Heads

O.K. so boom: it all went down like this: there were EIGHT GIRLS, one BOY*, bottom of the emptied bleachers. One BOY* who wore a semi-stolen, semi-sheer navy blue dress with white polka-dots, the spaghetti top of which they covered with a gray hoodie that read BRAZIL. Out of their bag hung the bottle of SOL DE JANEIRO—caramel pistachio. They stood with the GIRLS watching the boys on the field—the three other boys were now just tossing the football in a triangle, heads covered, BLUE SATIN. BOY* was just standing and watching next to the girl with blonde box braids in. To prevent all these people from running together, and to tell it like it went down, I refer to them all in the terms that everyone came to know them. Anyway, Blonde braids was TWO, if you know what I mean (she's trouble). She cleared the bleachers of those bitches who were there before them, made them scurry just with her appearance on scene. She had on a white tube top, baggy jeans, and NIKES which she joked (she played) were useful in a pinch. The other girls were all listening to her as she rolled a tight spliff. 

Using her long set of fresh nails, TWO was talking about men—no, she pointed, niggas— and differentiating a man from a boy from a nigga. FIVE and SIX could hear her from where they sat, three rows up, which also gave them a clear view of the run-off bitches who were still near the bleachers, making calls on their phones. Looking on, FIVE and SIX thought, and cackled, loudly that who those run-off phone-calling bitches really needed to call was a wambulance. But then SEVEN interrupted and called TWO messy, restarting the conversation and drawing FIVE and SIX back. Do you hear what she’s saying right now? SEVEN asked. 

What did she say? SIX looked at TWO, as did FIVE, who picked up from beside her a bag of FLAMING HOT CHEETOES and offered some to SIX. They held the bag out to offer some to ONE, but she said none for her with a nod, fixing her makeup, making SIX put some back.

Her ass is so messy! replied SEVEN, now staring at the BOY* —no matter where they stood, Seven’s messy was an endorsement (an instigator, in my opinion). Well, go on, then, girl. What’d the nigga do? SEVEN said with a tilt of her chin. 

But before TWO could restart, FOUR finally pointed out and commended SEVEN for her magnetism with a little side eye. FOUR could feel this from where she stood next to ONE and the BOY*. FOUR had been also watching the boys play, so as to hear and keep watch on everything. She noted on top of this how stacked SEVEN was, also—real curvy. Staring at SEVEN’s waist, FOUR asked where she was—where is she?” —laying a hand on her own prominent tummy. SEVEN had on an ESSENTIALS dress and heels as casualwear. She looked like how you might stretch 300 dollars made over several weekends into a million bucks. 

Also, FOUR glanced, they all need to hush or the boys will hear. Their game of toss had migrated closer to the bleachers, and they could not be allowed to hear. And why are they even playing right? Shouldn’t they be at work? FOUR laughed. Shouldn’t we? Only BOY* laughed back, also looking at the boys on the field, before turning to FOUR. BOY* rolled his eyes because he would go tell them to stop with the catch but could not run over in his shoes anyway— shoes which had been chosen for that purpose by the other girls: Mary Jane’s, bobby socks, both having lost their factory-ensured rigidity on too big feet. SIX complimented the shoe ensemble again, though. FOUR fixed her sweater, hiked up her jeans; when she saw those run-off phone-calling little bitches on their phones pass another look from where they stood beside the bleachers. 

When aren’t they playing, though? said TWO, overly playing. But ONE made a comment about the boys’ problems with finding work, summer jobs and the like, an excuse that seemed dismissive, permissive, and dead, mad weird to TWO. Still, it was funny to SIX and EIGHT who, done

up in her boutique sundress and birthday braids, made her first noise since they pulled up. Typical, TWO scoffed, suspecting FOUR felt the same as her about one’s comment and had said nothing the way she turned back to the field where the boys were taking a water break. TWO rolled her eyes: FOUR always fell in line when it came to ONE. 

