Before she can reply, her mom calls out to her. She tells Naija to join her and her new boyfriend, Kingston, in the living room to watch a movie.

I first met Kingston about two months ago. Naija and I came back from a block party earlier than we’d planned. We found Ms. Harris and Kingston coming out of her bedroom, wearing robes and looking seriously faded. The smell of weed clung to the air and infected every damn thing in the apartment. Ms. Harris saw us and quickly closed her robe.

“Girls, come meet my new friend, Kingston,” she said with a grin. She signaled for him to say hello to us. Kingston is short, heavy, and has skin the color of walnuts. “How you young ladies do’n?” he said. Naija and I exchanged a knowing glance. This scenario wasn’t new. Ms. Harris had “friends” come over every few weeks.

Naija’s mom uses the same thought process to select boyfriends I use when buying gadgets at the swap meet: I know that whatever I pick up will be defective in one way or the other. I buy it because I’m hoping its flaws are bearable.

Naija turns toward the camera and rolls her eyes.

“Wait, what’s up with this Kingston guy?” I ask. “Do we like him?”

She tilts her head to the side, raises her perfectly arched eyebrows, and sighs deeply. I guess that’s a no.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Doesn’t matter, Ayo. I haven’t seen her this happy since she stumbled on a Fenty gloss stick at the dollar store.”

There’s a knock on my door. My heart starts racing. I whisper into my phone, “It’s my mom.”

“You think she’s changed her mind?”

“I don’t know. Hit you back later.”

Naija signs off and the screen goes black.

“Come in,” I say.

Mom opens the door but remains in the doorway, making no attempt to enter. Her expression is troubled, her eyes crestfallen. There’s only one other way I can use to describe the look on her face: heartbroken.

“Ms. Hightower’s social security check is late again. I put some stuff aside for her in the kitchen; I need you to bring it to her.”

“Okay,” I mumble. She starts to close the door. I try to gauge just how pissed she is at me. “Am I still invited to the cookout?” I ask, biting my lower lip nervously.

Her jaw is tight and her body is rigid with disapproval. “Right now, Candace Owens and Stacey Dash would have a better chance of getting in.”

Damn.

“Okay . . . that’s pretty bad,” I mumble to myself.

“It’s more than bad. You’re verging on Kanye West territory. It’s hard to come back from that.”

“You think I’m a sellout?” I ask, in disbelief.