Daddy's Little Girl

c h a p t e r 2

(Paris:) 

I sat crisscrossed on my large couch that sat in the middle of my living room, trying to figure out what I was gonna do today. Since I had no job, the majority of my days were the same. Wake up, chill, and then go to sleep. The reasoning is because since my father had been locked up, he'd been supplying me, my brother, and my mother money. I started questioning the way my father would still be getting money while he was in jail, so I wrote him a letter when I was 14. He wrote me back saying I wouldn't understand, and that he would tell me when I was 18. I wrote him plenty of times per week, but never had the guts to go visit him. I couldn’t stand to see my father in handcuffs again. When I reached the age of 18, on my birthday to be exact, he sent me the letter, explaining to me why he was in prison and how we were getting the money. It read that my father is a major kingpin here in NYC, running the Southside of Jamaica. He told me he slanged and banged and had the police looking for him because of his drug affiliation, and they finally got him at my last ballet performance when I was 13. I had a grudge with him, until I finally got the nerve to accept his many apologies a year later. He also told me the reason why money was coming to us was because even though he was in jail, his workers were still working for him and sending his family money, which were us. I was really being paid for just sitting home, so there was no point for a job.

I heard the rapid ringing noise of my phone upstairs, indicating I was getting a phone call. I jogged upstairs and went into my room, catching my phone at the last ring. It was my brother.

“Hello?”

“Hey, sis.” He said in an off tone voice.

“Hey, Pookie.” I answered, calling him by his legendary nickname. “Wassap?”

“What you doing?” He asked, sweetly which raised suspicion.

“Nothing, just sitting around. I made breakfast a couple hours ago, before Maurice left for work and practice.”

“Ooh, you still got some breakfast over there?”

“Pookie, whatchu want?” I asked, with irritation in my voice.

“You betta chill with allat attitude, Paris.” He said, sternly.

“Okay,” I began talking like a child, “Poookie, whatchu waaant?”

“Aight, I want you to come over mama house with me today.”

“Whaaat, Kayden Hendrix wanna go see mommy? You know she been worried bout you?”

“I know, man damn. You gone come?”

“Yeah, I’ma come. Where you been, tho? I ain't seen nor talked to your ass in a couple of weeks. What you been doing?” I asked, concerned about my brother.

“I been stressed the hell out, fo’real. I just got a job as a detective, and that bitch run from 9-5.”

“That's typical, Pookie.” I said, blankly. Even though I hadn’t worked a day in my life, I knew a regular job was from 9-5.

“You needa be looking for a job, Paris, real shit. Cause you know dad ain't gone be supplying us with all this money for the rest of our lives.”

I rolled my eyes, but he was true. The money that we had been getting lately was coming lesser and lesser, “Aight, Pookie.”

“And then Jazmine pregnant.”

“Bout damn time! You been married to her white ghetto ass for 3 years, and now you wanna get it in!” I cheered.

“Don't be talmbout Jazmine, or I'll beat that ass. Matter fact, I'll let Jazmine take care of it.” He said. Funny thing is, he wasn't lying. Kayden would kill my ass in a heartbeat, he don't play. And, even though Jazmine had never laid her hands on me, I knew she could fight, because I seen her whoop a bitch ass before.