ONE had on the most original outfit which was a lacy black tank and a bright orange skirt which bore traces of a previous owner, which she had proceeded to begin flattening after making her dismissive-permissive comment. 

No fuck that, stomped the “BOY” after a lull. Keep telling the story what did this nigga do now? They joked to themself. See, I avoid this behavior, I’ll be with the gyals or the Girls. ONE, who can tell if the comment embarrassed or indicted her or what, lit the spliff TWO had rolled for them and handed it to FIVE, then EIGHT. TWO continued 

Well. What was it that Nicki Giovanni said? ‘Of course you can lie to me.’ She was better than me. Anyway, it’s not ‘what did he do.’” 

FOUR said put her hands up because they should be quiet, and FIVE, SIX, and EIGHT looked at her expressionless. Of course SEVEN, messy, let fly an extended saur, which prompted the inevitable question. Who did he do? 

TWO replied. Oh I’m find out. Then the group, silent, just passed the spliff in numerical order, first with the BOY* at zero and then again as implied nine. 

Can we fix my hair when we’re back? BOY* broke the silence. I wanna at least look nice if I have to go to this shiesty nigga’s funeral 

I’ll do it, coughed ONE, of course—

Oh these boys are unbelievable— 

Animals, just animal 

I can’t believe we didn’t realize that he was fooling around— 

I didn’t realize either— 

I should’ve realized— 

I can’t believe I didn’t realize— They should’ve realized that the whole time THREE was twisting a napkin in her hand, on the verge of tears. 

“The other day he kissed me!” THREE blurted and took a hit, avoiding further questioning. But there wouldn’t be another lull to follow this kind of bullshit. 

Now girl— TWO sighed, to put it back in their language, and grabbed the spliff back, then set it on the railing. It wouldn’t have to come to words, earrings would come off, and they would come to Jesus, if not more, including hair damage if need be, and then maybe they’d square up so that they could get square again. FIVE and SIX stood up to tried to grab SEVEN and TWO from doing too much on THREE, from rolling up their sleeves, and were only stopped by a shout from the field. They all turned to see a brawl had broken out between two of the boys, like, 

There’s no way, SIX furrowed her brow. No way they heard? 

ONE yelled for the boys to knock it off, trying to smile, to no avail. Her eyes darted around, to the stairs off the bleachers. The two fighting boys stopped for a minute when the third came between them, and made them walk away. After a moment, though, they both ran back at each other. Their friend pushed them apart, again. 

“Hey I just wanna know how you could fucking do that to your girl, dawg!” Out of the corner of his eye the BOY* saw and stared down those bitches, still watching, turning to one another, he could feel like the air turn in pitch. They need to get it together and keep it pushing, the BOY* thought and shot a look at ONE, before turning to TWO and SIX, about to free his feet from his shoes. 

But before he could warn the boys of what he knew was coming—FOUR had also seen and was about to try the same—high-pitched sounds sounded. The ones that paralyze careless conversations and boom: four men ran onto the field. Four men whose identical boots smashed identical footprints into the terf, driving those bitches to scale the stairs again to see. TWO and the BOY* hopped the rail, but were not enough fight between them. BOY* was laid out as he ran up on the scene, his shoes sliding off; TWO was held up. The sound of 50000 volts which the “BOY” heard next would be recreated later—19 Hertz—but the four “warning” blasts into the air would not. And SEVEN’s face was like woah, woah, woah, makeup running. By the time EIGHT jumped in, she was instantly picked up, dipped ends caught between a man’s gloved fingers. And, understandably, they were all waving like: oh my God. But after only a minute they could not—better not—speak for some time, certainly not while they knelt on bits of crushed acryllic and corn chips, all the clothes they had worked so hard to find and fashion turned into a strewn mess of shreds, and their eyes directed upward—straight up—before scurrying away sideways, as the men sniffed the air that they had turned from smelling like grass to smelling like nutty caramel—like fuck.