Tdiddy Smalls is Panther till I die baby. Just rolled up to the after-party. Poppin’ that Polo collar. Now ’bout to pop them bottles. LOL.
Willie Mack, Freddie Callaway and 9 others like this.
It’s not Brooklyn, but it’ll do. Music is blasting from somebody’s iPod. More girls than guys. Kids from all over the county show up. Tonight is special, ’cause the whole Panther football team is up in here celebrating. So when three guys from Bayside’s losing football team show up in the front yard, loud and drunk, things get a little out of hand.
“Y’all ain’t Panthers, y’all is cheaters,” the fat guy who tried to slam me in the championship game says.
“Big Moose, these cheaters think they actually can beat us,” a guy I recognize as their quarterback says to the fat dude named Moose. That’s appropriate.
“T-Diddy, am I mistaken, or did we whoop that Bayside ass?” Willie Mack hollers.
“Panthers swooped down and wrecked shop, forty-one to thirty-five,” I boast.
“Everybody knows the officials liked y’all better than us; helped y’all win,” Moose says.
“IfY’allWeren’tSoUglyTheOfficialsMightHaveLikedY’allToo.”
“Who you calling ugly?”
“You, Bayside busta,” I taunt, using some of my Brooklyn slang on them.
“WhatKindaWackNameIsTheBaysideTornadoes?”
“I got your wack right here,” the quarterback says. Two more of their guys start gritting on us even harder.
“We’re Tors, and we can finish what y’all started on the field right now,” Moose says, looking dead at me.
“Y’all ain’t Tors, y’all is toys. ’Cause you got played,” Willie Mack adds. We laugh loud as hell, not because it was that funny, but to show solidarity.
Ten of our teammates come running out of the party. Now what? Apparently, Bayside is not as stupid as they look. They back away, speeding off in their green hoopty, but not before screaming, “Watch your back, Titty.”
“Them boys is wildin’ out. They drove two hours just to talk ish,” Willie Mack says.
I hope so. Them kids from Bayside be acting foul. Somebody got shot outside their school last summer.
“Let’s go get our party on,” I say, and we head back inside.
“Let’sGoGetOnThemFigLeaves,” Fast Freddie says.
“You need to leave that stuff alone. You know the NCAA got drug testing,” I remind him. Clemson wants him baaaad, but his priorities are a little wack.
“Where’s wifey?” Willie Mack asks me as we walk back into the party.
“Upstairs taking a leak. We out when she comes down. It’s going down tonight, fellas!”
“IKnowThat’sRight. KnockItOutTheBoxT.”
“Believe that, and tomorrow, it’s on to the next one.” Fast Freddie and I laugh alone, ’cause sometimes Willie Mack gets all righteous.
“Sometimes that ish is foul, T-Diddy.”
“Willie Mack, you know how T-Diddy do. Love ’em and leave ’em, hit ’em and split ’em. Use ’em then lose ’em, baby!” Now he’s laughing too.
“I don’t blame you, T. Your girl Kym is legit, but—”
“But what, Mack?”
“No offense, T-Diddy, but Claudia Clarke is the bomb dot com,” he says, his mouth mopping the floor, his fingers pointing to the sofa. “She’s wearing them jeans like she painted them on.”
“That’s Claudia Clarke, the one who’s always collecting ish for kids in Africa and whatnot?” I ask, eyeing the baddest chick at the party. She looks like a cross between Beyoncé and, uh, Beyoncé.
“Last week she was collecting shoes for needy kids. Soles4Souls.”
“SheThinkShe’sHarrietTubman.” Fast Freddie is my dude, but sometime he says some real stupid ish.
“Dayum, homegirl doesn’t dress like that in school. I knew she looked good, but not that good.”
“You know she’s in the band,” Willie Mack says.
“HalfTheSchoolInTheBand.”
“For real, what instrument?” I ask.
“A dancer.”
