Not A Good Look by Nikki Carter Page A

behind.
    â€œI know, girl. If one of us comes up, you know it’s gonna be all of us.”
    I hear the words come out of my mouth, but I wonder…are we all gonna come up? Or is it just going to be Dreya? Maybe the group should’ve been called Daddy’s Little Girl.
    Later, in English class, my friend Margit pounces on me as soon as she sees me. “Are you all right?” she asks.
    â€œYes…”
    â€œI heard about the shooting at your house, and I was just making sure you didn’t get caught by a stray bullet. Was it a drive-by?”
    â€œI don’t think so. This isn’t Compton, Margit.”
    â€œWell, I’m just saying. Bethany was at Cascade telling everybody about it.”
    I knew it! Big-mouth heffa!
    â€œAnd you wanna know what else she was doing?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWell, you didn’t hear it from me, but she was all up on Romell during the couple skate, grinding and stuff!”
    I give a nonchalant shrug. “I don’t care about that. Romell is yesterday’s news.”
    â€œI know,” Margit replies. “I just thought it was kinda twisted.”
    I’m glad that class starts because I’m ready to end this conversation with Margit. If I were still up on Romell, I’d be mad, but it’s whatever. Bethany’s thirsty self can have him, because I’m about to do the dang thing and get this music thing on lock.

8
    B y the time Sam gets me and Bethany to the studio, Dreya’s already been recording for hours. She didn’t come to school today, so I guess she’s made her choice. Giving up on school for the fab life. I can’t get with that, but I’m not Dreya.
    Truth is chilling in the studio lounge, eating a plate of fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, and collard greens. There’s also a glass of what looks like cherry Kool-Aid on the coffee table in front of him. He looks up at us and grins.
    â€œWhat took y’all so long? Shelly been burning it up in the kitchen, fryin’ chicken like she Martha Stewart or somebody.”
    Bethany asks, “What makes you think Martha Stewart can make good fried chicken? She ain’t even from down South.”
    My stomach growls, and I grab it in embarrassment. “Sorry, y’all. I had an early lunch.”
    â€œIt’s cool, shortie. You want me to fix you a plate?” Truth asks.
    â€œYou gon’ fix me a plate?” I stare at him in disbelief. Truth doesn’t seem like the type to wait on anybody, much less a girl.
    He laughs out loud. “Sam, can you tell this girl? I’m a gentleman. You want something, too, Bethany?”
    â€œI sure do,” Bethany says, “and don’t be stingy on that mac and cheese. It looks like it’s slammin’.”
    â€œIt is. Shelly can cook her butt off, and with the size of her booty, that’s pretty good.”
    Now it’s my turn to laugh. I’ve never seen this side of Truth before. It almost makes his ole gremlin-lookin’ tatted-up self a little bit cute.
    â€œI’ll help you,” I say. “You can’t carry everybody’s food. You want something, Sam?”
    Sam gives me a bright smile. “You fixing my food now? That is so sweet.”
    â€œBoy…”
    â€œAll right, all right. I’ll take some chicken and greens. No mac and cheese, though. It’ll make me want to take a nap.”
    I follow Truth into the kitchen. He washes and dries his hands in the sink and reaches for plates.
    â€œI won’t tell your boys how domesticated you are,” I say with a giggle.
    â€œDomesticated, huh? Nah, never that. I’m just taking care of y’all, ’cause y’all Big D’s guests. It’s called hospitality.”
    For some reason this reminds me of a scene out of that old-school movie The Godfather. All the gangsters and killers are sitting in a kitchen while this big, fat, thugged-out dude makes a pot of