Caught Up by Amir Abrams Page B

it’s really hard to think straight, let alone talk. His skin is smooth and clear, the kind of skin girls at my school pay hundreds, maybe even thousands, of dollars in skincare products and spas for.
    I shake my head. I’ve never smoked anything in my life. And, although I’ve had fleeting thoughts of curiosity as to what it’d be like, I’m not sure if I’m ready to find out. I tell him no as he pulls out a cigar. He glances over at me, his lips curl into a crooked grin. “Yeah, you one of dem good girls. I like dat.”
    Fascination dances in my eyes as I watch him slice open a cigar, remove the tobacco, then pack it with marijuana. I eye him with excitement as he places it between his lips and slides his tongue over it, just so. Then he takes it between his thumbs, index fingers and middle fingers and slowly rolls it to perfection.
    â€œSo why do you like the fact that I’m a good girl?” I finally ask, pulling my gaze away from the thick blunt Blaze places on the nightstand before he starts slicing open another cigar, then packing it with marijuana.
    â€œBecause you ain’t all hard ’n’ gutter like a lotta these birds cluckin’ ’round here. You got ya head on straight. And you ain’t got no rep in da streets. You def wifey material.”
    â€œI am? Why you say that?”
    â€œWhy I say what?”
    â€œThat I’m wifey material. What does that mean?”
    His lighter flicks, and the air around me immediately fills with the strong scent of weed. I blink and swallow as he takes deep, long pulls. Aside from seeing it in movies and videos, this is the first time I’ve actually seen anyone actually roll a blunt, let alone smoke it, live and direct. I can’t lie. I find myself becoming enchanted with how the thick smoke rolls around his tongue then floats out of his mouth and up through his nose.
    The more he smokes, the more odorous his room becomes. Scary thing is, I’m not even bothered by the pungent smell.
    â€œIt means what it means.” He exhales a mouthful of smoke, getting up, holding his sagging pants up with one hand as he walks over to the window and opens it. His blunt dangles from his lips. “You a good girl.”
    â€œBut what if I don’t want to be that, a good girl?”
    He comes back over and sits beside me, then leans back on his forearm. He takes another pull from the blunt. “You ain’t ready for dat life, ma.” He blows smoke in my face. I cough a little. And he laughs. “You drink?”
    I shake my head.
    â€œYou puttin’ in dat neck work?” I blink. He looks down at his lap. “Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talkin’ ’bout. Givin’ up dat dome. Head.”
    I frown. I thought we already went through this. Thought I already put him in his place. Boys. They only hear what they want to hear. I shake my head.
    â€œI know what you meant. No, I’m not doing that.”
    I refrain from telling him how gross I think oral sex is. Still, I sometimes find myself wondering why girls enjoy doing it and why every boy I know goes crazy over it. The first time I heard the term oral sex used I was like eleven. I was on the school bus en route home when this white girl in back of me, Katie Livingston, started talking about how she performed it on her brother’s friend in their garage. He was in high school. Ninth grade. We were in sixth grade. I remember how Katie described the white stuff that filled her mouth and how he had wanted her to swallow it.
    I couldn’t wait to get home to ask my mother all about what I’d heard. When I asked her what oral sex was, she explained what it was, then added, “It isn’t ladylike. Fast, nasty girls are the only ones out there putting their mouths on a boy’s penis.”
    When I asked her what the white stuff was Katie was talking about, she said, “Make sure you don’t