Caught Up by Amir Abrams Page A

house. But I want to. Truth is, I’m not ready to go home. Well, I can’t go home . . . not yet.
    I sent Jordan a text to see if she and her dad were back from Connecticut. They’re not. So that’s that.
    During the ride over to his place, August Alsina’s CD is playing. August is so sexy to me. And I love his voice. I close my eyes, bobbing my head as “I Luv This Shit” starts playing. In my head, August is singing to me. I snap my fingers to the beat.
    Blaze laughs. “Yo, what you know about dis?”
    I open my eyes and look over at him. “What, you think I don’t listen to this kind of music? I love August. And his music is dope. I’m not gonna lie. At first, when I first heard this song on the radio, I thought he was Chris Brown singing.”
    â€œYeah, he do sound kinda like Chris Breezy. Dude is def doin’ his thing. But I ain’t tryna talk about him.” He turns the volume down. “What’s good wit’ you? You sure you wanna chill?”
    I nod. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
    â€œSo you gonna let me push dem panties to da side?” He grins, moving his eyebrows up and down. I give him the evil eye and he laughs. “Chill, chill. I’m only effen wit’ you.”
    I roll my eyes, sucking my teeth. “Yeah, right. Please don’t have me Mace you.” I shift my body in my seat, folding my arms across my chest.
    â€œYo, real spit, ma. I got you. Trust. You in good hands.”
    I give him a “yeah right” look.
    â€œWord is bond. I got you.”
    â€œYeah, we’ll see,” I mumble, reaching over and turning up the volume to the radio. Future’s song “Honest” is playing. I lean back in my seat, bouncing my head to the beat, pretending like I know what the heck he’s sing-rapping. Truth is, I don’t understand his country grammar, but I like the beat. I’m just being honest.
    When we finally pull up in front of a yellow house with green shutters and a big bay window on a quiet street, I look over at Hazel Eyes, confused. “I thought we were going to your place.”
    He looks over at me, shutting off the engine. “This is my spot.” He frowns. “What, you think e’eryone who lives in da hood is livin’ in da projects or sumthin’?”
    Busted.
    I won’t lie.
    I did kind of think, expect, that maybe he did. Suddenly I feel guilty for thinking like that. But then I know it’s part out of ignorance and part out of fascination that I hoped he did live in the projects.
    I look over at him sheepishly. “I wasn’t sure; that’s all.”
    â€œYeah, a’ight. And just so you know. My moms isn’t on drugs. My crib isn’t dirty. And I don’t have roaches. And we ain’t on section eight.” He opens his door. “C’mon. Let’s go in.”
    I immediately feel asinine for thinking—okay, hoping —he did. I unfasten my seat belt, then open the door and slowly ease myself out, shutting it behind me.
    He walks over and takes my hand. Surprisingly, I don’t pull away. It feels good, my hand in his.
    Â 
    â€œYou smoke?” he asks, grabbing a shoebox from out of his closet, then pulling out a plastic baggie stuffed with what looks like oregano. But I know better. It’s marijuana. We’re up in his room. His room is small but nice. He has a full-size bed that’s actually made up. The walls are painted light blue. And he has large framed posters of basketball players on them. A gigantic picture of a half-naked girl with an enormous butt is hanging over his bed. She looks Spanish. There’s a stereo system up on a dresser and a huge flat-screen TV up on his wall. His closet is packed with clothes. And along the right wall there are boxes of sneakers neatly stacked up.
    He shuts his closet door, then comes and sits on the side of the bed, next to his nightstand. I stare at his profile and