The Girl of His Dreams

Book 0: McPherson High

by Amir Abrams

Genres: YA Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

The rules are simple: Play or get played. And never, ever, catch feelings.

That's
the motto 17-year-old heartthrob Antonio Lopez lives by. Since his
mother walked out, Antonio's father has taught him everything he needs
to know about women: they can't be trusted, and a real man has more than
one. So once Antonio gets what he wants from a girl, he moves on. But
McPherson High's hot new beauty is turning out to be Antonio's first
real challenge.

Miesha Wilson has a motto of her own: The
thrill of the chase is not getting caught. Game knows game, and Miesha
is so not interested. She's dumped her share of playboys and she's
determined to stay clear of the likes of Antonio Lopez--until his crazy
jealous ex aggravates her. But when she decides to play some games of
her own, Miesha and Antonio find themselves wondering if love is real
after all. . ..

"Hot and poppin' with drama and life
lessons. The world of teen lit has never seen anything like this
before!" --Ni-Ni Simone, author of No Boyz Allowed, on Crazy Love

Release date: July 1, 2013

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 368

Sample

No lie. Broads are good for only two things—well, three...good sex, good brain, and keepin’ my sneaker, fitted-hat, and Polo game up—and not necessarily in that order. They can scratch all the extras. I’m not lookin’ for love. I’m lookin’ for a good time. And the only thing I’m lookin’ to do is give ’em this good lovin’.

Who am I?

Oh, my bad. Thought you knew.

I’m that hot boy wit’ the spinnin’ waves.

Antonio Lopez.

Dominican and Black.

Six-four, rock-hard body.

Smooth, suave, pretty boy wit’ that mad swag.

A chick magnet.

The most popular dude at McPherson High.

Voted best lookin’, best dressed, and homecoming king three years in a row. All-star basketball champion.

Need I say more?

Not to pop my own collar or sound cocky wit’ it or anything. But, real rap. I’m that dude, yo. Front if you want. Eight pack on deck. Nice chest, arms, legs, ’n’ back. The chicks go crazy when they see this body. And I gotta mad assortment of colorful panties, text messages, photos, and phone numbers from thirsty broads who stay tryna get a piece of the kid to prove it.

Oh, you still don’t know?

Let me put you on then.

I’m checkin’ for them sexy dime-pieces who know how to handle a man like me. And oh yeah, I’ll even holla at the ooga-booga as long as she gotta nice phatty, a whip, and a j-o-b. But I ain’t ever gonna be seen wit’ her out in public, givin’ her no daytime airplay. Nah, them kinda broads gotta get it at night—late at night wit’ the lights down real low. Better yet, they get the black light special. Once I’m bored wit’ ’em, chop! It’s on to the next.

So the moral of the story is, proceed wit’ caution. And don’t ever catch feelin’s. And don’t get too comfy, either, ’cause all good things gotta come to an end. And just like with tires and oil changes, chicks gotta be rotated and changed every three thousand miles—or in my case, every three weeks, otherwise they start gettin’ real nutty, actin’ like they own you. And after seein’ the latest Facebook status I’ve been tagged on To all you birds cluckin’ ’round Tone. Back up or get ya feathers plucked! Get ya own man and leave mine alone or i’m snatchin lace fronts n slashin faces!, I’m more convinced than ever before that most of ’em are straight-up psycho, like this chick Quandaleesha. My stalker. My worst nightmare.

I sigh, shakin’ my head when I peep she has ninety-two likes to her ignorant post and seventy-eight comments. All birds, I bet.

My pops peeped how triflin’ Quanda was the minute he met her. And although he’s never told me who to rock wit’ ’cause he believes some things a man needs to learn on his own, he warned me about her. He said, “Tone, that girl’s trouble. Don’t give her too much of that Lopez lovin’, boy. You hear? She ain’t ready for it. Her mind’s too weak. Give her one round, then get rid of her. And make sure you double-wrap.”

“I got you, Pops,” I assured him. “I’ma beat it down, then give ’er the boot.”

He laughed. “Just like your pops. Give ’er just enough so that she’ll never forget ya. But not enough for her to get crazy.”

