Dirty Jersey

by Phillip Thomas Duck

  I was stunned.

  That wasn’t quite what I’d expected to hear.

  Ricky saw me as a throwaway and nothing more.

  Water found my eyes again.

  I cried.

  Donnell reached over and touched my shoulder. “I know that’s painful to hear, Kenya. But that’s how Ricky is. That’s how little he really cared about you. I thought it was best if you knew the truth. Hoped it would help you move on. Not dwell on a relationship that was never good to begin with.”

  I shook my head. “He had some good points. He was tuned in to me, paid attention to the things I cared about. He cared about them, too, just because I did.”

  Donnell didn’t say a word. He was probably wondering why I was still defending Ricky. I had to wonder myself.

  I said, “He memorized a passage I loved in this old Toni Morrison book.”

  Donnell smiled, said, “‘Milkman lay quietly in the sunlight, his mind a blank, his lungs craving smoke. Gradually his fear of and eagerness for death returned.’ Song of Solomon, correct?”

  I hunched my eyes in surprise. “How did you…?”

  “You checked it out of the library. I saw you reading it, checked it out after you. You marked in the book, on that page, that passage. I know your handwriting.” He smiled sheepishly, went on with, “I figured you must really like it. I memorized it.”

  “But Ricky…” I didn’t know what else to say. I was dumbfounded.

  “Ricky came to me wanting to get back in your heart. I told him some things I thought might help. That passage was one of them. It was some serious work to get him to remember those couple lines. Ricky’s head is hard as brick.”

  Donnell laughed.

  I didn’t.

  I said, “You helped him?”

  Donnell gulped, nodded. “Hardest thing I ever did. But for some reason you really liked the dude. And I could see that you were hurting. So…”

  So he helped Ricky to help me.

  That was a huge sacrifice, considering how much he cared about me himself. There are so many definitions of love. So many ways we define it, describe it, explain it. I didn’t truly have a grasp on it until that moment.

  Donnell said, “I’m sorry I took part in deceiving you. Thought I was helping. I tried to warn you. Told you he was a player and that you’d get hurt. But, well, you had your own idea on things.”

  Through sobs, I said, “I’d punch him in the nose if I saw him.”

  Donnell laughed. “I did that already.”

  “What?”

  He shrugged. “When he disrespected you like that, calling you a throwaway…I lost my cool. He’s my boy and all, but I laid him out. Put him flat on his back.”

  I looked at Donnell with nothing but appreciation.

  My sobs stopped. My eyes dried.

  “Wanna come in for a bit?”

  Donnell said, “Absolutely.”

  “Cool.”

  “But I won’t.”

  I couldn’t believe it. “What?”

  “You’re vulnerable.”

  I was.

  He said, “I could take advantage.”

  “Maybe I want to be taken advantage of, Donnell.”

  He nodded. “Maybe you do, Kenya. But I’m not going to be the one to do it.”

  This boy was amazing.

  I couldn’t wait to tell Lark.

  Donnell said, “Can I call you?”

  “You have to ask?”

  He smiled again. I could get used to his smile. It was so full of warmth.

  He said, “Okay, I’ll give you a call. Keep your head up.”

  I went to move and then turned back. I’d thought of something. I said, “Hey, Donnell?”

  “Wassup, Kenya?”

  “You can call me Kay.”

  I turned and rushed inside before he could reply.

  I had a feeling he was smiling, though.

  I took that name, that expression of regard for me, and I flipped it. I wasn’t going to let it run negative through my mind. I was taking it back. I was Kay. Ricky just messed that up. But I was somebody’s Kay, for sure. Like my brother had said earlier, I had value. I was somebody’s Kay.

  Donnell’s, maybe. Time would certainly tell.

  Mama was right; God works in mysterious ways.

  Eric

  I don’t have shackles on my ankles, and my wrists aren’t bound by the cool metal of handcuffs, but I feel like a prisoner on death row taking that final walk. I want to hope. I want to believe. But it’s hard. Sometimes I feel as if hope is just something you read about in a novel or see in a movie. As if hope doesn’t exist in the real world.

