by S. Walden
“We had to read this for school,” Emma reminded him.
“Girl, I read that thing years before we was supposed to,” he replied.
Emma was dumbfounded. “Why?” she asked turning to face him.
“‘Cause I like to read.”
“Why?”
“Girl, you seen where I live? You standin’ right in it. What else I’m supposed to do?”
Emma turned back to the mountain of books to hide her face. She needed the moment to compose herself. The concept was a foreign one to her—that some people read to imagine away their brutal realities. She never considered the idea of reading as an escape from a hard, unforgiving existence. She never had to.
She turned around to see Anton staring at her. It made her uncomfortable, and she searched for something to say.
“You listen to Tupac?” she asked after a time, pointing to one of the posters on his wall.
“You know who he is?” Anton said amazed.
“Doesn’t everyone?” she asked.
“Just surprised is all,” he said. “You ever listen to his stuff?”
“No.”
“Nah, I guess you wouldn’t. His music’s older. He died in ’96. We was babies then,” Anton replied. He thought for a moment. “You want to?”
“Want to what?” Emma looked uncertain.
Anton thought better. “Well, I was gonna see if you wanted to listen to some of his stuff, but nah. You ain’t ready for all that yet. I forgot you only just got here. I don’t wanna be overwhelmin’ you with all my blackness.”
“I’ve listened to rap music before,” Emma pointed out.
“That shit on the radio?” Anton asked. “Girl, that ain’t no rap music. There ain’t been no good rap music since the 90’s. Well, in my opinion anyway.”
“The 90’s, huh? So you listened to rap music as an infant?” Emma asked sarcastically.
“Girl, why you think I don’t know older people who introduced me to that music? It ain’t just young people who live in the ghetto,” Anton replied.
He plopped down on his bed, leaving her standing in the center of the room. She was unsure what to do.
“Girl, sit down,” he said, and then mumbled, “Lookin’ like a fish outta water.”
He leaned over and pulled the chair out from underneath his desk offering it to her. She sat down tentatively across from him, their knees almost touching. Suddenly she was nervous. She hadn’t felt that way when she was talking to his mother. But now, being in his room and surrounded by his things—just the intimacy of seeing his personal belongings—made her anxious.
“You so funny,” he said, watching her smooth her skirt on her thighs.
“Why do you say that?” she asked.
“You all nervous and shit. It ain’t no big deal bein’ in my room. If anyone should feel nervous, it’s me.”
“Why?”
“I can’t imagine what’s goin’ through yo’ mind right now. I’m sure you think this house a dump. You prolly countin’ down the minutes ‘til you get outta here,” he said. He couldn’t believe his honesty and was not even embarrassed by it.
Emma, however, was extremely embarrassed. She shifted in her seat. “I don’t think that at all.”
“Sure,” he said unconvinced.
“What can I say to that?” she asked. “What do you want me to say? I told you I don’t care, and you don’t believe me. Do you want me to feel uncomfortable being here? Will that make you feel better?”
Anton felt slightly ashamed. He shouldn’t have said those things to her. It wasn’t fair. It was a barrier he tried to erect to protect his heart from what he thought were her impressions of his house. He wanted her to be okay with it. He wanted her to feel comfortable. But he was also realistic.
“You hungry?” he asked deciding to change the subject.
She realized then that she was. He didn’t wait for a reply and went into the living room to get the tray of sandwiches his mother made. He stood over the coffee table for a moment looking down at them. He noticed how his mother put them together carefully, slicing them in triangles and placing them on the tray in a perfect fan. He smiled thinking he really did have the best mama in the world.
He heard the sounds of a song coming from his bedroom and abandoned all thoughts of his wonderful mother. He walked swiftly to his room and discovered Emma hunched over listening to his CD player. He had the sudden urge to ask her where she learned how to work a CD player—a device no doubt extinct in her world—but decided against it. She had found a Tupac CD, and he only just realized she was listening to “Hit ‘Em Up.” He hurried over to the stereo and turned it off. He was mortified. He wanted to look a certain way to her. He only wanted her to see certain things. What would she think of him after that?
“Excuse me?” she asked irritably.
“I don’t think you need to be listenin’ to that,” he said.
He suddenly felt the urge to shield her from certain aspects of his world. He looked wildly about for other things that might be controversial, might betray his wicked nature, reveal him to be a person she could never like. The artists in his posters were giving him the finger. Why didn’t he think to take them down before she came?
“I’m not a little kid,” she argued. “I was listening to that.”
“Yeah, I know. But we ain’t gonna go there yet,” he said.
“You asked me if I wanted to listen to some of his stuff!” she said exasperated.
“Yeah, well, I wasn’t gonna play you that,” he said, laughing lightly.
“Oh I see. You were going to show me one side of him. You were going to show me one side of you,” she replied. And then after a moment added cynically, “You probably never make your bed.”
He laughed genuinely. “You right. I only make it when my mama yell at me.”
She couldn’t help but smile.
“Okay, fine. We listen to it. But lemme explain first,” he said.
She grabbed a sandwich and started eating.