“No doubt,” I said, givin’ him a pound. See, Pops is mad chill like that. He stays schoolin’ me ’bout life ’n’ the honeys. So he’s cool wit’ me sexin’ chicks and havin’ ’em over as long as they bounce up outta here before eleven on weeknights, and by 1 AM on weekends. And for the most part, he’s hardly ever home ’cause he’s a contracted truck driver—he owns his own truck company—and spends most of his time on the road, goin’ ’cross the country. And when he’s not on the road, he’s usually gettin’ it in over at his main chick’s crib or at one of his jump-offs’ cribs puttin’ in that work. Or he’s here locked up in his room goin’ at it.

I’ve had mad chicks up in here, over forty, and I’ve been havin’ sex since I was thirteen. Pops made sure to it. It was the night before my thirteenth birthday. Pops walked up in my room and flat-out said, “Get showered and dressed. Tonight you become a man.” I had no idea what to expect. The only thing I knew is, it was goin’ to be my rite of passage into manhood. And that, no matter what happened, nothin’ would ever be the same for me.

An hour later, we were at his flavor-of-the-moment’s crib—this thick-in-the-hips Dominican mami wit’ big boobs and a real big booty. They were upstairs, doin’ what they do. And I was down in the basement wit’ her nineteen-year-old daughter, who was mad sexy, bein’ welcomed into manhood. I smoked my first blunt, tossed back the yak, and then . . . she did all kinds of things to me that had my toes curlin’, my eyes crossin’, and my heart racin’ so hard I thought I was gonna die. I was mad nervous as I fumbled around tryna find my groove, but that night I learned e’erything I needed to know about handlin’ my business as a man. Then on our way home, Pops looked over at me as he drove, and said, “You a man now. You hear me? And a real man ain’t meant to be chained to the hip of one woman. Men need variety. And it’s in a man’s nature to have lots of sex. And lots of women. That’s what they’re put here on earth for, to keep a man sexed and satisfied. They’re not good for nothin’ else. You understand me?”

I nodded, still floatin’ from the weed, the drinks, and the memory of losin’ my virginity to an older chick. But I was well aware of e’erything Pops was sayin’ to me. That chicks are strictly for hit ’n’ runs.

Now, I’m standin’ here kickin’ myself for not gettin’ rid of Quanda sooner than later. Like I said, Pops had warned me. After all, he’s had more than his share of nutty broads. So the one thing Pops knows is females. He’s Mr. Playa-Playa, the original don. The Dominican panty dropper. And the egg donor—well, for a lack of a better title, the broad who gave birth to me—is Black. And ghost! But whatever! It is what it is. Anyway, back to Pops.

Truth is, Pops’s a real smooth dude when it comes to the ladies. And he’s been schoolin’ me since I was seven years old, preparin’ me for manhood. E’erything I know about broads—that they can’t be trusted, that you can’t give ’em too much of ya time, that you can’t ever let ’em into ya heart, and the list goes on—I’ve learned from him. “I’ma give you what you need to be a man,” Pops always told me. “And hopefully protect you from a buncha heartache ’n’ disappointment. But there are some things you gonna hafta go through and learn for ya’self.”

Like this ish wit’ Quanda. Ever since I hit her wit’ them discharge papers, like, just before the end of the summer, she’s been runnin’ around actin’ like she’s stuck on psycho. No lie, I dumped this broad three weeks ago and here it is the first week of September and this cuckoo bird is still cluckin’ all up in my space, tryna block my flow. Talkin’ ’bout I’m hers and she ain’t lettin’ me go. Real talk, she’s outta control!

I get another Facebook alert. Now Quanda’s tagged me wit’ some more of her craziness. I click back onto my page, shakin’ my head. It’s a picture of her blowin’ a kiss into the camera. Stop playin, boo. u know u miss these sweet kisses! can’t wait to see u in school!

It’s really too early in the mornin’ for this nuttiness. I scroll through my FB settings and finally do what I shoulda done three weeks ago—I block her!

“Yo, Tone,” someone calls out in back of me as I snake my way through the crowded halls while clickin’ on the HOME link, then scrollin’ through the Facebook newsfeed on my iPhone and tryin’ not to get caught havin’ my phone out. I look up from my phone and glance over my shoulder. It’s my boy, Lil Cease. Even though e’eryone calls him Lil Cease, at six-five, two-hundred plus pounds, there ain’t nothin’ little ’bout the center guard on McPherson High’s basketball team. Dude wrecks shop on the court, makin’ him second-in-command mack daddy to the hottest shorties on the yard. Umm, if you ain’t know . . . I’m first in command; straight like that.

