She didn’t know that I was in the fifth grade.
“What’s wrong with you, son? You shy or something?”
“Me?” No one ever called me shy before. I wasn’t gonna let anybody do it now. I took a step closer.
She did the rest. Grabbing my skinny shoulders, she squeezed me tight. I got all excited, feeling her little tits rub against my chest and her grape bubblegum breath in my face.
She kissed me. I tilted her head just like I seen on TV. Then she went and ruined it by opening her lips so wide, I thought I’d fall in. Her tongue shot inside my mouth.
She pulled back. “Kiss me back, dumbass!”
“I ain’t no dumbass. I’d kiss you back if you gave me the chance, bitch.”
After that, she decided I was her man. She thought she could follow me anywhere she wanted, bug me while I was playing ball, and beat up any girl who talked to me.
When I realized that cursing her out and running away wasn’t enough to get rid of her, I knew I had to do something. The problem? I didn’t hit no girls. The solution? Pay a girl to do it for me.
My cousin Keyona was fifteen years old. We called her TLM: Tall, Lean, and Mean. She said the price of beating up Tekeva was three dinners at McDonald’s. Three dinners! Since Keyona ate like a horse, that could be a lot of cash. So I got Keyona down to two dinners, and she kicked Tekeva’s ass out of my life.
All my ladies since then was Tekevas. They wanted to be Queen of the Streets, and getting a piece of Ty Johnson was part of their master plan. Well, I told these girls I wasn’t gonna be their ticket. If they wanted diamonds, go get a sugar daddy. And if they wanna get paid, go do some hustling.
You gotta be mad careful with women. Don’t make promises you can’t keep. You use the L word and they’ll throw it back in your face. Mom is still going on about promises my dad made years ago.
Now I ain’t saying that a young hustler can’t ever have a girlfriend. But I say wait until you’re twenty-one, get her tested for all the diseases you can think of and some shit you never heard of, and set her up right. When I’m twenty-one, I’ll have time for a girlfriend. Until then, I’m staying away.
NOT ANOTHER DEAD WHITE GUY
Tuesday I went to my first two classes, cut out to make a delivery, and came back for English. This school was supposed to be all that with its big alarmed doors and guards, but I knew its weak spot: the door behind the cafeteria used by the lunch workers.
English class was in a hot room in the basement with no windows. Ms. Amullo tried to make it brighter by putting posters over puke-yellow bulletin boards and fake flowers on her desk. Too bad it didn’t work.
During the silent reading time, I put up my hand.
Ms. Amullo stopped beside me. “What can I do for you, Tyrone?”
“This play is mad boring. Don’t you have something better than Shakespeare?”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to live with it for the moment because it’s required reading. But if you finish ahead of the class, you can use your silent reading time for something more interesting if you like. Do you see what Alyse is reading?”
Alyse, two seats ahead of me, was reading The Bluest Eye, by Toni Morrison.
“Is Toni Morrison another dead white guy?”
“Quite the opposite. She’s a black woman, and very much alive.”
“Hmm. Can I bring my own book?”
“That’s fine, as long as I approve it first.”
“Deal.” I was gonna finish the play fast, then use the class time to read something good.
Before our reading time ended, I got through the first act.
Ms. Amullo said, “I’m handing out a poem by a British poet named Cameron Elsmore. I’d like you to analyze it in pairs. Alyse, will you work with Tyrone and show him how we analyze poetry?”
Alyse turned around. I winked.
Ms. Amullo went on. “Later I’ll have a representative of each pair tell the class what you thought the poem was about, how it made you feel, and what stylistic devices you found. Now get started.”
I moved my stuff to the desk behind Alyse, and she turned her desk around to face me. When Ms. Amullo put the paper between us, we both leaned over to read it, almost bumping heads.
She said, “Why don’t you just read it to me, so I can get a first impression?”
“A’ight.” I cleared my throat and read the poem, throwing in a little drama at different places.
“That’s a beautiful poem,” she said when I finished. “It has a lot of imagery. Thunderous skies. Wet, slippery grass.”
