At home, I take stock of the situation. My mom was a cop turned FBI agent, turned FBI profiler. She knew self-defense so she taught me a few moves, so I can handle myself to a degree. To a small degree. But Overdone – man, she looked strong like a dude and I have no doubt she is going to kick my ass.
At home, my cousins, being the darlings that they are offer words of comfort.
“She’s gonna kick your ass, Burn,” darling cousin Daisy says, her eyes bright with excitement and excitement.
“Yeah?”
“For sure. What time is the match? I’ve gotta be there. Can’t miss this shit.”
“Match? It’s not a match,” I mutter. It’s more like a mismatch.
“Four,” darling cousin Lanie says, equally reassuring and supportive. “I’m gonna be there too. This I have to watch – Burn going down. I’m bringing popcorn.”
“Gee, thanks guys,” I say in a sour voice. “Shouldn’t you guys be offering to help me fight her? Stand by me?”
They look at each other and burst out laughing.
“Yeah, well,” Daisy says, “she’s probably gonna have backup just in case you win.”
The cold hand of fear clutches at me. “Whadyamean?”
“She can’t let you win. Ever. Her reputation is at stake here, Burn. If you win, you’ll have her whole crew to fight.”
Oh fuuuuuuuck!
Maybe I should round up a crew too. I think about Laura and her hunched shoulders, Tina and her tiny self, Sultana and her dumb self, Harjoon and his grandma, Fung the “Belieber” …nah! It’s just me against the world.
Fuck me. In every sense.
****
I’m up early to – I dunno, try and work out something, I guess. When, where, how? Fuck knows! I’ve barely slept. This is how Mike Tyson must feel before he gets into an arena. Poor fucker, no wonder he bit the guy’s ear. Right now, I really don’t blame him. In fact, it’s a downright plan – if I bite her ear or any part of her anatomy, maybe I can somehow win?
At school my girls flock around me and give me advice.
Girls I don’t know, also flock around me and give advice. Guess it’s now “us” against “them”.
The advice is solid and steady.
“Go for the eyes first.”
“Go for the jugular first.”
“Go for her hair extensions first. Rip really hard.”
“Don’t waste your time going for her hair – it’ll just come out in your hands.”
“Pull a Naomi Campbell on her – throw your cell phone at her.”
“Or a Russell Crowe.”
“Cut your nails so they don’t break on you.”
“Don’t cut your nails. Keep ’em sharp and use them to rip at her.”
“Tie your hair into a pony.”
“Braid your hair, don’t wear a pony. She’ll have something to pull on.”
“Keep your shoes on so you can really kick.”
“Take your shoes off in case you have to run.”
“Squeeze her tits really hard.” (That was advice from a boy.)
“Actually, squeeze her nipples really hard and let her squeeze yours.” (That too, was advice from a boy.)
“Run around and let her try to catch you, that way you tire her out.”
“Don’t run away from her, tackle her headlong – just rush her like a bull. Hope she’s wearing red.”
“Wear denim; it’s protective.”
“Wear a bikini; it’s more protective, believe me.” (Advice from a boy.)
“For sure! Bikinis are way more protective than denim. Hey, how about a wet-T-Shirt fight? I can get a hose ready?” (Advice from a boy.)
“When all else fails, just slam your head into the nearest wall like The Situation did in Jersey Shore. That way, it’ll completely confuse your opposition. Remember how confused Ronnie was?”
“Burn, ask yourself, what would Nene do?”
“Burn, ask yourself, what would Homer do?”
I nod so much, my head feels like it’s going to fall off.
I watch the clock on the wall. An hour to go. I’m sweating. This is so fucked up. How badly am I going to get injured? I know I can give, but I will have to take a lot here.
“Stupid black bitch!”
I jerk to look at the source of that racist comment. “Who me?”
“Nah, that chick.”
“Oh.”
As we file out of school, I see Harjoon with a book and pencil collecting money. Another pencil is behind his ears. Why does he look so busy?
I spin around to look at know-it-all Laura.
“Bets,” she says.
“Bets?”
“Mainly in her favor. Sorry.”
My mouth turns downwards. “Nice.” Who would I have bet on? Her, of course.
Bud strolls over, folds his hand and laughs. “Burnt, today is the day you meet your maker.”
“Leave her alone!” Sultana says.
“What’s that, Grape?” Bud asks cupping his hand around his ear.
“She needs to focus,” Sultana says.
“Oh, I get it, Grape,” Bud mocks. “You want me to bring mud. But then again, two niggas fighting – we gonna need white mud for this one. Now, where the hell do I get white mud from, Grape?”