I stop walkin’ and wait for my boy to catch up to me. He’s named after his pops, Ceasar, hence the name. A name he hates. But whatever; it is what it is. Me and Lil Cease been mad tight since third grade. He’s like the brother I never had. And he’s my dawg to the end, real talk. You got beef wit’ him, you got beef wit’ me. That’s how we get down. We rock ’em ’n’ drop ’em; no questions asked.

“Yo, what’s good, playboy?” I say, as we give each other dap while bumpin’ shoulders. “You glad to be back up in this dip, yo?”

He steps back from me, scowlin’. “Hell naw, son. I’m real heated summer’s over, man. You already know. The end of summer means the end of bikinis and thick juicy booty cheeks peekin’ outta them sexy lil booty shorts. And no more smokin’, son. Yo, fam. I got smoked out last night. Now it’s a wrap. And I know I’ma be goin’ through mad withdrawals real soon, yo.”

I laugh. Like Cease, I dig gettin’ my smoke on too. But, dude gets it in, hard. He blazes e’ery day durin’ the summer, then stops as soon as the school year starts so he can get his mind and body right for basketball season. But come summertime, forget it. He’ll take his whole paycheck from workin’ at his pops’s landscapin’ business and blow it on bud. Not me, yo. I’ll blaze on the weekends, and maybe one or two nights outta the week if I’m chillin’ wit’ a shorty who likes to roll. But I ain’t a fiend like my boy. Trickin’ up all ya paper on bud is crazy to me, but that’s what he does.

“Right, right,” I say, shoulderin’ my book bag.

“Yo, watch where you goin’,” Cease says as he’s bumped by the backpack of some lil dude who clearly has to be a freshman. The halls are mad crowded wit’ heads yellin’ out to their peeps, runnin’ up givin’ ’em hugs ’n’ daps while stoppin’ in the middle of the hallways to get caught up from the summer. Lockers are bangin’ shut, peeps are pushin’ to get through the halls, newbies are lookin’ ’round all lost ’n’ whatnot tryna maneuver their way ’round, chicks are profilin’ tryna snag up some attention or talk ’bout what some other chick’s rockin’, dudes are posted up against lockers stylin’ in their fresh kicks ’n’ wears. Yo, McPherson is live ’n’ poppin’ this mornin’.

I bump into this cutie who’s lookin’ all lost. She has her schedule in her hand, lookin’ from the paper to each doorway. “Yo, what’s good, ma . . . you lost?”

She looks up from her schedule, sighin’. “A little. I’m tryna find my homeroom. Room one-twenty-one.” I tell her where she needs to go. She smiles. “Thank you.”

“Yo, what’s ya name, shorty?” Cease calls out.

“Courtney,” she says over her shoulder.

“A’ight, ma; that’s wassup wit’ ya sexy self. I’ma check for you a lil later.” She starts grinnin’ mad hard, almost walkin’ into a wall.

“Yo, you got broads stumblin’ into walls already,” I say, chucklin’.

“Anyway, like I was sayin’, fam, it’s a new school year. And a new school year always means fresh sweet meat, ready to be eaten alive, like that lil hottie right there.” He points at a dark chocolate, dimpled cutie standin’ by the attendance office.

“Yeah, maaaaan,” I say, noddin’. “There’s only one thing better than old booty, and that’s new booty!”

He laughs, givin’ me a pound. “Word is bond, son. And I’ma be wrappin’ it ’n’ tappin’ it e’ey which way. I better reup my Trojan collection.”

“Yo, you already know,” I say, laughin’ wit’ him.

“Speakin’ of which,” he says, slingin’ his backpack up over his broad shoulder, “you peep some of them freshmen, yo? Word is bond, son, it’s somethin’ in the water. Some of them biscuits got cakes stacked like whoa, son. I ain’t even gonna front, yo. I’m tryna snatch me up a few of them young tender chickens real quick before the vultures swoop down on ’em.”

I laugh. “Yo, ninja. You a damn fool, yo. You know I ain’t thinkin’ ’bout them freshman broads. Them chicks mad young. I ain’t got time tryna train no young head how’ta get wit’ the program. You know I like ’em already broken in. Sophomores and up.”