“She’s out there twirling the batons and whatnot?” I ask.
“She’sADancerAndAGoody-Two-Shoes.”
“I ain’t know she was packin’ all that. She got butt for weeks,” I add, still checking her out.
“MondayTuesdayWednesdayBadunkadunk.”
“I’d hit that in a heartbeat,” Belafonte says, popping up out of nowhere like he always does, drinking something pink and questionable.
“Me too,” I tell him.
“Too fly for you, playa,” Willie Mack says.
“What’s that, Mack?”
“You married to Kym, pardner,” Belafonte says. “Plus, she’s been checking me out at band practice. That’s all me over there.”
“SheDon’tDateHighSchoolGuys.”
“C’mon, son. She ain’t never met T-Diddy, aka Ladykilla, aka Honeydipper, aka Pantydropper.”
“TDiddyBeDroppingPantiesLikeIt’sHot!”
“Trust me, cuz, it’ll never happen. She’s Oprah. You’re Flavor Flav,” Willie Mack says, dapping Fast Freddie and sending Belafonte to the floor, bowled over with laughter.
“Good luck with that, T. She only dates college dudes with GPAs of four-oh or higher,” Belafonte says, then leaves as fast as he came.
“MaybeHalfOfMeCanDateHerThen,” Fast Freddie adds, laughing.
“Willie Mack, I know you ain’t doubting T-Diddy’s playa skills.”
“I’m just saying, they may work on some of these other nasty girls, but not her.”
“BongBong,” Fast Freddie says. “Don’tForgetTheT-DiddyThree-StepGuaranteedLadykillerPlanOnHowToBagAGirl.”
“Straight out of the playa’s playbook,” I throw in, sending me and Fast Freddie into a fit of laughter.
“Yeah, well, I bet you fifty dollars you can’t get her number,” Willie Mack chides.
“A phone number? Hah! Make it a buck fifty, and I’ll bring you her panties.”
“OhSnapT-DiddyGoesInForTheKnockout. WhatchuGonnaDoMack?”
“Bet!”
Watch this,” I tell them. “If you see Kym come down, give me a warning.” I spit out my sunflower seeds, pop in a peppermint Altoid, and jet over to Beyoncé, who right about now, got me almost speechless.
“Lips like yours ought to be worshipped/I ain’t never been too religious/But you can baptize me anytime,” I say to Claudia, and kiss the back of her hand. Some girl I smashed last month hears me, rolls her eyes, and walks away.
“You trying to flirt with my girl, T-Diddy?” Blu, who lives around my way, screams from her seat across from us.
“Naw, Blu, I was just telling her she’s rockin’ those black jeans,” I say, still smiling like a kid on Christmas morning. During the awkward silence, I see Fast Freddie and Mack looking in our direction, trying to see if I still got my playa moves. The moment also gives me the chance to survey her curves, imagine my fingers dancing inside her waist-length hair. “Don’t hurt your eyes,” Blu screams, while Claudia’s still using silence as her shield.
“Can I at least get a smile? You know the poem was dope.” She’s giving me no play. “You probably already know, but I’m T-Diddy.”
“T-Diddy, huh?”
“Yeah, can’t stop, won’t stop.”
“Do you always speak in clichés?”
“Only when I’m spellbound. You want a drink?”
“I don’t drink.”
“Yeah, me either.”
“So why’d you ask?”
“You got T-Diddy flustered.”
“And T-Diddy has me bored.”
“Oh, it’s like that, Claudia Clarke. Even after I wrote that haiku for you.”
“First of all, it wasn’t a haiku. And second, you didn’t write the poem.”
Busted! Step one of the T-Diddy Three-Step Guaranteed Ladykilla Plan: unsuccessful. “A’ight, a’ight, you got me. I got it from a poetry book. I was just trying to impress—”
“That’s sad, Omar.”
“So you do know T-Diddy?”
“Again with the annoying third person.”
