Nasty Girls by Erick S. Gray Page B

children growing up in the projects and going through the same shit he went through when he was young. Roscoe’s moms passed away a few years ago, and he never knew his pops. He grew up with his older sister. He told me that his moms, she wasn’t the best mother, but she tried. She was an alcoholic who lost every job she had and stayed on welfare for as long as he could remember.
    Roscoe wanted to give his children a good home, far from South Jamaica and the bullshit that comes along with it. He wanted to get a house and send his kids to the best schools out in Long Island, with a great education. Roscoe was a hustler and a thug, but the man had respect and morals for himself. He loved children. I remember on some weekends when he would pick up his sister’s kids—she got three, two boys and a girl—and like a family, we’d go to the park, movies, Chuck E. Cheese, or just chill in the apartment and watch a Disney movie.
    He told me once that he wanted twins, a boy and girl, so we could experience raising a daughter and a son at the same time. I like that. It made me feel special. Roscoe had so many dreams besides hustling that I knew that one day they were going to come true.
    But tonight it seemed like everything collapsed. My dreams along with Roscoe seemed to be fading as I thought about him and not being able to touch and talk to him. I wanted to feel and make love to him. I was missing him so much that I threw on one of his Knicks jerseys and walked around the apartment in it all day.
    He promised to move me outta the projects. He promised to take care of me. Tears trickled down my cheeks as I peered at a picture of us hugged up together and smiling. It was taken at Coney Island a few months back. And we looked so happy.
    I remembered that night: Roscoe had on a black tank top that hugged his body so nicely and some denim shorts and white Nikes and, of course, being blinged out. He was so cute. I had on the white tennis skirt, with a short white T, sporting blue and white Nikes, and feeling so good.
    Earlier, Roscoe took me out to dinner at City Island; afterwards, we took in the city and then headed for Coney Island. And after the park, he got us a stylish suite in the Sheraton.
    â€œBaby, come back to me,” I quietly whispered, staring at his image. “I’m missing you.” I raised the picture to my lips and kissed it softly.
    â€œDiary” by Alicia Keys played softly in the background. I looked at the time, and saw that it was 9:25. I plopped my head down against the pillows and peered up at the ceiling. I got lost in thought, listening to Alicia’s lyrics.
    A few minutes later, I heard the doorbell ring out. I sighed, not feeling for any company tonight, and got my ass up to go see who it was. But I figured who by the time I got to the door.
    I glanced through the peephole and saw Camille and Jade standing outside my door. I sighed. But you know, they my girls, so I had to let them in.
    I opened the door, and they both barged in like they own the place. I closed the door behind them and tried to look more upbeat.
    â€œHow you feelin’, Shy?” Camille asked.
    â€œI’m good,” I replied, trying not to let my voice sound sad.
    â€œYou hear any word from Roscoe yet?” Jade asked.
    â€œNo. It’s been a week and he ain’t call a sista yet.”
    â€œGive it time, girl. You know it ain’t like he can pick up a phone just like that and call you. Remember, he locked down. He gonna call,” Camille assured me.
    â€œI hope it’s soon. I wanna hear what he gotta say, and make sure he’s a’ight,” I said, taking a seat.
    â€œWell, James ran down some information on me the other night,” Jade informed.
    â€œAbout what?” I asked.
    â€œHe told me that it was his friend Row that got stabbed that night. He said Kay had beef wit’ some dudes while we were in the bathroom, Shy . . . and that it went