  Mr. Quigley, the school’s head hall aide, has been assigned the duty of escorting me safely from the building.

  “These kids should be ashamed of themselves,” he says.

  For what they say to me or what they do to me? I wonder. Then I realize, for both. My white shirt is stained with mustard and ketchup. Several kids splattered me with open packets of the condiments during lunch. Another kid smacked the back of my head with a thick textbook from a class he’s failing. Some girl poked my butt with a pin she pulled from a little Coach purse. Someone put stickers all over my locker like they’d done to Kenya’s. Instead of being a snitch, they let me know I was lame.

  The insults and teasing are worse today than ever. No one is sparing me today because I have a popular big sister. Kenya’s popularity fell like the Dow Jones on Black Monday, and so I’m open to any humiliation the kids want to dole out. It’s been attack day on the Poseys. On days like this I wish I was born a Clinton or a Kennedy. Shoot, even a Bush.

  I look out at the street, the long walk of sidewalk before it reaches the curb. It’s the same area where my face and Crash’s fist made their acquaintance. There’s a group of kids out there, loitering, in my opinion, as if they’re waiting for me to come out. What they have in store for me I don’t know. But after the day I’ve had, I imagine it isn’t good.

  Still, I tell Mr. Quigley, “I got it from here.”

  “Just gonna walk you out,” he says.

  “I’d rather you didn’t. I’m fine.”

  “Eric.”

  “Just make things worse for me,” I say, “if they see you walking me out like I’m in kindergarten.”

  He says, “I have a responsibility to see that you’re safe.”

  I look out the door. A hundred paces. Not far at all. “I’ll be fine.”

  “I’m gonna stand here and watch. If anything jumps off, I’m coming out.”

  I look at him. He’s on the north side of fifty years old. Probably started graying at thirty, judging by the near-complete whiteness of his hair. Somewhat fit, I guess, but with a fullness to his belly that Crash probably won’t get until he’s in his seventies, if then. Even when Mr. Quigley frowns, he doesn’t look mean. Everyone in the school listens to him, for the most part. But the kids don’t listen because he’s an imposing figure. We listen out of respect, because he reminds us of our grandfathers.

  I can’t have my grandfather rescue me and ever expect things to improve.

  “I’ve got to handle this myself, Mr. Quigley.”

  His jaw sets but he nods. “If it gets hairy for you out there, I’m coming out, Eric. Tell you that now. I could give a crap about peer pressure and all that foolishness. How it makes you look. You’re not getting hurt on my watch.”

  I say, “It’s not that serious.”

  He eyes me, says nothing.

  I turn back to the door, pause, and then step out. My heartbeat is strong in my ears, like the day Crash and I fought. My palms are sweaty but my mouth is dry. I take a deep breath and head down the sidewalk.

  I can’t be afraid. I can’t live in fear.

  The kids out front turn and watch me approach. I can see their mouths moving as they elbow one another and nod in my direction. I don’t know what they’re saying exactly, but I can guess.

  I’m twenty paces away from them.

&n
bsp; I can finally hear their words: lame, Poser.

  That’s the usual assortment of put-downs, so I’m not surprised.

  I keep walking. I have to pass them to get to the curb.

  They’re lined up the same as the day Crash and I fought, like a Soul Train line, groups of them on both sides of the walkway with a clear path down the middle.

  I move along that clear path.

  One of the boys nudges me into a boy on the other side. He in turn nudges me into another boy. I’m a human pinball. Their laughter has the rhythm of music. I dance through them, get tossed from side to side as I pass.

  I’m thankful Mr. Quigley doesn’t come rushing out to defend my honor.

  This isn’t so bad.

  At the curb is a black Range Rover, music rattling its tinted windows. Someone shoves me from behind, pushes me that much closer to the Range Rover. Mya comes strutting around the back of the truck. The boys behind me stop and stare. I know this without even looking back. The girls stop chewing their gum and do the same.

  Mya’s got her hair styled in two ponytails today. Pink boy shorts and a matching wife-beater show off her dazzling physique. She’s got the type of body that makes something shift inside you. She smiles at me, comes up and pulls me into a deep embrace that is several notches above friendly. “What’s good, baby boy?”