He laughs. “Yeah, but some of ’em are young hoes who been in trainin’ since middle school so they already know what it is, feel me? They mad hot in the drawers, fam.”

“No doubt,” I say as my eyes zoom in on all the new faces walkin’ through the halls. So far, nothin’ worth hollerin’ at. Several chicks walk in our direction. Two of ’em are junior hoodrats. Broads I ran through either last school year or two summers ago. They walk by, rollin’ their eyes at Cease and me. I ig ’em, but he laughs at ’em. Three more chicks walkin’ in our direction are sophomores. “Heeeey, Tone,” they sing in unison, wavin’, smilin’ and stickin’ out their chests to make their twins pop out at me.

I eye ’em all, lickin’ my lips. It ain’t no mystery. I’ma breast ’n’ booty man. I love the shorties, and the shorties love me. And they’ll do almost anything to get my attention and my lovin’. Heck, it ain’t no secret. I’ve smashed most of the broads here. And the ones I haven’t gotten it in wit’, it’s because they’re either a) dog-faced ugly and broke, b) freshmen, or c) campaignin’ to be nuns. Yo, eff what ya heard. I might be a panty hound, but I ain’t humpin’ nothin’ that looks like it should be caged or on a chain. And I’m not beat for tryna convert a buncha uptight, stingy chicks tryna hold on to their V-cards ’til they turn eighteen or the world comes to an end to get them to loosen up the buckles to them chastity belts.

“Oh, word?” Cease says, stoppin’ in the middle of the hall and openin’ his arms in mock hurt. “Y’all just gonna dis me. Big Daddy can’t get no love? Tone the only dude y’all see? I know y’all see all this fineness starin’ you in the face.”

“Hey, Ceeeease,” they say at once, gigglin’.

He flashes ’em a smile. “Now, that’s more like it.” He reaches for LuAnna. This half-Filipino, half-Black shorty wit’ a short bob cut, slanted grey eyes, and a double-D rack. I glance at the words JUICY FRUIT stretched across her chest in hot pink letters. “When you gonna stop frontin’, LuLu baby, and let me be ya man?”

LuAnna playfully pushes him off of her, eyein’ me on the sly. “I’m already taken.”

He smirks. “Yeah, right. But whatever. What that got to do wit’ me and you? I bet he can’t do you like I can.”

She waves him on. “Oh, puhleeze. Whatever.”

“Whatever nothin’, yo . . .”

“Wassup, Chantel?” I say, eyein’ the one in the middle. A caramel-coated cutie wit’ big round eyes, thick lashes, and a set of juicy, red-painted lips. Her body ain’t really hittin’ on much, and she’s kinda flat in the back. But what she lacks in booty, she makes up in boobs.

She grins, flashin’ a set of pearly whites. “You already know what’s up, Tone. But you stay playin’ games.”

“Nah, baby. I’m too grown for games. I’m sayin’ . . . you the one frontin’, ma. Holla at ya boy and I’ll show you what’s really good.”

She smacks her big lollipop lickers together, then licks ’em real slow and sexy like. “Okay. I’ma see.”

“Oh, word? How ’bout if you stop frontin’ and let me let you feel it, too?”

“Ugh,” the nondescript chick on the left of her says. She’s the color of dark chocolate and has deep dark brown eyes. Her hair is in locks, pulled up in a twist. She isn’t busted in the face, but she ain’t somethin’ I’d wanna rock the springs wit’ either. “Why don’t the two of you go at it already?”

She must be pissed she can’t get no rhythm.

“I’m out,” she huffs, stormin’ off. Chantel laughs at her, wavin’ her on as she tells ’em she’s goin’ to her homeroom. I watch her tryna shake what ain’t there down the hall, then glance at my watch. We have less than fifteen minutes to get to our respective homerooms. Mad heads go by givin’ Cease ’n’ me dap as they head to homeroom. Chantel and I flirt back and forth for a few seconds more while Cease pushes up on LuAnna before we roll out.

“I gotta get to homeroom,” LuAnna finally tells Cease, still eyein’ me on the low. “But I’ma see you around.”

Cease scoops her up in his arms and gives her a hug. “That’s wassup, ma.” They go back and forth for a few minutes more while Chantel and I kick it.

I step up on her, lean up into her ear, then say real low, “So what’s good? When you gonna let me get that goody?”

She grins, twirlin’ a curl from her weave, then tuckin’ it behind her ear. “I don’t know. I thought you had a girl.”

