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hood , a childhood was cut short. At only fifteen , Jazz had to provide not only for herself but for her mother as well – and t he load was getting much too heavy for her to carry alone ; s he was about to break. A blind man could see that. The hard question s I asked myself on the drive home w ere: 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?
     
     

Chapter 7
     

    I walked into my apartment and damn near didn’t recognize the place. Gina had scented candles burning, slow jam s playing on the stereo, the TV off , and li ’ l man was nowhere to be found. She ’ d cleaned every square inch of the place from top to bottom , and I could still smell the scents of bleach and Lysol lingering in the air - along with something else : m y stomach turned flips when it got a whiff of fried c hicken, baked macaroni and cheese, greens, candied yams, corn bread , and peach cobbler for dessert. Fuck everything else ; i t was time to grub.
     
    I ate three big - ass plates before I finally had to stop myself ; t he shit was that good. I was starting to feel like a fat nigga. Gina could clown in the kitchen like nobody else. I f she applied herself , t hat girl could have been a chef at one of those high-priced restaurant s in the good part of town, but that was a big “ if. ” She liked kickin’ it too much to go to anybody’s school. I had tried to talk to her about it before, but she wasn’t trying to hear me. Later on , though, when I wanted to fuck - she heard a nigga loud and clear. I realized then that I couldn’t make her want better for herself. She was just fine with her life the way that it was, fucked all the way up.
     
    After a meal like that , all ’ d never really had a girlfriend before , I really didn’t know how to handle the situation. Should I give her her space? Or was I supposed to comfort her? Talking on the phone really wasn’t my thing. If I had something to say , I liked to say it in person.
     
    Knock! Knock! Knock!
     
    “Boss . ” Gina stuck her head inside my bedroom door. “You wanna smoke this blunt with me?”
     
    “That even a question?” I joked , then waved her in. “Where you get some green?”
     
    “From Kel , ” s he revealed, once again using her sweet little cartoon voice - which wasn’t fooling anybody.
     
    “You fuckin’ Kel now?”
     
    She didn’t answer me , but her silence spoke volumes. All I could do was shake my head. Here she was living with me - a nigga with more green than anybody else on 21 st S treet - and she was fucking a nigga like Kel for sacs. She didn’t know how to do shit , and unfortunately she couldn’t be taught. That was the difference between a chick like Gina and a chick like Jasmine : Gina was who she was , and that was all she was ever going to be ; o n the other hand , Jazz was who she was to - but she wanted more. I could work with a chick like that.
     
    Gina came over and sat down next to me on my bed. I watched her split the blunt, dump the insides out in the trash can , then replace them with the weed she ’d gave up her body for. A part of me felt like I shouldn’t even smoke it with her ; I felt guilty , like I was the nigga taking pussy for weed. That wasn’t my type of hustle. I never paid for water , and I never paid for pussy. It had a lot to do with my mother being a prostitute, but it also had a lot to do with how pitiful the shit was. Niggas who bargained for pussy were weak. I might have still been a teenager living in an apartment that was paid for with drug money, but I wasn’t weak. Life never even offered me that option.
     
    “Damn this some good shit , ” Gina announced, having only hit the blunt twice and already half - blowed. “I felt so good , and so ... so ... so ... you want a beer?” She lost her train of thought.
     
    “Yeah, Gina.” I cracked the fuck up laughing. “You always do that shit when we