You're the One I Want (13 page)

“Ma'am, please, you need to calm down,” Refrigerator Cop warned.

“Kashawn, I love you. I love you, baby.”

B
ree and I waited with bated breath in the lobby of the hospital for news on whether Kashawn was going to pull through. I called Ma and told her that something happened to Kashawn and that we were at Tallahassee Memorial Hospital. She started screaming on the phone. I told her that Kashawn was fine, that she needed to get to the hospital as quickly as she could. I left out details about him being drugged until she arrived. They held Katiesha at the police station for questioning, but the Cuban-looking cop who cuffed me told me that the bitch refused to talk. Bree hadn't been able to stop crying sense the paramedics brought Kashawn in.

“How did this happen?” Bree asked.

I thought of Tangela, how her stink was all over this. I was kicking myself in the ass for going along with her plan, trusting that it would work. Now my brother was in the damn emergency room, fighting for his life. And, of course, that bitch was nowhere to be found. Bree and I jumped up when we saw Jayson Wilkinson, a friend of Kashawn's since their days in medical school, enter the lobby. He was a year older than Kashawn with short brown hair and blue eyes.

“Jayson, how is he?” Bree asked.

“We took some blood and found high doses of gamma hydroxybutyrate in his system.”

“What is that?”

“The street term for it is GHB.”

“Oh, my God,” Bree said.

“Jay, is he going to get through this or what?” I asked.

“It was touch and go at first, but he's going to be fine. He just needs bed rest.”

“When can he go home?” Bree asked.

“We will monitor him overnight, but he should be able to go home tomorrow.”

“Thank God,” Bree said, pressing her hand to her chest in relief. “Thank you, Jayson. Thank you so much,” she said as she hugged him.”

Moments after getting the good news that Kashawn was going to make it, Ma and Uncle Ray-Ray arrived with nosey-behind Yvonne tagging along. They came in frantic, searching my face for an explanation.

“What happened? Where's Kashawn?”

“Hello, Mrs. Parker,” Jayson said, greeting Mama Liz.

“Jayson, how are you? How's my boy?”

“As I was telling your son and daughter-in-law, we found a potentially lethal dose of GHB in his system, but he should be fine.”

“GH what?” Mama asked.

“It's a lethal narcotic. I'm assuming that the drug was slipped in his food or drink somehow.”

Ma looked as if she couldn't quite wrap her head around what was being explained to her.

“But the good news is that he's going to be okay.”

“Thank the Lord.”

“Well, if you all don't have any more questions, I have some patients I need to check on.”

“Thank you again, Jayson,” Bree said.

“Who would do this? Who would want to harm my boy?” Ma turned her attention toward Bree, giving her a devilish look that if it could kill, would have cut Bree in half. “You did this, didn't you? You tried to kill my boy.”

“What?”

“Ma, don't.”

“I warned Kashawn about you. I told him that nothing good is going to come out of being married to a girl like you. Bitches like you ain't nothin' but trouble, comin' from that kind of lifestyle.”

“Ma, stop. Bree didn't have anything to do with what happened to Kashawn.”

“And for your information, I came home and found him in bed with someone else. So before you go blaming me, why don't you go and ask him what he was doing in our bed with another woman.”

“He wouldn't stray if you would sit yourself down somewhere and be the wife you're supposed to be.”

I wished I could say that I was surprised what came out of Ma's mouth, but I wasn't. I mean, shit, she had said worse than that. Bree was already pissed from the mess she found Kashawn in, and for Ma to get up in her face and blame her for Kashawn nearly overdosing on GHB, was the epitome of fucked up. I looked at Bree and could tell that she was two seconds from wrapping her hands around Ma's throat.

“Lord, give me strength,” Ma hollered.

As I consoled her, Cuban Cop appeared.

“Mrs. Parker, I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.” He plucked a small pad with a black cover from his left breast pocket.

“What is it this time?” Bree said, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

“It's about what happened at your home this evening.”