“I know what you mean.” Truth was, I was paying more attention to how I read than to what I read, so I didn’t have a clue what the poem was about.
I reread it. “I like the part about the empty swings. Kinda like he misses being a kid, you know?”
She wrote that down. “Yeah, it was a good metaphor. There was a simile in there too. Something about the crash of thunder.”
“ ‘Thunder crashes, like cymbals clap.’ ”
“That’s it.”
I rocked back in my desk. “Go, girl. You dig this stuff?”
“Sure. I like to write free verse. You write poetry?”
“I been known to drop a rhyme.”
“For real?”
“Uh-huh.” I leaned closer to her. “You a brain. How’d you end up at this school?”
She sighed. “I . . . I been turning tricks for two years. I wanna get out of it. Make a new start.”
I blinked. “You playing me?”
She burst out laughing. “I hope I don’t look like a ho!”
“That was grimey.”
She stared straight into my eyes. “I could ask you the same question, Ty. You wanna tell me what got you here?”
“Nah.” I had a feeling that Alyse was the one girl in this school who wasn’t gonna give me props for being a hustler. She was a square chick.
“Okay, so let’s not swap stories about how we got here. Let’s just make the best of it.”
I nodded. “I like your style.”
SPEAKING OF STYLE
At 11:36 p.m., I got a call.
“Ty Johnson, my dog! Guess who’s in town?”
I didn’t have to guess. I knew.
Keron Maxwell. To rap fans, K-Ron—the biggest rap star to come out of BK since Jay-Z. Twenty-one years old and daddy of three (with three different babies’ mamas), he was a hardcore gangsta rapper who made Lil Wayne look like a pussy and Meek Mill like a cornball.
I knew K-Ron from the basketball courts down the block. I used to go there every day after school and not come home until Mom came looking for me. K-Ron would let me play with him and his friends—not out of charity. I was damn good for my age and cocky enough to say so. And when I started hooking him up with my daddy’s product, well, we been tight ever since.
“K-Ron, what’s good?”
“Bitches everywhere, that’s what. Y’ain’t seen nothing like it, dog! You gotta come help us out. And hook us up, while you at it.”
“A’ight. Where you at?”
“The Wall. New club on—”
“I know where it is. I’ll see you in a few.”
Before hitting the shower, I called for a cab to pick me up in fifteen.
When he called I’d been lying on my bed in my boxers, watching season three of The Wire, ready to turn in. But a smart businessman didn’t pass up a chance to deal with K-Ron.
I put on new top-of-the-line white and black Rocawear. After spraying myself with Acqua di Gio, popping a gold stud in my ear, and throwing a gold chain around my neck, I walked out the door—quiet, since I didn’t wanna wake the old lady.
A few minutes later I walked into The Wall like I owned the place. The bouncers recognized me and let me go by without any trouble. They knew Ty Johnson.
The air was smoky. The smell was sweat and perfume. K-Ron showing up made it official—this was the new hot spot.
I saw K-Ron and his crew before they saw me. Taking my time, I went to t
he VIP corner, where they were sitting in a leopard-skin booth. K-Ron was there with three homies and a bunch of girls looking like they charged by the hour. A girl with big shiny lips smiled at me. Hot thoughts went through my brain.
“Ty!” K-Ron leaned over and we slapped hands. He had more gold around his neck than an African prince.
“Sit down, my nigga!” K-Ron made the girls on his left clear out. “We celebrating. Just came from L.A. I finished the new—” He snapped his fingers at a waitress. “Get us another bottle of Cristal, sweet ass.” He turned back to me. “I spent six weeks in the muthafucking studio. We making the first video next week. Wait till you see it! I’m’a be a priest.”
“What twisted shit you up to now, K-Ron?”
“The track is called ‘Sin.’ In the video, you got this priest, and he be acting out the Seven Deadly Sins. It’s gonna be hot! I’d ask if you wanna be an extra, but I know you got better ways to get paid. What you got for us tonight?”
