The Coldest Winter Ever Read Online Free PDF Page B

for me. I had made an impression on him. I had sweated him and now he was sweating me.
    The air in the car was crisp and clean-smelling. The stereo was so fly it sounded like the band was playing the music live in the backseat. He wasn’t saying nothing but that was alright, I was used to his strangesilence. It didn’t make me mad. It made me want him more. I knew our lovemaking would be good just based on his mysteriousness. I opened my Coach bag and pulled out my little mirror. He wasn’t paying me no mind. I tilted the mirror to the side angle so I could look at his face without him realizing that I was looking. He was black alright, beautiful. His long thin nose and big thick lips mounted his white teeth—white like those T-shirts he wore in the summertime.
    Suddenly, it seemed, the music was abruptly interrupted by the loud and aggravating voice of Sister Souljah on the radio. I leaned up and reached for the button to change the station, when Midnight intercepted my hand, saying, “Don’t touch my shit.” I sucked my teeth, rolled my eyes, and sat stiff while Souljah went on to talk about some black struggle.
Humph,
I thought,
if there is some kind of struggle going on, she must be the only one in it. Everybody I know is chilling, just tryna enjoy life.
She, on the other hand, with these Friday and Saturday night comments, busting up the radio hip-hop flavor mix, is the only one who is always uptight. I had every reason to take it personal. She started talking about how young black drug dealers are the strong black men in the community, but need to change their line of business because it’s destroying the community. As far as I am concerned Souljah is just somebody who likes to hear herself talk. She obviously didn’t know the time because the drug dealers don’t destroy nothing. If there weren’t people on line to buy the product, then there would be no business. No drug dealer I know ever forced anybody, not one person, to take drugs. People do it voluntarily. They do it by choice. The niggas I know who sell drugs be tryna help the stupid crackheads. They be telling them to slow down and asking them are they sure they want to sell their last whatever just to get that hit. I even know a dealer who told this pregnant girl he wouldn’t sell her no more crack until after she had the baby. She just took her dumb ass to somebody else and got the crack anyway. Then, when she had the baby boy, she tried to sell him, too. Now whose fault is that? People do what they want to. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe Souljah just wants people to do what she wants them to do.
    “Why you even listening to this bullshit?” I asked Midnight.
    “What the hell do you know?” he snapped back in his low and cool voice. This is when I noticed we were on the Long Island Expressway.
    “Where are you taking me?”
    “Home, little girl,” he responded. “Your father paged me and asked me to bring you home.”
    “I thought you was your own man.”
    “For a hundred-fifty dollars, I’ll run an errand. It’s business. I pick you up, drop you off, collect my dough, and I’m out.”
    The one-hundred-fifty-dollar transaction was as smooth and nonincidental as a messenger service dropping off a package. After handing Midnight the money and closing the door, my father walked silently through the living room and into his den. The room was dark. He sat down, leaned back in his chair. The moonlight through the blinds lit up half of his serious face.
    “Winter,” he said softly.
    “Yes Daddy” I said.
    “What made you think you could spend the night in Brooklyn?”
    “I asked Mommy. I wanted to see my friends. Natalie and me were supposed to …”
    “I guess you’re not understanding.”
    “Not understanding what?” I asked, checking my tone to ensure that I was not sounding disrespectful, something Santiaga doesn’t tolerate.
    “Who you are. Who I am. Who we are.” He said each word with precision. He was starting to sound