Ghetto Girls. Anthony Whyte

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       TWO

      The black Benz sat idle on chromes at a stop light on the corner of 125th Street and Broadway. Coco let the window down and they heard the charming chant of the neighborhood weed dealer.

      “Hold up, who dat?” Coco barked.

      “Cheeba . Cheeba Coco puff ....” The rhythmic chant of the hoarse voice was followed by a dry cough.

      “What’s up, Deja?” Coco greeted the weed dealer with a smile.

      “I got some serious shit, Coco. It’s all that. No bullshit, no lie. You wanna give it a try?” Deja asked in a melodious tone that brought sweet music to Coco’s ear, and a five-dollar bill out of her pocket.

      Deja shoved a small plastic bag in Coco’s right hand. Coco examined the bag, and the smell of chocolate engulfed the interior of the car.

      “Peace, Deja. It looks good.” Coco grinned as Deedee hit the accelerator and the car screeched away. “Damn, I hope he buys some breath mints or sees a dentist, yo. His breath was kicking, yo!”

      “Hell yeah, I hear you. I wanna know why’d you let him get all up in your face, girl?” Josephine chimed in from the back seat. “We were all trying to hold our breath. His breath was lethal. He was killing us with germ warfare.” They all laughed. Coco stared at the contents of the bag.

      “Yeah, but that’s my nigga, though. He always be coming through with da chocolate. It’s that serious shit, yo.” Suddenly, she startled Deedee by yelling, “Pull over! I’ve got to get a Dutch for this. Y’all want something from the store?” Coco slammed the car door and hurried to the store without waiting for a response.

      A few minutes later, she strolled back to the car. Once inside, she slit a cigar and dumped the tobacco out the window, and replaced it with weed. Coco deftly rolled and licked it smooth, her tongue snaking up and down the length of the blunt. Deedee stared in awe at Coco’s performance. She had seen her uncle’s attempts to roll a blunt, but never had she seen him execute it as skillfully as Coco.

      “Did you guys see that?” Deedee marveled.

      Danielle nodded yawningly and Josephine raised her eyebrows. She was acting as if she was shocked, but the crew had witnessed this performance before. This was nothing out of the ordinary, but to Deedee it was new and she looked astonished. Coco lit up and they smoked. Deedee hit the blunt just a little and was nice. Her head swam from the high. And these girls were sharing a forty when I drove up? Deedee wondered. She realized that there was much more to Coco than meet the eyes.

      Coco had this effect on everyone who saw her in action, whether she was dancing, singing or just rolling a blunt. She always drew stares of amazement. Her survival was also amazing. Coco hailed from a family of three, including a father she had not seen since she was five years old. Her steady boozing mother was so drunk at times that she couldn’t even remember who Coco was.

      “Who da fuck are you?” Rachel Harvey sometimes asked Coco. “What are y’all doing in my place? Y’all got to go. Gon’ git da fuck out, and don’t try to steal nada!” She would scream at Coco and her friends.

      It was embarrassing, but Coco never showed the humiliation. Instead, the girls would race to another venue and continue their rehearsal. Coco’s high-energy style of singing and dancing always lightened the mood after one of her mother’s scenes.

      Sometimes, Coco relaxed by wandering up to the rooftop spending hours, daydreaming and crying. Sometimes falling asleep up there. After a decapitated body was discovered on the rooftop, Coco stopped using it.

      At school, she coped, and received passing grades. But it was a hassle keeping the nosy guidance counselor out of her business.

      “How’s your mother doing, Coocoo? I haven’t seen her recently. Is she working?”

      Coco would stare, trying to decide whether she disliked this woman more for not being able to pronounce her name correctly, or for being a little too damn nosy. In any case, her reaction would be the same. Coco would force a smile and reply:

      “My mother has a job.”

      “Well, when is she off?”

      “On the weekends,” Coco yelled over her shoulder and hurriedly walked away.

      “Coocoo... Coocoo...” Mrs. Martinez would yell back, but Coco would be out of hearing distance. She was on her way to rendezvous with Danielle James and Josephine Murray, Da Crew.

      Both girls were recent transfers to the school, and were talented singers and dancers. Before they came, Coco reigned as the high school queen of song and dance. All the trophies were stored at her house.

      On the rare occasions when her mother was sober and user friendly, she related tales of a “no-good, singing, traveling man.” Coco decided he must have been her father. Sometimes her mother would produce pictures and wonder out loud if Coco and the man in the photographs shared any resemblance. Maybe there is a likeness, Coco thought, glancing at the old, tattered photos.

      “Y’all both got the same lips,” her mother would say teasingly.

      It was compassion enough, and Coco shared the loneliness. Singing was Coco’s escape. She fantasized about being there onstage, the audience loving her. One day, wandering through Central Park, Coco was daydreaming about СКАЧАТЬ