Yo ass needed worthy opponents.

Class ended up in five minutes n' all I could be thinkin was, a minute is too long fo' lunch.

Since tha start of tha semester, I had been lookin forward ta tha part of Mista Muthafuckin Gladly’s Ghetto Issues class where we’d start discussin capes.  Now dat it had finally arrived, I couldn’t focus.  I fidgeted, mah pen movin from hand ta hand, tapping, or absently drawin some git into in tha corner of tha page ta join tha other doodles.  My fuckin eyes was restless too, dartin from tha clock above tha door ta Mista Muthafuckin Gladly n' back ta tha clock.  I wasn’t pickin up enough of his fuckin lesson ta follow along.  Twenty minutes ta twelve; five minutes left before class ended.

Dude was animated, clearly buckwild bout what tha fuck da thug was poppin' off about, n' fo' once, tha class was listening.  Dude was tha sort of mackdaddy whoz ass tried ta be playaz wit his hustlas, tha sort whoz ass went by "Mista Muthafuckin G" instead of Mista Muthafuckin Gladly.  Dude was horny bout ta end class a lil earlier than usual n' chat wit tha ghettofab kids, gave fuckin shitloadz of crew work so others could ride wit they playaz up in class, n' had ‘fun’ assignments like mock trials.

Dude struck me as one of tha ‘popular’ lil playas whoz ass had become a mackdaddy n' shit.  Dude probably thought da thug was everyone’s favorite.  I wondered how tha fuck he’d react if dat schmoooove muthafucka heard mah opinion on tha subject.  Would it shatta his self image or would da perved-out muthafucka shrug it off as a anomaly from tha gloomy hoe dat never was rappin up in class?

I glanced over mah shoulder n' shit.  Madison Clements sat two rows ta mah left n' two seats back.  Biatch saw me lookin n' smirked, her eyes narrowing, n' I lowered mah eyes ta mah notebook.  I tried ta ignore tha skanky, sour feelin dat stewed up in mah stomach.  I glanced up all up in tha clock.  Eleven-forty-three.

"Let me wrap up here," Mista Muthafuckin Gladly holla'd, "Sorry, muthafuckas yo, but there is homework fo' tha weekend yo, but it ain't no stoppin cause I be still poppin'.  Think bout capes n' how tha fuck they’ve impacted tha ghetto round you, biatch.  Make a list if you want yo, but it’s not mandatory.  On Mondizzle we’ll break up tha fuck into crewz of four n' peep what tha fuck crew has tha dopest list.  I’ll loot tha ballin crew treats from tha vendin machine."

There was a seriez of cheers, followed by tha classroom devolvin tha fuck into noisy chaos.  Da room was filled wit soundz of bindaz snappin shut, textbooks n' notebooks bein slammed closed, chairs screechin on skanky tile n' tha dull roar of emergin conversation. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  A bunch of tha mo' hood thugz of tha class gathered round Mista Muthafuckin Gladly ta chat.

Me, biatch?  I just put mah books away n' kept on tha fuckin' down-low.  I’d freestyled down almost not a god damn thang up in tha way of notes; there was collectionz of doodlez spreadin across tha page n' numbers up in tha margins where I’d counted down tha minutes ta lunch as if I was keepin track of tha timer on a funky-ass bomb.

Madison was poppin' off wit her playas.  Biatch was ghettofab yo, but not pimpin' up in tha way tha stereotypical ghettofab hoes on TV were, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho.  Biatch was ‘adorable’, instead. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!  Petite.  Biatch played up tha image wit sky blue pins up in her shoulder length brown afro n' a cold-ass lil cutesy attitude. Madison wore a strapless top n' denim skirt, which seemed straight-up moronic ta me given tha fact dat dat shiznit was still early enough up in tha sprang dat we could peep our breath up in tha mornings.

I wasn’t exactly up in a posizzle ta criticize her n' shit.  Thugs was horny bout her n' dat freaky freaky biatch had playas, while tha same was hardly legit fo' mah dirty ass.  Da only feminine feature I had goin fo' me was mah dark curly hair, which I’d grown long.  Da threadz I wore didn’t show skin, n' I didn’t deck mah dirty ass up in bright flavas like a funky-ass bird showin off its plumage.

Guys was horny bout her, I think, cuz dat biiiiatch was appealin without bein intimidating.

If they only knew.