  I don’t really answer, say, “What’s good with you?”

  She squints, looks over my shoulder, then back at me as she says, “I’m good.”

  “You ready to roll, Mya?” I just want to get out of here.

  She nods, says loud enough for the kids to hear, “Fiasco is waiting for you, baby boy.”

  I notice for the first time that she has a handful of CDs. She steps away from me with a presidential smile on her face, goes up to the kids who were tormenting me seconds ago.

  She says to them, “You guys like Fiasco?”

  Someone says, “The rapper?”

  “Yup,” Mya replies. “The one and only.”

  Several mingled voices, all of them excited, express that they love Fiasco.

  Mya says, “Good. Here are some promotional CDs, guys. These are exclusives that aren’t even on the radio yet. Y’all check ’em out. Hit up Fiasco’s MySpace page if you’re feeling it. Spread the word.”

  One of the boys says, “You know Fiasco?”

  Mya nods, looks at me, and then back at the group. “Yeah, Fiasco’s our homeboy.”

  Our.

  Same boy asks, “Eric knows him, too?”

  Mya smiles, doesn’t answer, turns and makes her way back in my direction. “Come on, baby boy. Fiasco’s waiting.”

  The boy calls out, “Hey, Eric. Holeup a sec, man. I need to talk to you about something.”

  I ignore him and move to Mya’s Range Rover.

  A girl calls out, “E. Where you headed?”

  E.

  Not lame or Poser.

  That feels good. But I ignore her, as well, slide into Mya’s whip.

  Whip. I feel so cool right now.

  Mya’s back in the driver’s seat. She gazes at me briefly, then puts the car in Drive and eases from the curb. I allow myself the victory of looking outside to see the expressions on the kids’ faces. My classmates. Kids who have ignored me for years. Or if they weren’t ignoring me, they were picking on me with reckless abandon. Everyone is standing at the curb watching me go. Wanting to be the kid shielded by tinted windows and sitting next to a woman as beautiful as a Pussycat Doll.

  Wanting to be me.

  It feels good.

  I could get used to this.

  “The ketchup and mustard?” Mya asks. “They did that?”

  “They did that.”

  Mya falls into silence, her gaze on the road ahead of us, music off. She turned it off almost as soon as we got in and drove away from the school. She thrums her fingers on the steering wheel, bites her lip. Anxiety is all over her face.

  I say, “It’s okay. I’m fine.”

  She shakes her head and stays with her silence.

  I say, “They’re treating my sister bad now. That’s not okay. I’m bothered by that. Kenya isn’t use to it. I don’t know how she’s gonna handle it if it continues.”

  I tell her all about Kenya. My sister’s rise and fall.

  Mya smiles. “Keyshia Cole, huh?”

  “Probably sings better. Kenya has an incredible voice. I could picture her doing background vocals on one of Fiasco’s songs.”

  Mya frowns at that.

  I say, “You have siblings?”

  “A half brother.”

  “Where’s he at?”

  Mya says, “Fiasco says there’s something special and pure about your heart. He’s right. You go through all that—” she nods back in the direction of school “—and yet you’re more worried about your sister than yourself. Talking to me about my life like you weren’t assaulted today. That’s what happened, you know? They assaulted you.”

  “It’s cool.”

  “See what I mean?”

  I say, “I try not to dwell on it. Don’t make me out to be someone special.”

  “You are special, baby boy.”

  I nod. “Right now, yes. But only because I know Fiasco.”

  Mya frowns again. “Fiasco’s human, just like you. Don’t get fooled by all the hype.”

  “He’s a good dude.”

  She nods. “For the most part. Wish he chose better company.”

  I say, “His crew, every last one of them is a thug.”

  Mya says, “Every last one of them…”

  “Scary dudes.”

  “He grew up with them. He’s loyal. To a fault.”

  “You don’t like them, huh?”

  “Some less than others.”

  “I know what you mean. I wouldn’t catch myself dead around guys like them if it weren’t for Fiasco.”

