For the past seven years, ever since Miss Jones had sold 632, one of Ezekiel’s own sanctified had stood posted under the awning with the heaven-sent task of dissuading girls like me from going inside—usually a woman with rolled-down stockings holding onto a toddler nagging to be taken home. One stood the day Nakesha and I arrived. A Big Mama who snatched the arm of each and every woman who made her way inside. Most of the girls yanked their arms back and didn’t care how hard they pulled, even if Big Mama stumbled while her helpless grandchild watched. I knew I didn’t have the heart for that. I would talk to the lady, at least say, “Sorry, I ain’t interested, have a good day.” Nakesha and I stood at the corner just long enough to be sure we were ready to make our fucking official.

“We might as well,” Nakesha said, balking at my reluctance. “I’m getting that shot. I don’t care if my hair fall out. I like wearing my braids all the time anyway.”

Leroy was locked up. Nobody my age wanted me. Unlike Nakesha, I didn’t have a line of homeboys and “play” brothers dying to get a piece of me. One night, I had had a dream about the elevator boy, and when I woke up I was so tense in my panties I couldn’t stop thinking about him all day. And he wasn’t even cute, so I knew I must be desperate if I was sweating somebody who wasn’t sweating me and wasn’t worth the sweat in the first place. Something told me birth control wasn’t what I needed. And neither did she.

“Let’s just go in there and get some rubbers,” I told her.

Nakesha’s eyes shot open. She started to walk away from me.

“Girl, you know those things don’t always work and these niggas don’t be trying to wear ’em. You do what you wanna do. I’m handling my business.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t want to go …”

“Well, we gotta do something …”

Do something. Do something.