Jalondra Davis, Daddy Page 3
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Wack attack: A violent episode of withdrawal from a dependency inducing stimulant.
Calls on our phone where people don’t say anything and then hang up, a royal blue Chevy pickup parked in a driveway of a home that is not ours.
Strawberry: A woman of low morals.
What gets shouted when she protests the late nights, asks where the money goes, expresses the suspicions, is irritated about the bleach stains on the clothes he attempted to wash as a favor.
Bitch: my mother.
I am in the tenth grade and the baby fat is sliding off. Despite chronic and obvious self-consciousness, the swing of my cheer skirt and success of my recently removed braces has reeled in my first real boyfriend. He wants to go to the movies and I ask my father for money for the ticket, for popcorn. If the little niggah ain’t paying, you don’t need to be going. He’s supposed to get a ride and come to the door to get you and take you to see what you want to see and hold open your door. He’s supposed to buy your ticket and drink and whatever else it is you want. I call the boy and tell him what my father said and he agrees to the terms for now, not wanting to miss a night of attempted grabs at my newly minted curves. However, I look at my mother’s tears, at what he is telling me to demand, and I am confused.