“Premium from Bogotá.” Under the table, I passed a little bag into his hands. He slipped it into the pocket of his jeans. “You like it, I’ll bring more to your hotel tomorrow. You got my number.”
I felt something soft bump against my leg. It was the shiny-lipped girl. She crossed her legs under the table, looking me up and down. “Hello.”
“Holla, honey. What’s your name?”
“Sherene.”
“I’m Ty.”
“I know. I heard you was coming.”
K-Ron said, “Sherene’s from L.A. She one of the models the priest be banging in the video.” He leaned close to my ear. “She yours, Ty. I got my hands full.”
I turned back to Sherene. “Hope your family ain’t Catholic, Sherene.”
“Who cares? They won’t see the video.”
The champagne came. K-Ron refilled his glass and passed the bottle around. Sherene sipped hers slow and sexy. I wasn’t surprised when I felt her hand on my leg.
She squeezed. “Oohh. Somebody works out, don’t he?”
“A man’s body is his temple.”
She touched my stomach. I flexed my six-pack. “Just how I like a brotha. Hard, in body and mind. I don’t like no pushover.” She flattened a hand on my chest. “I couldn’t push you over if I tried.”
“You welcome to try, shorty.” I put a hand on her thigh. She wasn’t wearing stockings, so I felt the warm, soft skin. “Did I tell you that your body’s smokin’?”
Her fingers tickled behind my ear. “How can you say that if you don’t really know?”
“Your dress don’t leave much room for guessing.”
Her lips touched my ear. “Do you wanna see for yourself?”
This girl didn’t waste no time. She had her game on the minute I walked in. I bet she decided to fuck K-Ron’s dealer no matter who he was. Anything to be a part of the posse, with all the bling and status that came with it. Whenever I saw K-Ron, he was surrounded by a dozen girls like her.
If a girl wanted to use me, it should at least be because of my reputation, not K-Ron’s.
I said, “Thanks, but I got a girl.”
“That don’t matter to me.”
“It should.”
Her jaw dropped, and I saw a small retainer behind her bottom front teeth. I wondered how old—or how young—this girl really was.
K-Ron nudged me. “How’s it going? We got extra rooms at the hotel, nigga.”
“We don’t need it.”
“Come again?”
“I already got more chicks than I can handle.”
“Amen, brotha! You smart to keep it under control. Can you believe I got another baby on the way? Now I got another baby’s mama to deal with, and another baby’s mama’s mama.” He started singing the OutKast song “Ms. Jackson”: “Never meant to make your daughter cry / I apologize a trillion times.”
That’s K-Ron for you—wasn’t gonna let a little thing like another baby get him down. “You the real deal, K-Ron.”
“Fo sho.” He slung an arm around me. “Yo, I got a proposal for you.”
“Shoot.”
“What would you say about taking a few months off and going on tour with me?”
“Bullshit.”
“No bullshit. Here’s how it’s like, Ty. I try to get back to Brooklyn whenever I can, but most of the time I’m on the bus and in hotels. I need good people around me to keep it interesting. You, you keep it real, and you got mad style. I could use you.”
Hmmm . . . limousines, chilling backstage, partying with rap stars . . .
“Man, I wish I could, but I gotta run my business.”
“What about that nigga Sonny? Can’t he hold shit down for you?”
I shook my head. “Business is hot right now. Would you take a break from rapping now that you on top? No way.”
“You’ll regret it for the rest of yo’ life.”
“Then I gotta live with that. I’ll let you know if I change my mind.”
“I know you, Ty. You ain’t gonna change your mind.”
“Maybe I will, maybe I won’t.”
“A’ight. But when you turn on the TV and see me on stage with Drake or Lil Wayne, you’ll be one sorry-ass nigga.”
“Whatever you say, K-Ron.”
THIN ICE
The next morning the dean called me into his office.
Dean Baxter was a family man, I saw from the pictures on his desk. He had three kids, and a wife with bleached blond hair and big, saggy tits. His shelves had fake-looking sports trophies, and the only thing on the wall was a poster of a runner crossing the finish line, arms in the air. The poster said: MOTIVATION + DETERMINATION = ACHIEVEMENT! The cheese made me wanna gag.