“Nah. I don’t. Not anymore.”

“Well, what about that crazy chick I saw you with over the summer? I can’t think of her name, but she goes here too.”

Of course she’s talkin’ ’bout Quanda since that’s who she saw me wit’ at the mall when she was coppin’ me them new Jordans and a fitted to match. “Ain’t nuthin’. I got rid of that problem. I’m single, baby.”

She smirks. “Oh, for real?”

I stroke her cheek. “Yeah. Now I’m tryna see what’s really good wit’ you. I’m tryna make you mine.”

She laughs, playfully swattin’ my arm. “Whatever, Tone. Trust me. I’ve already heard all about them nasty things you do.”

I rub my chin and grin. Chicks stay runnin’ their mouths so I already know she got the scoop on my sex game. And, I know she wanna find out if what she’s heard is all true. “Well, uh, don’t believe e’erything you hear,” I tease. “Some things you need to find out for ya’self, feel me?”

She rolls her eyes. “Whatever. I bet nasty stuff’s all you think about, too.”

“Nah. That’s not all I think about. But, yeah, I ain’t gonna front. It ain’t no secret I likes to get it in. And right now, I’m tryna set things up so I can get it in wit’ you.”

She waves me on, shakin’ her head, tellin’ me how crazy I am. Then hits me wit’ some BS ’bout not bein’ that kinda girl. That she doesn’t have sex just to be havin’ it; that she only gets it in wit’ her man, after they’ve been chillin’ for a minute.

I laugh at how retarded she sounds, tryna play like she’s a Miss Goody Two-shoes. “Yo, sounds like you be watchin’ too much Oprah, boo.”

She sucks her teeth, playfully rollin’ her eyes. I already know she’s only talkin’ that dumb ish ’cause LuAnna’s standin’ there, practically tryna ear hustle in on our convo.

I lean into her ear and whisper, “You got me goin’ through it, ma.”

She steps back from me, grinnin’. “You’re such a flirt. And a sex hound.”

I slip my hand to her waist, then her hip, where it stays. “Nah, I’m keepin’ it a hunnid, ma. I’m tryna be your hound. I want you.”

She smiles. “I bet you say—”

LuAnna shoots a look over at us, squintin’ her eyes. “C’mon, girl,” she says, cuttin’ Chantel off while walkin’ over and pullin’ her by the arm. I smirk. I know what it is. She’s tryna block. She ain’t beat to let Chantel get what she wants, first. “We need to go. I’m not tryna hear Ms. Dayton’s mouth first thing this morning for being late to homeroom on the first day of school. You know how she is.”

Chantel agrees, glancin’ at me. “Yeah, you’re right. We need to get going. I’ll see you later.”

“Yo, hol’ up. Before you bounce, let me get ya digits.” I pull out my iPhone and hand it to her so she can put her number in. She doesn’t hesitate grabbin’ my phone, and hittin’ me wit’ them digits, like I knew she would. “A’ight, bet. I’ma holla.”

They say their good-byes, then step. Cease and I crane our necks as they swish their hips off toward their lockers. “That Chantel chick’s feelin’ you hard, fam. I peeped the way she was checkin’ you, lettin’ you feel all up on her body. Yo, she’s real ripe ’n’ ready for a good pluckin’.”

“I already know. And I’ma give it to her real good, too. But she mad flat in the back, though.” I shake my head.

Cease laughs, then starts whinin’ as we climb up three flights of stairs toward our lockers. “Man, this don’t make no sense,” he complains as we climb the steps. “Who in the heck puts lockers up on the fourth floor when most of our classes are on the second and third floors?”

“Uh, correction, yo. All your classes are down on the second and third floors. All my classes are up on the fourth.” The fourth floor is mostly honors and advanced placement classes.

“Whatever, man. We all know you’re an undercover nerd.”

I laugh. “Whatever, yo. Don’t hate, bruh.” He starts goin’ in ’bout havin’ to walk so far. I tell ’im to stop complainin’. “After all the bud you done smoked over the summer, you need the exercise. It’ll clear ya lungs. Besides, it’s a good warm-up to preseason conditionin’.”

He groans. “I’m sure Coach is gonna kill us in practices. Oh, snap. I meant to ask you. What’s good wit’ that lil biscuit you snatched up last week at the mall, yo? She was lookin’ right. She let you beat that thing-thing up, yet?”

