Chapter 6

“Girl, where the fuck you been?!” Jasmine’s mother launched into her as soon as the rims on my truck stopped spinning. “I ought to beat yo li’l hot ass!”

“Mama,” Jazz began to whisper, “I told you I had a date tonight.”

The embarrassment on her pretty face was just too much; I couldn’t even look at her. She was fighting like a champ to hold back the tears, but they were fighting her right back.

“A date!” her mother shouted right into Jasmine's face, sending saliva flying all over the makeup job she told me it took her twenty minutes to perfect. “Did he pay you?”

Her mother’s eyes traveled from Jasmine‘s face to mine, and the bitch started mean muggin’ me like she was another nigga and Jazz’s pussy belonged to her. I wanted to pop off at the mouth, and it was damn near killing me not to - an> but I kept my composure and didn’t say a word. I simply returned her stare like any real man would have. She looked me in the eyes, so it was mostly out of respect that I looked her back in hers. I thought back to a conversation between my mother and my oldest sister. Monica was complaining about how none of the boys in The Cochran would talk to her because they were all scared of our mama. Mama told Monica that the only reason they were scared was that they didn’t mean her any good. That wasn’t the case with me and Jazz; I meant her more good than I ever meant any broad before her. I spent the entire night trying to prove that to Jazz, and I wasn’t about to fuck with all that progress. It took every bit of strength I had, but I didn’t get ignorant with her mother. I played it cool. Jazz, on the other hand, was having none of it.

“Mama, please go in the house!” Jasmine finally let her voice be heard. “Please, mama?”

Jazz wasn’t too proud to beg, but she was too embarrassed to cry. All the neighbors were out; the hood loves a free show. Not only was her mother drunk as hell, but she was also outside wearing a very sheer night gown with only a small pair of panties on underneath; there were titties everywhere. Her mother was a large woman but still very fine for her age. It was too bad she couldn’t see the beauty in herself the way Jazz could. While we were sitting in Applebee’s, waiting for our steaks to arrive, she went on and on about how much she loved and admired her mother. I couldn’t help wondering if she regretted telling me that or if she was just that good-hearted that it didn’t even matter.

“The rent’s due next week, so if you fucked that nigga you betta get yo money,” her mother yelled at Jazz. For some reason, she was still mean muggin’ me. I wasn’t too cool with being called a ‘nigga’ by some drunk-ass white bitch, but that white bitch was Jazz’s mother. She was also sick; she was an alcoholic.

During dinner, Jasmine also revealed to me that her father had just filed for divorce and was living overseas with an Asian woman who was now seven months pregnant with his child. She hadn’t seen him since she was nine years old. The closest thing she had to communication with him was the Christmas cards he sent her every year with no return address. Her moms lost her job a few months ago because of her excessive drinking. Ever since then, they’d been living off Jasmine’s hustles; she learned a long time ago that her looks could get her just about anything she wanted. Niggas tricked off money, clothes, jewelry, and anything else of value they had just to get a piece of her; she figured she might as well get something out of the deal. I couldn’t knock her hustle - but there was no way any chick of mine was goe d mine wing to be turning tricks. I was too young to save my mother, but Jazz was another story.

“Mama, I know you hurtin’.” She took her mother’s hand and looked deep into her glassy eyes. “He hurt me, too, but we all we got...and...and if you don’t stop this...you’re gonna lose me, too.” Her voice broke with almost every word she spoke. When she finally stopped fighting them, the tears fell down her face hard and continuous. They even made their way down to her dress, leaving a wet stain pattern that almost looked like tiny footprints. I turned my head away in the opposite direction. I had to; that shit was killing me.

I drove away from Jasmine’s home that night with a whole new understanding of her. Once again in the hood, a childhood was cut short. At only fifteen, Jazz had to provide not only for herself but for her mother as well – and the load was getting much too heavy for her to carry alone; she was about to break. A blind man could see that. The hard questions I asked myself on the drive home were: Am I willing to let that go down? Am I just going to walk away, or am I going to be the kind of man that my mother and big sister would be proud of?