  She eyes me. “Don’t idolize Fiasco, baby boy. That’s a problem. He’s a good guy, yes. For the most part, like I said. But you aren’t special because you know him.”

  I say, “Okay. I’m special because I know you, then.”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah, you. Don’t act like you don’t know you’re…” I let the thought go. I’m trained to keep my praise of beautiful girls to a minimum. Usually, right after I’ve complimented them, they laugh at me or say something that crushes my spirit.

  Not that I think Mya would do that.

  Mya says, “I got teased all the time when I was in school. My parents made it a habit to drop me off at school and pick me up themselves. Every day. They felt it fostered family, kept us close, and plus they worried about me a lot. Kids called my pops Agent Orange and my mother a gook. They called me even worse. My pops was a veteran. Risked everything, put it all on the line for this country. And they disrespected him. I hated that. I was like you, baby boy. Tease me all they wanted, but leave my family alone.”

  I say, “You’re black and Korean?”

  Mya nods. “Guilty.”

  She adds, “Grew up down in Camden, for the most part. And down there, my fifty percent black was fifty percent too little. I got my ass beat for no reason at least once a week. I remember I got these door-knocker earrings ’cause all the girls were wearing them. They beat me up and took ’em. I had to lie to my parents that I lost them. I think they knew better.”

  “Man.”

  Mya says, “Then my father died and everything fell apart. Momma couldn’t handle him gone. She couldn’t handle my brother and me. She became a different person. Took up with the wrong kind of people.” She pauses for just a sec and then continues with, “Between home and school I thought God must hate me for sure.”

  “Crazy.”

  Mya smiles, regroups. “Funny you should say that. I stood by and let the kids at school treat me any way they wanted for the longest. Then one day I couldn’t take it anymore. Totally spazzed out. I picked up a chair and was just swinging that bad boy around, trying to connect with any-and every
one. I plowed down like five kids. After that, I was the crazy girl that no one messed with. I liked that. Stayed to myself. Which was fine.”

  I say, “Beautiful as you are, it’s hard to picture you not fitting in.”

  Mya says, “You say the sweetest things, baby boy. Don’t change. You’re gonna make some girl really happy one day.”

  I look down at my lap. “Doubt it.”

  “Why you say that? You’re a cute boy, you’re gonna be handsome when you get bigger.”

  “Cute.” I snort at the notion.

  Mya looks over at me. “I said it. Cute. Ears a little too big for your head, but you’ll grow into them.”

  “You’re really helping. Thanks.”

  She laughs. “Just kidding you, baby boy. You’re cute, I promise you.”

  I look out the window. I can’t look Mya in the eye as I open myself up. It’s so much easier to do without eye contact. “Sometimes I just want to cry when they pick on me. Just stop and let the tears flow. Let them know how much their teasing and picking hurts.”

  “That’d be the wrong move. They want to see you affected that much. They’d tease you worse if you did that.”

  “I know,” I say. “That’s why I don’t do it. But the urge is strong, believe me.”

  Mya’s quiet for a bit. Thinking, I suppose. Finally she says, “Look at me a sec.”

  I do.

  “Okay, baby boy. Squint your eyes like you’re having trouble seeing me.”

  I do.

  “Not so much. As if your vision isn’t twenty-twenty but you don’t need a Coke bottle over your eyes, either.”

  I lessen my squint.

  “That’s it, Eric. Now…” She pauses, then, “Lean a bit to the side with your arms crossed over your chest. And cock your head a bit to the side, too.”

  “What is all this?”

  “Just do it.”

  I do.

  She smiles wide. “You’ve got it, baby boy.”

  I ask, “Got what?”

  “Your pose,” she says, “for Fiasco’s video.”

  Crawford’s Corner Road is the cornerstone of a neighborhood that’s perfect for raising a family. You can hear birds chirping in the morning, I bet. The roar of lawn mower engines, the whir of sprinklers. All the residences have mailboxes, and they’re never vandalized, never broken into, and mail, especially checks, is never stolen from them. The people who live in the neighborhood have antique brooches, personal landscapers, large maples in their backyards, things of that sort.