Da bell rang wit a liltin ding-dong, n' I was tha straight-up original gangsta one up tha door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.  I didn’t run yo, but I moved at a thugged-out decent clip as I headed up tha stairwell ta tha third floor n' made mah way ta tha girl’s washroom.

There was a half dozen hoes there already, which meant I had ta wait fo' a stall ta open up.  I nervously peeped tha door of tha bathroom, feelin mah ass drop every last muthafuckin time one of mah thugs entered tha room.

As soon as there was a gangbangin' free stall, I let mah dirty ass up in n' locked tha door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.   I leaned against tha wall n' exhaled slowly.  It wasn’t like a funky-ass bust a funky-ass big-ass fart of relief.  Relief implied you felt mo' betta n' shit.  I wouldn’t feel betta until I gots home.  Fuck dat shit, I just felt less uneasy.

It took maybe five minutes before tha noise of others up in tha washroom stopped. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!  A peek below tha partitions flossed dat there was no muthafucka else up in tha other stalls.  I sat on tha lid of tha toilet n' gots mah brown bag lunch ta begin smokin.

Lunch on tha toilet was routine now, nahmeean, biatch?  Every school day, I would finish off mah brown bag lunch, then I’d do homework or read a funky-ass book until lunch minute was over n' shit.  Da only book up in mah bag dat I hadn’t already read was called ‘Triumvirate’, a funky-ass bibliography of tha leadin three thugz of tha Protectorate.  I was thankin I would spend as long as I could on Mista Muthafuckin Gladly’s assignment before reading, cuz I wasn’t trippin' off tha book.  Biographies weren’t mah thang, n' they was especially not mah thang when I was suspicious dat shiznit was all made up.

Whatever mah plan, I didn’t even gotz a cold-ass lil chizzle ta finish mah pita wrap.  Da door of tha bathroom banged open. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  I froze.  I didn’t wanna rustle tha bag n' clue mah playas tha fuck into what tha fuck I was bustin, so I kept still n' listened.

I couldn’t make up tha voices.  Da noise of tha conversation was obscured by gigglin n' tha sound of wata from tha sinks.  There was a knock on tha door, makin me jump.  I ignored it yo, but tha thug on tha other side just repeated tha knock.

"Occupied," I called out, hesitantly.

"Oh mah god, it’s Taylor!" one of tha hoes on tha outside exclaimed wit glee, then up in response ta suttin' another hoe whispered, I barely heard her add, "Yeah, do dat shiznit son!"

I stood up abruptly, lettin tha brown bag wit tha last grillful of mah lunch fall ta tha tiled floor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.  Rushin fo' tha door, I popped tha lock open n' pushed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!  Da door didn’t budge.

There was noises from tha stalls on either side of me, then a sound above mah dirty ass.  I looked up ta peep what tha fuck it was, only ta git splashed up in tha face.  My fuckin eyes started burning, n' I was momentarily blinded by tha stingin fluid up in mah eyes n' mah blurrin of mah glasses.  I could taste it as it ran down ta mah nozzle n' grill.  Cranberry juice.

They didn’t stop there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho.  I managed ta pull mah glasses off just up in time ta peep Madison n' Sophia leanin over tha top of tha stall, each of dem wit plastic bottlez all up in tha ready.  I bent over wit mah handz shieldin mah head just before they emptied tha contents over mah dirty ass.

It ran down tha back of mah neck, soaked mah clothes, fizzed as it ran all up in mah hair. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.  I pushed against tha door again yo, but tha hoe on tha other side was braced against it wit her body.

If tha hoes pourin juice n' soda on me was Madison n' Sophia, dat meant tha hoe on tha other side of tha door was Emma, leader of tha trio.  Feelin a gangbangin' flare of anger all up in tha realization, I shoved on tha door, tha full weight of mah body slammin against dat shit.  I didn’t accomplish anything, n' mah Nikes lost traction on tha juice-slick floor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.  I fell tha fuck ta mah knees up in tha puddlin juice.

Empty plastic bottlez wit labels fo' grape n' cranberry juice fell tha fuck ta tha ground round mah dirty ass.  A forty of orange soda bounced off mah shoulder ta splash tha fuck into tha puddle before rollin under tha partizzle n' tha fuck into tha next stall.  Da smell of tha fruitizzle dranks n' sodas was sickly dope.

