Free The Meltdown by L. Divine

best Whitney Houston impression. “I don’t shoot up, Rah.”
    “Okay, then what is it, because you’re acting very strange.”
    I’m with my boy. Sandy’s tripping hard, even for her.
    “I slipped a little E at this party last night, that’s all. It was some good shit, too, because I’m still feeling it,” she says, eyeing the box of cereal on top of the refrigerator like it’s gold. She reaches above Rah’s head and snatches the box down, tearing into the crispy treats. I can’t believe what I just heard.
    “Damn, Sandy, are you serious?” Rah asks, snatching the box away from her. He looks just as crazy as she does with his hair half braided. I need to finish my work and get out of here. As usual, his baby mama can clear a room. “What if Rahima were here? Do you really want our two-year-old daughter seeing you like this?”
    “She don’t know nothing,” Sandy says, reclaiming the box.
    This is too much.
    “Rah, I’ve got to get going,” I say, wanting to leave the kitchen and return to the studio to get my tools and purse. Birthday dinner or not, I have too much work to do to get caught up with their madness. And I damned sure don’t want to accidentally jump into Sandy’s mind again. Her thoughts are more confusing than Esmeralda’s, and that is almost too much to bear. And because she’s under the influence of some man-made poison, I know her mind will be extra clouded this afternoon.
    “What about my braids?” he asks, looking sad.
    Before I can respond, Sandy leaves the kitchen, heading for the living room.
    “You can come over and get them finished when you handle your situation,” I say.
    Rah gives me his signature puppy-dog eyes, pleading with me to stay, but they have little effect on me when there’s a dangerous bitch in our midst.
    “Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” Rah asks his estranged baby mama, following her.
    “I can’t move,” Sandy says, laid out on the couch. Whatever dignity she was born with has long since left the building. Her black pleather, thigh-high boots are holding on by a string. The three-inch heels are worn to the nail, and she’s darkened the faded spots with a Sharpie one too many times. Rah covers her with a blanket—not because he wants her to be comfortable, now completely passed out in his house, but because she neglected to wear a skirt long enough to cover her bare ass when she’s lying down.
    “I’m sorry, Jayd,” Rah says, looking at the ugly scene in disbelief.
    “Happy birthday, Rah. Holla when you’re ready to finish.” I go claim my bag and purse from the studio, walk through the kitchen, and out the front door. Mickey and Nigel can take over from here. I’m so glad I’m not Rah’s girlfriend anymore. I can’t even imagine feeling like I had to stick around with all of that drama going on in his life. I feel for my boy, but him cheating on me with Sandy, my former best friend, and subsequently lying to me about having a baby was a good thing in retrospect. I’m not his girlfriend anymore, which means I can leave when it gets too hot for me.

4
Birds of a Feather
    There is a house in New Orleans called the rising sun /
It’s been the ruin of many men and Lord knows I’m one.
    —G REGORY I SAACS
    I t’s been a long, long week. Thank God I don’t have any more homework to deal with. Otherwise, I’d really be out of it. Mrs. Sinclair made us rehearse late into the night Wednesday, and after a successful opening night last night, she’s chilled out for our final performance this evening. She even brought doughnuts to class last period, giving us the entire hour to relax—just what I needed to deal with cheer practice this afternoon.
    Because of Wednesday’s blind episode during the play rehearsal, I ended up telling Mama about Mrs. Sinclair requesting I remove my bracelets for the show. Before I could finish my story, Mama knew I’d lost my sight again and that I hadn’t been diligent in saying my protection prayer