“I already told y'all what happened. I came home and found my husband in bed with that waste of skin. What more do you need to know?”

“Who is she talkin' about, Deanthony?” Ma asked.

“Bree, come on,” I said.

“I got a call, well, Deanthony got a call, telling me that I should get home because something was wrong with Kashawn.”

“Sir, do you know who it was that called you?”

Bree and Ma looked at me, searching my face for an answer to Cuban Cop's question. I thought of Tangela and the video she had of me, but then I thought of Kashawn and how he almost died because of her fucked-up plan that had gone astray.

“The call came from Tangela.”

“Tangela?” Bree said.

“She was the one who called and told me that something was wrong with Kashawn.”

“What's her last name?” the cop asked.

“Meeks. Tangela Meeks,” Bree said, “but she didn't have anything to do with this. She was just giving me the heads-up. Katiesha is who you need to be talking to. What did that hood rat tell y'all anyway?”

A nurse walked past, urging Bree to keep her voice down.

“Ms. Brooks isn't talking. She's asked to see her lawyer.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“So how do you know Ms. Brooks?”

“We worked together at Risqué.”

“The club over off Highway 20,” the cop said.

“That's the one.”

Ma rested her head in her hand, embarrassed.

“So what happens now?” Bree asked.

“Nothing.”

“What, you're kidding, right?”

“There's nothing to hold her on. We don't have any evidence proving that she drugged Dr. Parker. She's not talking and, luckily for you, she's not going to file assault charges. We don't have a choice but to release her.”

“She almost killed my husband and y'all are lettin' that bitch go?”

“I'm sorry.”

“I don't believe this. Y'all know Katiesha did this. You need to put that low-budget hood rat under the jail. Throw the book at her. I wish
I
had a book to throw at her. A big-ass dictionary, a case of encyclopedias.”

“Next time, Mrs. Parker, if you want to blow off some steam, try martial art classes. It works wonders, trust me.”

Bree looked at Cuban Cop with disbelief as he walked off. “I bet had my husband been white, that crazy bitch would have been tried and given life without parole.”

“Bree, we need to talk,” I said.

“About what?”

“Let's talk in private.”

“What the hell is going on?” Ma asked.

“Y'all go see how Kashawn is doing. I need to talk to Bree about some things.”

“Where are you going?”

Bree and I made our way to one of the patios outside of the hospital. My heart was beating crazy in my chest, knowing that I was about to come clean about everything. Bree tucked her hair behind her ears, anticipating what I had to say, but just when I was about to tell her what was up, I noticed Tangela making her way toward us. It was like her ass appeared out of nowhere. She looked at me with a sinister smile across her mug. It took everything in me to keep from lunging at her, but I kept my cool around Bree.

“Bree, hey, Mama Liz just told me what happened.” Tangela and Bree came together in a hug.

“Hey, girl, I'm glad you came.”

She was wearing a black blouse, a leopard-print skirt, and black platform shoes. Thick braids draped over her back. Funny how she showed up in the nick of time. “I got a call from Mama Liz telling me that Kashawn was in the hospital. I rushed right over when I heard.”

Tangela pretended to play the compassionate best friend trying to come off like she gave a fuck. I wanted to throw up.

“Is he all right?”

“He was drugged,” I said.

“What?”

“I came home and found him in bed with this bitch I used to work at Risqué with,” Bree said. “She drugged Kashawn. The doctor said they found GHB in his system.”

“Oh, my God!”

Fake-ass bitch.

“Did this girl say anything to the cops?” Tangela asked, glancing at me with a nasty glare.

“The cops said she refused to say anything. I tried to kill her ass when I saw her in bed with my man. Can you believe they let that bitch go? They said they didn't have anything to hold her on.”

“Damn, that's fucked up.”

I was getting sick to my stomach, watching Tangela play the sensitive best friend. I needed to get out of there. Tangela's presence had released a stink in the air.

“Deanthony, how are you holding up?” Tangela asked. This bitch had balls.