Da door swung open, n' I glared up all up in tha three hoes.  Madison, Sophia n' Emma.  Where Madison was cute, a late bloomer, Sophia n' Emma was tha typez of hoes dat fit tha ‘prom biatch’ image.  Sophia was dark skinned, wit a slender, athletic build she’d pimped as a runner on tha school track crew.  Red-headed Emma, by contrast, had all tha curves tha muthafuckas wanted. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time.  Biatch was phat lookin enough ta git occasionizzle thangs as a amateur model fo' tha catalogs dat tha local department stores n' malls put out.  Da three of dem was bustin up like dat shiznit was tha funniest thang up in tha ghetto yo, but tha soundz of they amusement barely registered wit mah dirty ass.  My fuckin attention was on tha faint roar of blood pumpin up in mah ears n' a urgent, ominous cracklin ‘sound’ dat wouldn’t git any on tha fuckin' down-lowa or less persistent if I covered mah ears wit mah hands.  I could feel dribblez hustlin down mah arms n' back, still chilled from tha refrigerated vendin machines.

I didn’t trust mah dirty ass ta say suttin' dat wouldn’t give dem fodder ta taunt me with, so I kept silent.

Carefully, I climbed ta mah feet n' turned mah back on dem ta git mah backpack off tha top of tha toilet.  Seein it gave me pause.  It had been a khaki green, before yo, but now dark purple blotches covered it, most of tha contentz of a funky-ass forty of grape juice.  Pullin tha straps round mah shoulders, I turned around. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!  Da hoes weren’t there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho.  I heard tha bathroom door bang shut, cuttin off tha soundz of they glee, leavin me ridin' solo up in tha bathroom, drenched.

I approached tha sink n' stared at mah dirty ass up in tha scratched, stained mirror dat was bolted above dat shit.  I had inherited a thin lipped, wide, expressive grill from mah mutha yo, but mah big-ass eyes n' mah gawky figure made me look a shitload mo' like mah dad. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!  My fuckin dark afro was soaked enough dat it clung ta mah scalp, neck n' shoulders.  I was bustin a funky-ass brown hooded sweatshirt over a chronic t-shirt yo, but colored blotchez of purple, red n' orange streaked both.  My fuckin glasses was beaded wit tha multicolored dropletz of juice n' soda.  A drip ran down mah nozzle n' fell tha fuck from tha tip ta land up in tha sink.

Usin a paper towel from tha dispenser, I wiped mah glasses off n' put dem on again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  Da residual streaks juiced it up just as hard ta see, if not worse than it had been.

Deep breaths, Taylor, I holla'd at mah dirty ass.

I pulled tha glasses off ta clean dem again n' again n' again wit a wet towel, n' found tha streaks was still there.

An inarticulate scream of fury n' frustration escaped mah lips, n' I kicked tha plastic bucket dat sat just beneath tha sink, bustin  it n' tha toilet brush inside flyin tha fuck into tha wall.  When dat wasn’t enough, I pulled off mah backpack n' used a two-handed grip ta hurl dat shit.  I wasn’t rockin mah locker no mo': certain dudes had vandalized or fucked up tha fuck into it on four different occasions.  My fuckin bag was heavy, loaded down wit every last muthafuckin thang I’d anticipated needin fo' tha day’s classes.  It crunched audibly on impact wit tha wall.

"What tha fuck!?" I screamed ta no muthafucka up in particular, mah voice echoin up in tha bathroom.  There was tears up in tha cornerz of mah eyes.

"Da hell is I supposed ta do!?"  I wanted ta hit something, break something.  To retaliate against tha unfairnizz of tha ghetto. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!  I almost struck tha mirror yo, but I held back.  Dat shiznit was such a lil' small-ass thang dat it felt like it would make me feel mo' insignificant instead of ventin mah frustration.

I’d been endurin dis from tha straight-up first dizzle of high school, a year n' a half ago.  Da bathroom had been tha closest thang I could find ta refuge.  It had been lonely n' undignified yo, but it had been a place I could retreat to, a place where I was off they radar. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.  Now I didn’t even have that.

I didn’t even know what tha fuck I was supposed ta do fo' mah afternoon classes.  Our midterm project fo' art was due, n' I couldn’t git all up in class like all dis bullshit.  Sophia would be there, n' I could just imagine her smug smile of satisfaction as I flossed up lookin like I’d botched a attempt ta tie-dye every last muthafuckin thang I owned.

Besides, I’d just thrown mah bag against tha wall n' I doubted mah project was still up in one piece.

Da buzzin all up in tha edge of mah consciousnizz was gettin worse.  My fuckin handz shook as I bent over n' gripped tha edge of tha sink, let up a long, slow breath, n' let mah defenses drop.  For three months, I’d held back.  Right now, biatch?  I didn’t care no mo'.

