managed to push out, “Please forgive me, God.”
Violet continued, “Tell Him to make the devil flee from thee!”
Elle licked at a pool of blood that had gathered in the corners of her busted lips and said, “Please, devil, flee from me.”
“Now, do you still want to be a freak?” Violet asked.
“No,” Elle groaned.
“Perverted?” Violet leaned further into Elle’s face until their noses touched.
“No.”
“A bulldagger?”
“No.”
“A homosexual?”
“No.”
“A sinner?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so. ’Cause there will be no devils in this house.”
Violet stood up, grabbed Elijah’s hand, and braided their fingers together. She looked down at Elle. “You better be glad we serve a forgiving God. I better not see that unnatural bitch around here again. Because if I even get a whiff that you’re trying to be a panty-lovin’ freak, not only will you be damned to hell, but I will drag you there myself! You understand that?”
Elle winced. “Yes, Mother.”
“Now, get up and unhook the devil’s dick from around your waist.”
“Is we gon’ eat today or damarrow?” Meechie’s eyes bugged as she pounded her fist into the kitchen table, rattling the bowls placed in the center. “How long does it take to boil a pot of Oodles of Noodles, sister?”
“Shut yo’ fresh behind up!” Brooklyn snapped as she slapped her bare feet across the kitchen floor and walked over to the stove, dropping three packs of noodles into the steaming pot.
“We only been waiting forever,” Meechie carried on, while holding the baby, Nala, on her lap. “But you slow-poking around here like you got molasses pourin’ outcho ass! Never mind how hungry we is. What is wrong witchu?”
“Mama said don’t cuss,” Dayna said to Meechie.
Meechie snapped, “Mama in her room drunk. She ain’t said that shit. But she did say for you to stop lying!”
“I don’t lie!” Dayna screamed.
“Would y’all shut up?!” Brooklyn yelled.
“You lying right now!” Meechie countered.
“Stop calling me a liar!” Dayna whined.
“I said shut up!” Brooklyn yelled.
Silence.
“Y’all is loud,” Sharia added.
“You shut up too,” Brooklyn spat.
Sharia rolled her eyes.
Brooklyn continued, “Now, listen, I have to ask y’all something.” She reared back against the kitchen sink and focused in on her sisters’ rainbow of brown faces. “Anybody ever touch y’all?” Brooklyn looked into each of their eyes, completely scanning the eyes of one before moving on to the next. She bit the inside of her right cheek. “And don’t lie.”
No answer.
An iron fist pumped in the center of Brooklyn’s chest. She held her breath, then pushed it out, before taking in their faces again. She studied them from their reddish-brown hair stuffed into long and wild ponytails, to the way their ginger-colored eyes were all shaped like almonds and disappeared into their cheeks when they smiled. The faint sprinkle of freckles spread across their wide noses, their full lips, dimples . . .
You look just like yo’ mama . . .
They all did.
“Answer me!” Brooklyn screamed. “Yes or no!”
“No!” they said in unison and shook their heads.
Brooklyn released a hard breath. “And don’t ever let nobody put they hands on you. Feel on you. Or whisper no shit in your ear like, ‘You look like yo’ mama. You smell sweet. Feel soft. Relax. You know you want it!’ You don’t want it! So, don’t fall for that shit. Ever! You hear me!”
“What does any of this got to do with breakfast?” Meechie asked in disbelief.
Brooklyn stomped over to Meechie and stared.
Titties full. Hips wide. Ass big.
Body’s tighter.
She leaned into Meechie’s face and slapped the table. “Did you just lie to me?” Brooklyn arched her brow and demanded to know, “Somebody touched you?”
Silence.
“Tell me!” Brooklyn pressed the tip of her index finger into Meechie’s forehead and mushed her, causing Meechie’s neck to jerk back. “Now!”
Meechie swatted Brooklyn’s finger away. “Don’t mush me again!”
“Answer me!” Brooklyn screamed.
“No!” Meechie screeched.
“No, what?”
“Nobody never touched me. Not Stony, not the nigga before him, or the ones before that one. Nobody. I woulda told you.” Meechie sucked her teeth and shook her head in disgust. “Yo, what is wrong with you, sister? You trippin’?” She hesitated, “Wait . . .” She lowered her voice. “Somebody. . . touched you?” she whispered.
Brooklyn paused. Her throat constricted, her heart tumbled from her chest and slammed into the pit of her stomach. She fought back tears.
“Answer me!” Meechie insisted.
Brooklyn’s eyes shifted.
“Who was it?” Meechie pressed. “Stony?”
“Stop!” Brooklyn said.
“I’ma tell Mama!” Meechie hopped up, practically dropping Nala on the floor.
“No!” Brooklyn said sternly.
“No, what? That ma’fucker ain’t touch you, or no, don’t tell Mama?”
Brooklyn struggled to keep it all together. It wasn’t supposed to turn around like this. Yet, here she stood, facing Meechie, who she knew wouldn’t let this go.
Meechie mushed Brooklyn in the forehead. “Don’t lie.”
Brooklyn took a step back. She knew by the look on Meechie’s face, she had to tell her something. “It wasn’t nothin’.”
Meechie stared at Brooklyn. Brooklyn could tell Meechie had a million thoughts running through her mind.
Brooklyn did her all to hold it together and not break on the spot.
“Okay, Sister.” Meechie let it go. She pulled Brooklyn close, kissed her on the cheek, then blew against it and said, “Love you, Sister.”
Brooklyn couldn’t answer. Instead she picked up the pot, and quietly placed noodles into each of their bowls.
She didn’t want to be a man.
She.
Did.
Not.
Want.
To.
Be.
A.
Man.
She didn’t want to piss standing up. She didn’t want to smell like Old Spice, sandalwood, or aftershave. Or trade in her lace panties for boxers or briefs. She didn’t yearn to wear men’s clothing. She didn’t feel like there was a man buried within, dying to come alive.
She didn’t want to have sex with every girl she saw. She had a type—Sheila.
And yes, she liked boys . . . a little . . . well enough . . .
And yes, she wanted to get married.
And no, she didn’t want to have babies . . . but that didn’t mean she was a panty-lovin’ freak . . . she didn’t think . . . or maybe she was. But still. She didn’t want to be a goddamn man, and she was tired of being forced to prostrate herself before God every morning at the easing in of dawn, and beg to be healed.
She just wanted to be Elle. A tall, slim, and deep maple–skinned girl who loved poetry, ballet, Jodeci, rap music, pink lipstick, miniskirts, dresses, stilettoes, pearls, and a girl—Sheila . . . whom she hadn’t seen—in a month—when their love was stomped on and tossed out of the house. Which was why, after this morning’s prostration, Elle slipped away from her mother long enough to call and ask Sheila to please meet her at the beach so they could figure out how to be together and happy again.
Elle blushed as she soaked in Sheila sauntering toward her, the mid-morning sun glistening with every step she took. Her white tank top clung to her chest, highlighting her breasts. Her lavender basketball shorts swayed with the breeze. . .
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