Well, being that that bitch you sent almost killed my brother, all I want to do is stomp you into the ground.
“I'm good now that I know that my brother is going to be okay.”

“Jayson said he can go home tomorrow.”

“Thank God.”

“I'm going to go see how Mama's doing,” I said.

“Deanthony, if you need anything, don't hesitate to call me. Baby girl, you know that goes double for you. We got to keep it together for Kashawn. He's going to need the support of his family and friends to get him through this.”

I walked off, knowing that if I stuck around, them pigs would be pulling me off Tangela. “I will see you upstairs, Bree.”

“Deanthony, hold up.” Bree turned and walked toward me and threw her arms around my neck. “What did you want to tell me?”

“You're family, B. That's what families do,” I said, glancing over her shoulder at Tangela.

Tangela stood there with her arms crossed, baring her scarlet-red fingernails like she wanted to bury them in my back much like she had done to Bree. “It can wait.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. We'll talk later.”

My brother ending up in the hospital was not a part of the plan. I loved Bree, but this shit went too far. Tape or no tape, my brother's life wasn't worth Tangela's bullshit.

W
hen those pigs released me and gave me back my purse, I made damn sure there wasn't a penny missing. Cops around here could be some dirty bastards. Protect and serve, my ass. I'd called Tangela six times and the only thing I done got was her voicemail. I knew that bitch was going to pull that shit, but she's tangling with the wrong bitch. I didn't play that. She's as dumb as her ass looks if she thought she was going to cut loose without paying me the money she owed. I had done my part, now she had better live up to her end.

All my life motherfuckers had been trying to get over on me. Sweet-talk a bitch until they get what they want, but when I called in a favor, I couldn't find their sorry asses. Got enough of that shit in Ohio, which is why I moved to Florida. Between my mama and the shit storm my cousin, Brittnee, threw me up in, I had to bounce.

“Don't think you're going to sit your fat ass in my house and not work,” was the last thing I remember my mama saying to me. “If you don't wanna go to school, then you're going to work. I didn't raise no lazy-ass child. You're going to learn that it ain't easy out here without an education. Welcome to the real world, girl.” She went on and on and never asked me why I dropped out of that hell hole to start with.

I didn't tell nobody. Who would believe that the school slut got raped by the political science teacher? That's what Mr. Rick said when I threatened to go to po-po and tell 'em what he did to me.
In his class, in an after-school tutoring session, he started messing with me, feeling up my leg, touching my booty and shit. When I tried to get up to leave, he pinned me on his desk, held my arms down, ripped off my panties, took his dick out, and fucked me.

I wanted to tell Mama what was going on, but like everybody else, I knew she wouldn't believe me. Not somebody who thinks that all I do is lie all the time. Had I told anybody at school, that shit would have spread like a grease fire. Everybody would have known by lunch, probably every high school in the county. I was a good student before Mr. Rick did what he did. I made As and Bs, and the honor roll a couple times. I thought about going to fashion school in New York. I used to make my own stuff and everybody at school would ask me where I got my clothes. They didn't believe me when I told them I made most of my stuff. I always have my nose in a magazine. I live for
Vogue
and
Cosmo.
Every month, I go to Target and buy the new issues to check out that season's collections by some of my favorite fashion designers like Donna Karan and Karl Lagerfeld.

I sat in the dressing room at Risqué sometimes and stared at the gowns for hours until it was time for me to go on stage. I loved reading about famous fashion designers traveling to places like New York, Paris, and Milan for fashion shows.

“That's going to be me someday,” I used to tell Mama.

She would sit there and take a drag off of one of her cancer sticks, and moan, “Uh-huh.”

“I am. Watch and see.”

I didn't give a damn what she thought. I was hell-bent on making sure that I didn't end up like her: living in the projects—on welfare. Unlike her, I had plans that didn't include sitting around next to the mailbox, waiting for a damn welfare check every month. I swore that I would never end up like her.