“Tyrone, I think you fail to understand the nature of this school. Yesterday you didn’t show up to three of your classes, nor did you bring in a doctor’s note to excuse your absence. Can you explain this blatant breach of our policy?”
“No.” I yawned into my hand. I didn’t get much sleep last night.
“I called your mother this morning to tell her you cut yesterday. I’m sure she’ll have a word with you when you get home.”
Shit.
“You find this funny, Mr. Johnson?”
“No.” I find this a complete waste of time.
“Good.”
He leaned over his desk. “Now tell me why you were cutting class.”
“I made a mistake, sir.”
“What were you doing?”
Dealing. “Working out.”
“Working out?”
“Yeah.”
“Why were you working out when you should’ve been in class?”
“A guy as tall as me gotta work out a lot if he don’t want to lose muscle.”
He stared at me. It was kind of fun seeing him so confused.
“Why couldn’t you have worked out after school? We have a gym right here!”
“I got no excuse. Like I said, it was a mistake. Don’t sweat it, sir. I’m gonna change.” From now on, whenever I cut class, I’d cover my ass with a forged note. Mom would kill me if I got thrown out of here.
He slammed his hand on the desk. “He called me, you know.”
“Who?”
“Your former guidance counselor, Mr. Edelstone. He told me about the games you play. He said you were very sly and you would make a lot of promises that you wouldn’t keep.”
Edelstone. Eddie, I liked to call him. Man, I missed playing that guy.
“I don’t think you should judge me by the past,” I said.
“Edelstone was right about one thing. You’re a smooth talker. Head’s up, Johnson. All your talk won’t get you through another week at this school. You pull another stunt like you did yesterday, and you’re out. I promise, you’re going to look back twenty years from now as you’re flipping burgers or cleaning toilets, and wish you hadn’t been such an arrogant upstart.”
“I hear you, Mr. Baxter. I’m gonna take this school more serious from now on. Thanks for the second chance.” I g
ot up.
He got up too. “It’s not a second chance, Tyrone; it’s a last chance. Is that clear?”
“Yeah.”
AS IT COMES
Heard you met with the dean this morning.”
“He was just blowing smoke.”
Alyse and me paired up in English class again today. We had a term project to do, and I wasn’t gonna do it with anybody else. She must’ve felt the same way, because the second Ms. Amullo told us to pair up, she turned to look at me.
“You better be careful,” she said. “They’re hardcore here. I don’t want my partner getting kicked out before our project is finished.”
“Then I guess I gotta stay in school until”—I looked at the project instructions—“until November sixth. That’s about five weeks from now. I promise I won’t get kicked out until then.”
As she smiled at me, something vibrated against my leg.
It took me a second to realize it was my cell.
I checked the caller ID: Clarissa 9-1-1.
“I have to make a call.” Raising my hand, I asked Ms. Amullo for the bathroom pass.
“Five minutes, Ty.”
“I only need four.”
I went around the corner to the boys’ john and speed-dialed Clarissa’s cell.
Static. “Ty? Is this Ty?”
“Clarissa? What’s going on?”
“This ain’t Clarissa. This is her best friend, Valerie. Clarissa’s in the hospital. This bitch Sabrina was going around thinking she was the shit, flirting with Clarissa’s man—”
“Yo, slow down. You telling me Clarissa got jumped?”
“Well, Clarissa came after her, but she had no choice, you know? She had to fuck her up since Sabrina tried to put the moves on her man. But Sabrina pulled out a razor and slashed her face.”
“Shit. How bad is it?”
“She needed six stitches. Doc says there’s gonna be a scar. Clarissa wanted me to call you ’cause she says you a good friend. She got no insurance. And her family, they got no money to cover the bills. She’s all worried and upset. Clarissa ain’t got a penny in the bank.”
I groaned. Clarissa spent every cent she made on makeup, clothes, and magazines.
“Tell her I’ll take care of it.”
Street Pharm Page 3
