Boss Lady by Omar Tyree

of girls look up to you. They may not have agreed with all of the things you did, but they love the fact that you represented the urban reality so well, and that you survived it. And they just want to see that representation on the big screen.”
    â€œAnd you think I don’t? Some things just take more time, Vanessa,” she argued.
    My cousin had a point of course, but I was already on a roll. I said, “What about when Spike Lee was doing all his New York movies? I mean, if we need to leave starstruck Hollywood and go back to the streets to get it done, then that’s what we need to do.”
    I had put in overtime doing research on black films, while renting and watching them all. I had gotten gung-ho about the entire filming process.
    Tracy said, “That was a different time back then, Vanessa. Independent films were a lot easier to be picked up for distribution back then. But now we have a lot of those same films going straight to DVD instead. Is that what you want to happen to Flyy Girl ? I know I want a theatrical release myself, and not some underground rental sleeper. What’s the point in waiting all of this time to do that?”
    She stopped me in my tracks with that one. I wanted to see Flyy Girl on the big screen, too, in a breakout blockbuster weekend, with teenaged girls lined up all across the country. I just felt that urban American girls deserved our own breakout film. We needed our own Boyz n the Hood and our own American Graffiti. Flyy Girl was it.
    Before I could get out another word on the subject, Tracy’s cell phone went off. She looked down at the number before she stood up to answer it.
    â€œHey,” she answered while walking toward the kitchen. That’s all I needed to know. It was her “friend.” That’s all she called him, and she had been “friends” with him for over a year. But she never let him stay over at the house. She even used me as her excuse to keep him at bay. I would have liked to have lived on UCLA’s campus, but Tracy had gotten used to having me around the house with her.
    â€œWe were just sitting here talking about movies,” she told him as she strolled into the kitchen.
    I smiled, realizing her game plan. She didn’t feel like having her friend over for company that night. That’s why she said “we.” Otherwise, she would have said that she was just sitting there watching television, as if I wasn’t in the room with her. I knew all of my cousin’s M.O.s by then. She was an interesting case, thirtysomething and as free as she wanted to be, and with all of her own money to pay the bills.
    I was still a virgin myself, and I was not even looking out for guys. They were all case studies to me. Maybe I read too much into things, but their conversations never added up.
    â€œAre you doing any homework tonight?” a guy at school would ask me.
    â€œYes, I am,” I would answer.
    â€œYou need any help with it?”
    â€œYou have media relations courses?” I would ask.
    â€œNo. I’m studying business.”
    â€œSo, how can you help me with my homework?”
    That’s when they would start to stumble.
    â€œI mean, I’m just saying if you would need any help with anything.”
    â€œWell, why would you want to help me?”
    â€œI mean . . . why not?”
    Then I would ask them, “Don’t you have homework of your own to do?”
    â€œYeah, but it’s not that much?”
    â€œSo, you would spend that extra time just to help me?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œBut what do you get out of that?” I would ask them.
    That’s when they would look confused.
    â€œWhat do I get out of it?”
    Then I would break it all down. “Time is money, right? So why would you want to spend your money on me just to help me to do my homework?”
    That’s when they would forget how to add.
    â€œI’m saying, I’m not even