“Bud, leave me the fuck alone!” I hiss and move away from him.
He jerks back. “Well, fuck me for being supportive.”
“Yeah, fuck you,” Tuna says.
When Overdone Barbie sees me, she bares her teeth, which are artificially white, like she’s been using a whitening pen or something. She dangles her arms loosely at her side and she jerks her neck around. Then she jumps up and down as if she’s walking towards a boxing ring. Fuck, she looks so comfortable, I can tell she does this for a living. Come to think of it I think I saw her in Christina’s Aguilera’s Dirty video, as one of the cage fighters.
Behind her are about one hundred supporters. Behind me are about two hundred supporters. You think that’s a good thing? Not when just about all her supporters have baseball bats in their hands.
Daisy’s words about her never losing, gongs in my mind. Fuuuuck! Why couldn’t I have the gift of strength? How the hell is this gift of hearing people’s thoughts or reading minds helping me now?
Overdone stands in front of me, a malicious smile on her face.
“So,” I ask, hoping for a sneer in my voice, “this between you and me, fair and square, or between me, you and them?” I point to her supporters. “’Cause if you’re under-confident about winning and need backup, then shout it now.”
After a moment of thinking about it, she shakes her head. “Just you and me, bitch.”
Okay, got that sorted out. My hair is braided and I have no shoes on. Her hair is in a ponytail and she also has no shoes on.
Somebody with a bell-sounding app, hits play. The moment we hear the bell, she lunges at me. I sidestep her and punch her in the temple. My school goes crazy and cheer like I’ve hit a home run or something.
With a snarl, she swings wildly without looking and catches me in the head. Her punch staggers me. I stumble, but I don’t fall.
She rushes me and we grapple with each other, both of us vying for the eyes. She’s stronger than me, but I’m faster. Together we’re kind of even.
One of her blows catches me on my temple and I drop. Her peeps roar and raise their bats in jubilation. She’s winning, fuck!
She comes at me. I grab a handful of dirt and fling it at her eyes. Bingo! She reels back and blinks rapidly. I take the opportunity to sock her in the face several times. She recovers fast and hits me, catching me on the nose. Pain shoots up my nose and I am convinced she’s broken it.
No time to dwell on the pain - I swing again and catch her on the face and the way my hand hurts, I know I got a solid one there.
She lunges at me, grabs my braid and yanks it. I grab hers and we both fall clutching each other’s braids. I feel like my hair is being torn out of my scalp.
This is not looking good.
Suddenly I feel myself being pulled away and suspended in the air. “What the fuck?”
A guy from her team has me around my waist while another guy also from her team has her around her waist.
In spite of my fear at guys from her team holding me, I do what she’s doing - I thrash and yell, “Lemme at her!”
They laugh as they hold us apart even though the crowd boos them for spoiling the fight.
“And don’t you mess with my man, bitch,” Overdone spits.
“Me mess with your man? Are you nuts? I’m not into him or any of your guys. Not my type. Too hood for me.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, bitch. If that’s your concern, you can relax. That dude’s all yours. I’m into real men. Not boys with fake tattoos, okay?”
A low hush among the crowd shaves off some of my cockiness and has me a little confused. But, I talk big, because I’m supposed to. It’s all part of the act. Like the wrestling you see on TV.
“Fuck you, bitch! He ain’t fake.”
“Whateva!”
She suddenly smiles and when her smile does not reach her eyes, I get a little spooked.
“Ye … ah.” I look behind me into Dread’s face. The guy with a gun. The guy with the tattoos, the guy who called me a sellout – that guy.
Shit! Shit! Shit!
The guy I said had fake tattoos. He’s obviously heard everything I said. Shit! Shit! Shit!
He leans against a black Escalade four-wheel drive, cigarette in hand and watches me. His face is expressionless, so I can’t tell if he’s going to kill me anytime soon with his bare hands or with his gun or if he’s just going to set Overdone and her crew on me to kick me to death.
The crowd goes silent.
He drops his cigarette, squashes it with his shoe and walks towards me.
My heart drops. He’s gonna kill me in front of everybody.
We hear the sound of police sirens in the distant.
He stops walking.
Oh, thank God! I exhale.
“This ain’t over,” Overdone warns.
“B …bring it,” I say.
The sirens get louder and my confidence returns. “Anytime. Bring it.” Big shit talker – that’s me.
As the five cop cars screech to a halt around us, the crowd scatters.
Once again, I get thrown into the back of a police car. Overdone also gets thrown into another.
This time I get no burgers, no Coke and no sympathy.