“Nah, son. I told her I’m not tryna marry her, just test-drive that booty.”

He keeps laughin’. “Yo, I heard that. So what she say after that?”

“What who said after what?” I hear as I step up to my locker and start twirlin’ the combination to my lock. It’s Quanda, wearin’ this tight-fittin’, low-cut white shirt, a short plaid skirt, white knee-high stockin’s and black heels, lookin’ like a fake Catholic school girl. Her long weave, with short bangs, is hangin’ down her back, brushin’ the top of her butt cheeks. This broad stay frontin’ like she’s Indian.

“Yo, what’s good, Quanda?” Cease says, pullin’ open his locker. “How was ya summer?”

She rolls her eyes at him. “Don’t speak to me, boy.” She turns her back to him, placin’ a hand up on her hip as she leans her fine frame up against the bank of lockers.

Cease laughs, shakin’ his head.

She shoots him a look. “Annnnyway, beat it!” Oh, and did I mention this broad’s a loudmouth headache. And she loves drama—lots of it. But wit’ a name like Quandaleesha why would I, or anyone else, expect anything less?

“A’ight, yo,” I say to Cease, stuffin’ my book bag in my locker, then shuttin’ the door. “I’ll get at you durin’ lunch period.”

“A’ight, bet,” he says, walkin’ off.

Quanda’s starin’ at me, lookin’ mad tight. “Why you unfriend and block me on Facebook?”

I sigh. “ ’Cause you be buggin’, yo.”

She puts a hand up on her hip. “Oh, puhleeze. How am I buggin’, boy? You the one buggin’ for breakin’ up with me.”

I suck my teeth, walkin’ off toward my homeroom. “Yo, you can stand here and play stupid if you want, but I don’t have time for this.”

“Well, you better make time, boo-boo,” she says, walkin’ up behind me wit’ a hand up on her hip, “ ’cause if you think you’re gonna dump me and move on to the next chick, you got another think comin’. I already beat up one of your lil hoes at the rink last weekend. And you already know I have no problem doin’ it again. Now that we back in school, you are not gonna be tryna play me with none of these hoes up in here. So go ’head and be up in some other chick’s face and see what happens. You’ve been warned.”

“Yo, whatever,” I say, walkin’ into homeroom just as the bell rings.

By fourth-period lunch, mad heads are talkin’ ’bout this new biscuit, wit’ the stacked cakes and light brown eyes, floatin’ ’round the buildin’. They’re goin’ on and on ’bout her small waist and long, sexy legs, and monster booty, talkin’ ’bout she’s supermodel fine. I mean, these thirsty mofos are pumpin’ her up to be some real live dime-piece that I have yet to lay my eyes on. So until I see it for myself, I ain’t beat to believe the hype. I pull out my phone and hit Chantel real quick wit’ a text tellin’ her I wanna get at her after school. I slide my phone back down into my pocket.

“Yo, fam, word is bond,” Cease says, tryna convince me how bad she is as he’s chompin’ on sunflower seeds. “I’m tellin’ you, yo. I don’t know who she is, or where she came from, but I’m tryna find out, fast, ya heard?” He tells me she’s in his third-period biology class. “Man, listen. Nobody could stop eyein’ her. Even Mr. Greene wit’ his old azz kept starin’ at ’er.”

I laugh. Mr. Greene is like a hunnid years old. Well, not really. But he looks it. And his wife is mad young, like in her thirties or somethin’. She’s like his fourth or fifth wife. And he already has three kids wit’ her. But like eight or nine other kids wit’ his other wives. Cease and I joke ’bout how he’s old as dirt, and how he’s old enough to be most of his kids’ grandfather.

“That old dude stays snatchin’ up chicks.”

“Yeah, man; even in them old-azzzz suits he stays rockin’. Mr. Greene’s one of them old-school players for real, yo.”

It’s just me ’n’ Cease sittin’ at the table right in the middle of the cafeteria so we can see who’s comin’ ’n’ goin’ and what’s ’bout to pop off. By the end of the week, our table will be packed wit’ all the popular heads at the school. And e’eryone else who wants to be in our space will be at the tables closest to ours. That’s just how it is. The first two days of school peeps are just tryna get back into the groove, then it’s block-party central up in this piece.

“Anyway, yo. . . .