“Okay, so Tupac had beef with this other rapper, Biggie Smalls.” Anton pointed to another poster hanging on his closet door. “That’s Biggie. So anyway, it started after he thought Biggie Smalls and his crew had something to do with him gettin’ shot. Well, shot the first time anyway. The second time he got shot, he died. But anyway, the first time he got shot five times and survived it. After that, a rivalry broke out between East and West.”
Emma looked confused.
“Rappers on the East Coast and rappers on the West Coast,” he clarified.
She nodded in understanding.
“Well, that’s the more popular version of it. The rivalry actually started before Pac and Biggie and didn’t have nothin’ to do with them. But I guess you can say it intensified when Tupac claimed that Biggie tried to kill him. You followin’ this?” Anton asked.
Emma nodded thinking how tasty her sandwich was.
“Anyway, it was a big deal in the 90’s,” Anton continued. “Basically everybody got shot. Lots of rappers died. But after Tupac and Biggie died, people started thinkin’ that maybe they shouldn’t be goin’ around and killin’ each other. So you don’t have all that goin’ on in the hip hop world no more.”
Emma was intrigued.
“So anyway, this song basically Tupac being all pissed and talkin’ shit to Biggie and his crew. It’s really explicit and I still don’t think you should listen to it.”
“What are you? My dad?” Emma asked.
Anton looked at her flatly. He pressed PLAY and continued the song. They sat in silence listening to Tupac explain how he was a “self-made millionaire” and a “Bad Boy killa” all the while eating sandwiches and drinking iced tea. Anton watched Emma’s face for the duration of the song. It stayed screwed up in concentration as though she were taking mental notes. He imagined she would have a lot of questions. When the song ended, she turned off the CD player and looked at Anton.
“What’s a glock?” she asked.
&nb
sp; “A type of gun,” he replied.
“What’s a fo fo?”
“Oh, well it’s four-four. He just pronounce it fo-fo ‘cause he black,” Anton replied. “It’s another type of gun.”
“Hmm. Apparently he likes guns,” Emma said.
She was quiet for a moment. Anton chewed his lip for something to do.
“Do you listen to this a lot?” she asked.
“No, mostly when I’m pissed or somethin’,” he said.
“I can’t imagine it puts you in a better mood,” she observed.
“I don’t want it to.”
“Oh.”
“Not all his music like that,” Anton explained. “Some is playful. A lot of it about social issues. Growin’ up poor in the ghetto and stuff. He write about his mama. That stuff is real powerful.”
“But his music is so old,” she said looking at the back of the CD jewel case. She pointed out the copyright date.
“It don’t matter,” Anton replied taking the jewel case from her hand. “Some music eternal, you know? It just go on and on. It always be relevant, always make a point.”
Emma sat quietly, thinking. She had a hard time understanding how the woman she just met allowed her son to listen to such music. Then again, perhaps she didn’t know, but Emma shook her head at that. Their rooms were directly across from one another, and she was sure that in a house like this, the doors and walls weren’t well insulated. She scanned his desk and noticed a Bible.
“Do you go to church?” Emma asked.
“‘Course I do,” Anton replied. “What kinda question is that?”
“I’m confused. You listen to that and then you go to church?” she asked, holding up his Bible.
“What’s yo’ point?” Anton asked.
Emma placed the Bible back on his desk and smiled.
“You’re strange,” she said.
“Well, then. I guess we got somethin’ in common.”
CHAPTER 4
MONDAY, APRIL 19
Anton stood at the bathroom mirror surveying himself. He actually woke up early this morning for school, something he never did, and took his time getting ready. It was important to him that he looked good. He made a new friend over the weekend and wanted to impress her. He wanted her to find him attractive. He wanted to be more than friends, he thought. He smiled in the mirror examining his teeth, relishing the feel of the glowing ball of excitement deep inside his belly.
“Man, I got nice teeth,” he said to his reflection. “How she not gonna like that?”
He looked at the baseball cap on his head. It was sky blue with the UNC Tar Heels emblem.
“And I look so good in hats. How she not gonna like me in a hat?”
He chewed his lower lip as he continued his examination. He flexed his right arm and whistled low.
“Damn nigga, you got some guns. How she gonna keep her hands off yo’ guns?”
He chuckled.
“It can’t happen. It just can’t,” he decided.
He inhaled deeply.
“And you smell so good,” he went on. “She gonna be crawlin’ all over you ‘cause you smell so good. What girl don’t like a guy to wear some cologne?”
He decided to wear cologne today. It was an expensive designer brand that his mother bought him last year for Christmas when she began making a little more money. It was a good Christmas, he thought, remembering how happy she was that she was beginning to see all of her hard work materializing. And he had been careful with that cologne ever since he got it, only using it on special occasions. He thought that today was one of them.
He lifted his blue polo shirt and studied his stomach.
“Maybe if she lucky, I’ll let her put her hands on these rock hard abs,” he said and then heard an angry knock on the bathroom door.
“Anton! Get yo’ butt outta that bathroom!” his mother yelled. “You been in there forever! What are you doin’?”