“I’m just saying.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No, I’m not what?”
“No, you’re not saying anything. Nothing. I’m sure you’re a nice guy. And I appreciate you taking the time to come over and introduce yourself, but we’re about to leave.”
“Why so early? We’re just about to do T-Diddy’s Panther Shuffle.”
“Sorry, never heard of it.”
“It’s easy. Like the cupid shuffle, but T-Diddy puts more bounce in it. Feel me?”
“You steal poems and dances, huh?”
“Don’t hate, participate.”
“Thanks for the cliché. Gotta run. We have articles to write,” she says, and turns to her friend Blu McCants. “Time’s up, Blu. Let’s go.”
“Oh, so you write for the Panther Pride. That’s what’s up. Make sure you do a piece on the team. We can even talk later tonight. I can give you an exclusive interview,” I say, smooth as butter.
“Look, I don’t want to be rude, but I’m not interested in boys, especially ones with girlfriends. So keep it moving, Mr. Football.”
“Me and Kym are just good friends,” I say to her, intent on getting a phone number and texting her tonight.
“Oh, I see. Well, good thing, because Kym, your, uh, good friend, is headed over here right now.”
I spin my head around so fast I almost get whiplash.
“What’s going on over here?” Eve, standing next to Kym, asks, smacking her lips.
“Nothing—we were just talking about an article she might do on me,” I jump up and answer.
“And I was just leaving,” Claudia adds.
“Oh, ’cause I hope you weren’t trying to push up on my dude,” Kym says, waving her hands a few inches from Claudia’s face.
“Eve, check your girl. Don’t nobody want her ‘dude.’ Let’s go, Claudia.”
“Nobody asked you, Blu. Stay out of this business,” Eve counters.
“Trick, Claudia is my business.”
“I bet she is,” Kym says sarcastically. “Don’t let us hold you up. I’m sure you got a big night planned.” She and Eve laugh, and I know I better do something before this ish goes sideways.
“Kym, this is all a misunderstanding. Claudia, T-Diddy appreciates the love. Can’t wait to see the article. We out.” I grab Kym by the waist and we head outside. I grit on Willie Mack and Fast Freddie as I pass by. Them jokers think this is funny, I bet.
“Omar, what were you and Claudia Clarke talking about in there?” Kym asks as I take her hand in mine and head toward Uncle Albert’s pimped-out van, wondering if she overheard me and Beyoncé talking.
“Uh, nothing, she’s a—”
“A dancer, I know. And I’m your good friend now, huh?” She snatches the hand with my forty-eight-dollar silver bangles away.
“Cat got your tongue? Speak up, Omar,” she says, then leaves with Eve, aka Evil.
Deuces! You’ll get over it.
Back at the party, Tami comes up to me.
“T-Diddyth, myth parenths ainth hometh—”
“I’m good, Tami. I’ll holla,” I interrupt. Been there and done that when we kicked it last year. These beezies is treacherous. I make my way over to Mack and Fast Freddie.
“Where’s Kym?” Mack says, trying not to laugh, and drinking some of the suspicious pink concoction. “So how’d it go?” he asks.
“That was foul. Why didn’t y’all warn me?” I ask.
“BetterStepUpYourGame,Playa.”
“C’mon, son, my plan is guaranteed. You know how T-Diddy gets down.”
“Stick to football, ’cause you struck out, homie,” Mack says, now full-blown laughing. “Pay up, cuz.”
“It ain’t over yet. Trust me on that. I’m not finished with Miss Claudia Clarke. I still got two more steps.”
“The bet ain’t forever, cuz. You got one month.”
“A month? C’mon, son. T-Diddy doesn’t need a month.”
“Way out of your league, son,” Willie Mack adds, laughing.
“TakeTheMonthWoadie. IHeardSheDon’tLikeFootballPlayersEither.”
“It’s not about what she likes. It’s what she needs. And that kitty needs a Panther. Believe that!”