When I’m done with being sixteen, which is not today. When are you gon’ to grow up and learn that?

He looks like my sixty-year-old Cousin Shake.Įverything is not about looks, Seven. What’s wrong with him? she snapped, rolling her eyes. We ain’t know who the heck he was talking about. Deeyah-he raised his arm in the air as if he were making a three-point play- that’s me right there. He was standing at the door talking to one of the bouncers, when my friend Deeyah walked up and stood beside me. Yo, Shawtie! my stalker screamed as if he were working at the Waffle House, making a public service announcement. And just when I started feeling comfortable with being the biggest one in my all-girl clique, tragedy struck. So, you get the picture? Fierce was written all over me. My colorful bangles and big hoop earrings were courtesy of Claire’s and the rose tattoo on my left calf was by way of the 99 Cent Store and warm water. My sleeveless House of Dereon dress was the color of new money and the belt wrapped around my waist was metallic silver. I resembled a voluptuous New New from ATL: two deep dimples, honey glazed skin, full lips, and dark brown eyes shaped like a lost reindeer. My hair was done in a cute ponytail, swinging to the side with a swoop bang in the front, my MAC was poppin’, and my stilettos were workin’ it out. My girls and I were in line, waiting to get in to Club Arena for teen night, and for the first time in my life, I was appreciating my size fourteen brickhouse hips.

Out of all the tenders lined up outside the club, hugged up on their honeys, and kicking it with their boys, here I was being harassed by a baby gorilla in a short set. He had drips of sweat running from his temples to his chin and was breathing like he was having an asthma attack. As if somebody here in Newark, New Jersey told him he was cute. I had on my freakum dress and the fat version of Lil Wayne was stalking me.

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