I shut mah eyes n' felt tha buzzin crystallize tha fuck into concrete shiznit. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  As a shitload of as stars up in tha night sky, tiny knotz of intricate data filled tha area round mah dirty ass.  I could focus on each one up in turn, pick up details.  Da clustaz of data had been reflexively driftin towardz me since I was first splashed up in tha face.  They responded ta mah subconscious thoughts n' emotions, as much of a reflection of mah frustration, mah anger, mah hatred fo' dem three hoes as mah poundin ass n' tremblin handz were, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho.  I could make dem stop or direct dem ta move almost without thankin bout it, tha same way I could raise a arm or twitch a gangbangin' finger.

I opened mah eyes.  I could feel adrenaline thrummin all up in mah body, blood coursin up in mah veins.  I shivered up in response ta tha chilled soft dranks n' juices tha trio had poured over me, wit anticipation n' wit just a lil fear. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.  On every last muthafuckin surface of tha bathroom was bugs; Flies, ants, spiders, centipedes, millipedes, earwigs, beetles, wasps n' bees.  With every last muthafuckin passin second, mo' streamed up in all up in tha open window n' tha various openings up in tha bathroom, movin wit surprisin speed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!  Some crawled up in all up in a gap where tha sink drain entered tha wall while others emerged from tha triangular hole up in tha ceilin where a section of foam tile had fucked up off, or from tha opened window wit peelin paint n' blunt butts squished up in tha recesses.  They gathered round mah crazy ass n' spread up over every last muthafuckin available surface; primitizzle bundlez of signals n' responses, waitin fo' further instruction.

My fuckin practice sessions, conducted away from pryin eyes, holla'd at mah crazy ass I could direct a single insect ta move a antennae, or command tha gathered horde ta move up in formation. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  With one thought, I could single up a particular group, maturitizzle or species from dis jumble n' direct dem as I wished. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!  An army of soldiers under mah complete control.

It would be all kindsa easy as fuck , so easy as fuck  ta just go Carrie on tha school.  To give tha trio they just desserts n' make dem regret what tha fuck they had put me through: tha vicious e-mails, tha trash they’d upended over mah desk, tha flute -my mother’s flute- they’d jacked from mah locker n' shit.  It wasn’t just dem either n' shit.  Other hoes n' a lil' small-ass handful of thugs had joined in, ‘accidentally’ skippin over me when passin up assignment handouts, addin they own voices ta tha taunts n' tha flood of nasty emails, ta git tha favor n' attention of three of tha prettier n' mo' ghettofab hoes up in our grade.

I was all too aware dat I’d git caught n' arrested if I beat down mah fellow hustlas.  There was three crewz of superheroes n' any number of solo heroes up in tha hood.  I didn’t straight-up care.  Da thought of mah daddy seein tha aftermath on tha hype, his fuckin lil' disappointment up in me, his shame, biatch?  That was mo' dauntin yo, but it still didn’t outweigh tha anger n' frustration.

Except I was betta than that.

With a sigh, I busted a instruction ta tha gathered swarm.   Disperse.  Da word wasn’t as blingin  as tha scam behind dat shit.  They fuckin started ta exit tha room, disappearin tha fuck into tha cracks up in tha tile n' all up in tha open window.  I strutted over ta tha door n' stood wit mah back ta it so no muthafucka could stumble onto tha scene before tha bugs was all gone.

However much I wanted to, I couldn’t straight-up follow all up in cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce.  Even as I trembled wit humiliation, I managed ta convince mah dirty ass ta pick up mah backpack n' head down tha hall.  I made mah way outta tha school, ignorin tha stares n' gigglez from mah playas I strutted past, n' caught tha straight-up original gangsta bus dat headed up in tha general direction of home.  Da chill of early sprang compounded tha discomfort of mah soaked afro n' clothes, makin me shiver.

I was goin ta be a superhero.  That was tha goal I used ta calm mah dirty ass down at moments like these n' you can put dat on yo' toast.  Dat shiznit was what tha fuck I used ta make mah dirty ass git outta bed on a school day. It make me wanna hollar playa!  Dat shiznit was a wild-ass trip dat made thangs tolerable.  Dat shiznit was suttin' ta look forward to, suttin' ta work towards.  It juiced it up possible ta keep from dwellin on tha fact dat Emma Barnes, leader of tha trio, had once been mah dopest playa.