Anton opened the door to find his mother standing in the hallway wrapped in a bathrobe, an expression of intense irritation plastered on her face.
“I’m sorry Mama,” he said, kissing the top of her head.
“What were you doin’ in there? And why are you even up?” she asked. “You never get up this early for school.”
“Sure I do,” he said then told her he was off to catch the early bus.
His mother stood perplexed staring after him.
***
He waited by his locker. He was impatient and annoyed that he had gotten to school so early. What was he thinking? This was when all of the nerds got to school so they could have more time to study before a test or go visit with teachers because they were complete losers, he thought. Suddenly he wondered if she would think he was a loser. He’d have to lie when she would ask and say he had just arrived.
He walked down the hallway to the soda machine and purchased a Coke. He was running out of things to do and felt anxious. Just then she arrived, and his heart leapt into his throat. She wore her hair in a ponytail today he observed first. And he liked it. He liked the way it swung from side to side as she walked. Her ears sported diamond studs—real, he figured—and she wore a pale pink collar shirt with brown khaki shorts.
Her shorts were the perfect length, he decided. Not too short like some of the other girls wore. He thought those girls were nothing but hos letting their asses hang out, leaving nothing to the imagination. He liked to imagine; that was part of the fun. But her shorts weren’t too long either, so she didn’t look like that other type of girl at school: the clueless dork. A thin pink belt hugged her waist, and he felt jealous of it wishing he could wrap his arms around her in place of it. Her sandals sparkled with sequins and jewels. They were pretty and dainty like her, he thought.
He watched as she walked to her locker and put her books up. She was completely unaware of his presence, and he liked being able to observe her in secret. She bent down to scratch her knee. She checked her face in her locker mirror touching a spot under her eye and frowning. She fixed her ponytail. He thought now was a good time to go and say hello. His friends weren’t at school yet, so he knew it would be safe. He walked towards her looking around for any of her friends. No one was in sight.
“Hey,” he said approaching her locker.
“Oh hi,” she said. He thought he saw her face brighten. “What are you doing here already?”
“Oh, I just got here,” he said casually. He leaned against the lockers to appear more relaxed though his heart was racing.
“I had fun on Saturday,” she said, closing her locker. “Thanks for inviting me.”
“You welcome,” he said. He wanted to tell her he had a fun time too, but he wanted to play it cool.
“You ever been to that park on Gordon Street?” he asked.
“Lots of times. I love that park,” she replied.
He wished that she would ask him if he’d like to go today after school. That’s what he wanted to do, but he didn’t want to appear too eager to hang out with her.
“Maybe we could go there sometime to work,” she offered.
“Yeah, that sounds good,” he said, rejoicing inside. Now all she had to do was ask if he wanted to go today.
“What do you think about this afternoon? I’m free,” she said.
God, he loved this girl. She was making it so easy for him.
“Yeah, I think that’ll work,” he said.
“You look nice in a hat,” she observed, lightly smacking the bill.
“Hey now, watch it!” he said, and heard a familiar voice at the other end of the hall.
“Emma!” Morgan shouted walking towards her friend.
“I’ve gotta go,” Emma replied. “I’ll meet you after school at my car, okay?”
“Okay,” he said, and his heart tensed with jealousy.
He was there first. How could her stupid friend come in and steal her away just like that? He knew he’d get no other opportunity to talk with her that day unless Dr. Thompson gave them class
time to work on their papers. And he had a feeling that wasn’t going to happen. He walked to the other side of the hallway back to his locker. It was not far from hers; in fact, it was very close, and so he contented himself with at least being able to look at her in between classes. And he knew he would have her all to himself that afternoon. Suddenly, he didn’t care that Emma’s friend stole her away. She was his in seven hours.
***
“You keep a blanket in yo’ car?” he asked helping her get it out of the trunk. It was large and bulky.
“I told you I come to the park a lot,” she replied.
“And how you carry this thing by yo’self?” he asked. “It look heavier than you.”
Emma rolled her eyes.
“Here, I’ll take it,” he said, balling it up as best he could. It weighed nothing to him, but it was cumbersome.
Emma offered to carry his bag for him, and he laughed.
“Nah, I can manage. In fact, why don’t you give me yo’ bag,” he said, and before she could refuse, he took it off her shoulder.
They walked to a shady spot under a large oak tree near the edge of the park lake. Her arms were empty while Anton carried both book bags and the unwieldy blanket. She looked at him and grinned. Just like a boy, she thought. They have to be the heroes. She helped him spread the blanket then took her shoes off before sitting down. He reluctantly removed his shoes but left his socks on. Exposing his feet felt too vulnerable.
“I love doing work outside,” she said. “Well, I love doing anything outside, really.”
He watched her pull a binder from her book bag and open it to a page filled with notes about their paper.
“You got nice handwriting,” he said. “You write in cursive all the time?” he asked remembering the piece of paper she gave him with her contact information.
“Yeah, don’t you?”
“Girl, I don’t know how to write in no cursive,” he said.
“You never learned?” she asked bewildered.
“Well, sure. I mean I remember doin’ some of that in fourth grade. I never picked it up though. It easier to write in print.”
