Jordan Belcher - Status

“Where did you see him?” I asked, my heart rate escalating.

“Today. At mall.”

“Where was your grandmother at?”

“In the bafroom . I wait on da bench and he see me.”

“Did you tell your grandmother?”

“No. He told me not tell her.”

“Kylie, you listen to me. If you ever see that man again, you scream, okay? He’s not your uncle.”

“Okay, Momma.”

When we got home, I tore off her Band-Aid and checked out the cut. It was sealed, thankfully. I put some peroxide and Neosporin on it, stuck another Band-Aid on her and told her to go lay down. I needed to lay down myself. My head still felt fuzzy from the alcohol I downed last night and I couldn’t sleep because I had been crying into my pillow until six this morning. The knuckles on my left pinky and ring finger were swollen painfully but I still found myself sitting at my desktop computer, typing in my password.

In a couple clicks, The Site was on my screen.

I was shocked to see I had more notifications than I ever had in my life. On my wall was a video that I was tagged in, which was linked to a popular hiphop website. The thumbnail was a blur of two women fighting, and it instantly registered that me and Deja’s brawl had been caught on tape. My heart started beating faster as I clicked the play button and the video started streaming.

The first frame was of me choking Deja up against the hood of a black Chrysler 300. The camera was extremely shaky, from some boy filming us on his smartphone. A second later, I threw Deja to the ground, and that’s when her breasts flopped out.

“Oh my God,” I gasped.

The camera boy zoomed in on her nipples. “Don’t break it up!” he yelled in amusement. “Get back yall! Let ‘em fight!”

I watched myself pummel her face in and I couldn’t believe it was me. The camera circled around and got another close up—between Deja’s legs.

As I looked at the footage, I started to get teary-eyed. I didn’t mean for Deja to get embarrassed like this in front of the world. I just wanted to beat her ass. Shaking my head, I tapped the Esc button and clicked on the comments.

Harold the Moneyman:She got knocked the fuck out!

Shake-it Girl12:This remind me of one of Floyd Mayweather’s fights.

Julius Taylor:Damn, I didn’t know Tyesha had hands like that.

Velma Fenty:That’s my baby! I didn’t raise no punks!

Rita RealSpit Gibson:Can yall stop commenting on this, please? These are human beings yall are making fun of. Two beautiful women who were friends with each other. Let’s try to bring them up, not celebrate their disagreement.

Michael StreetLawyer:I don’t know if this is an assault case or manslaughter.

VVS Vernon:I don’t care what yall say. That girl getting her ass beat is fine. You see them nipples? You see that pussy? I’d still take her out to eat, even if I gotta feed her through a straw.

Fedbound Marley:@Tyesha816. Oh, so that’s what you meant! LOL! If you need bond money, I got you, player. I sold out last night!

A wistful smile appeared on my face. Marley was just joking but I was worried that I could really face charges. And I wished my mother wouldn’t have commented, but what could I do about it? My emotions were doing somersaults right now.

My phone started ringing. I looked down at the screen and saw Rodrick’s face. I tapped the volume once and his call silenced.

I leaned back in my chair and started to question my love for him. He’d put me through so much bullcrap. But if I pushed him out of my life, how would Kylie take it? Would she blame me when she got older? I didn’t know what to do. Times like this I would call Deja and we’d talk for hours. I felt like I had nobody now.

Well, I had one person. I had my Kylie. I got up and was on my way to lay down with her when there was a knock at my door.

I looked through my peep hole and, closing my eyes as a tear fell, I sighed heavily.

“Tyesha!” Rodrick called out, knocking again. “I know you in there. Let me in, baby!”

“Go away!” I screamed.

“I’m sorry. I know that don’t mean much right now but I’m saying it anyway. I’m stupid as fuck, I know. You probably think I’m the most trifling nigga in the world.”

“Probably?! Get the fuck away from my house! You hurt me sooo bad, Rodrick. My whole adult life has been dedicated to you, and you repay me by pissing on me constantly . I can’t think of what I’ve done to deserve this.”

He jiggled the knob in vain. “You didn’t do anything, Tyesha, baby. It was me. I made so many mistakes, trying to please everybody. But I realized it doesn’t work like that. I’m supposed to be with you and you only. God gave me an answer.”

“He gave me one too!” I shouted through the door. “He told me to tell you to get the hell away from my house! I’m through, Rodrick! I’m done!”

“Just open the door so we can talk. Please?”

“No!”

He kicked the door. I looked through the peep hole and saw him with his hands on his hips in frustration. I didn’t care what he said—he wasn’t getting in this house.

“When can I see my daughter again?” he asked calmly.

“We’ll work something out,” I said.

“Okay.”

He trotted back down my steps and disappeared into the day. Honestly, if it weren’t for Kylie, I wouldn’t care if I ever saw him again.

Rodrick Al-Bashir:“For if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you. But if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.” Matthew 6:14-15

August 18 th, 6:44 a.m.

Moonlight still bullied the dark sky as I walked out of my house the next morning. As I neared my G6 in my driveway, getting my ignition key ready, I saw a white four-door BMW parked on my side of the street.

What the fuck?!

It was dark out, but the man in the Beamer looked like Ladykiller. So when the car cut on its headlights and pulled forward, I got in my car and sped to catch up, barreling down E. 67 thStreet and across James A. Reed Road. I was going to pull alongside the car at the stop sign at the end of the street to be sure it wasn’t him, but as we neared the corner, the BMW zoomed through the sign without slowing down.

I stopped and watched the white car propel off into the distance, the tail lights growing ever smaller. My heart rate began to slow down.

Maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe I’m seeing things.

As soon as twelve o’ clock hit, I went to the break room and pulled me out a seat. For lunch, I packed myself a grilled chicken sandwich with ranch dressing leftover from last night. I sipped some of my low-sodium tomato juice—it’s supposed to protect from numerous cancers—and flicked the lock off my phone’s display.

I didn’t know what to update my status with. What was I supposed to post after being captured on video beating my best friend’s ass? I wasn’t going to gloat; that wasn’t classy. I wasn’t going to apologize either; Deja would have to do that first. And even if she did, I didn’t think I would give her one in return.

The video had reached over 400 Likes. What worried me the most was not knowing if my supervisor would see it and try to terminate me. As far as I knew, Ruth didn’t have a Site page, but one never knew these days. If my mother had one, Ruth could have one. To be on the safe side, I tapped the video link and deleted it from my page.