I don’t like dodging him, but I like the idea of betraying Chingy’s confidence even less. “Never mind Chingy. What about you, kid? Who’re you seeing?”
Nestor shrugs. “I hit this one here, smash that one there. Nobody worth naming, you know. As nice as it would be to have someone official like that, a brother in this game can’t keep a decent female. If a girl knows you’re slinging and still wants to be with you, you have to wonder….” Nestor walks over to a parked car and leans against it. “Does she like me for who I am or what she thinks I can do for her?”
“But if the girl doesn’t know how you make your paper,” I say, “no need to worry about that.”
Nestor takes a deep swig of his soda. “But then what do you really have if you can’t be real with her? A man is what a man does, you know?”
“That’s not true.” I pace the sidewalk in front of Fratelli’s. “A man is more than what he does to make ends meet.”
“I didn’t say that was all he was, but…” Nestor gets off the car. “Okay, what does Rubio do?”
I give him a dirty look. “Don’t talk about him, yo.”
He throws his hands up. “What I say? Did I say anything bad about your pops? No. I just asked you what he does for a living.”
Nestor knows the man’s a mechanic. Before his father bounced, he used to take his car to Rubio’s shop all the time. Those two probably used to swap boasts about their jump-offs. “I heard what you asked, and I’m saying leave Rubio out of this conversation.”
Nestor sighs, then says, “Okay, what does Chingy’s father do?”
“He works for the Department of Labor in some office at the Hub. Something to do with veterans.” It comes back to me. “Yeah, he helps other veterans get jobs.”
“Right. Okay. When he’s not at work, what kind of things does he like to do?”
I have no idea where Nestor is taking this, but I have to admit he has my attention. “He and Mrs. Perry like to go to Atlantic City every once in a while. And he’s part of that bowling league. In fact, he’s the captain of his team.” All those trips to Harlem Lanes come back to me. It’d be just us guys, and, man, would we have fun! Nestor’s father even came along from time to time. Mr. Perry always invited Rubio, but he could never be bothered. I remember wondering out loud to my moms if it was because he was prejudiced. She had a fit. How could you say something like that about your father? Do you think he would let you be friends with Rashaan if he were a racist? Do you think he would’ve married me? And on and on and on. She lit into me, but then later I eavesdropped behind their bedroom door as she went after Rubio. Telling him things like the Perrys were buena gente, that he was offending them by never going bowling with us, and how did he think it made me feel to be the only boy whose father never went…. Rubio said that he was a grown man who could choose his own friends and had the right to spend his free time in whatever way he pleased without anybody’s assumptions and judgments. What Moms and I didn’t know then was that all those friends were females, and all that running around on her didn’t leave Rubio any time or energy to go bowling with me.
Nestor starts to count off on his fingers. “Okay, Mr. Perry’s a husband, a father, a veteran, a … What do you call it when you work for the government?”
“A civil servant.”
“Yeah, that’s it. He’s a husband, father, veteran, civil servant, bowler, gambler….” I shoot him a look. “What? I didn’t say it like that. Like he’s Pete Rose or some shit. I meant it like the bowling. A hobby.”
“A’ight.”
“So Mr. Perry is all those things, but let me ask you this, E. Where does he spend most of his time?”
“At his job, I guess.”
“So the man spends most of his waking hours at the Department of Labor helping veterans find jobs. That’s his primary role in life. No, the man’s not only his job, but the job is the main part of who he is.” Nestor pauses as if to give the point time to sink. “And if you think about it, E., it makes perfect sense. A man’s job says a lot about him. It tells you what he’s good at, what kind of people are around him most times, who relies on him for what…. Man, just the fact that he has a job—no matter what it is—says something about the kind of man he is. So, no, how a man makes his ends may not be the end-all, be-all of who he is, but it’s a big part of it, E. A real big part. So when I say a girl gets with you knowing that you’re slinging, you gotta hold her suspect—”
“And what if your girl doesn’t know?” I ask.
Nestor thinks about it for a second. Then he just shrugs. “Then I guess the one who’s suspect is you.” Then he lifts himself off the car and heads back to Fratelli’s. “Hope them heros is done, ’cause I’m starving.”
Buttress (v.) to support, hold up
From the first meeting of my SAT prep course, I feel a thousand times slicker. These instructors got tricks, yo. Like I can increase my score just by skipping entire sections of the test. I mean, I still have to boost my vocabulary and memorize mathematical formulas and whatnot, but this so-called aptitude test is as much about how to take the exam as it is about what material is on it. If I bust a score of 2200 in January, I basically paid two bucks per point. That’s a steal, if you ask me.
I feel so good when I leave Fordham that when I jump off the Bx19 bus, I head straight to Candace’s place. After a few more chaperoned visits with rentals and takeout, Ma Dukes finally agreed to let me take the girl off the block. Candace is mad excited. Even though her moms forbids us to leave the Bronx, she insists I take her someplace downtown. At first, I was having none of that, but Candace pleaded and schemed, and I finally agreed to take her to this restaurant called the Delta Grill so she can have a taste of Louisiana. I kind of like that my “nice Southern girl” has an edge, and I want her to feel the same way about her valedictorian. Could never have been able to afford that restaurant tutoring, that’s for sure.
When I arrive, her aunt lets me into the apartment. “Child, you’re a half hour early,” says Miss Lamb. “Candace hasn’t returned from her doctor’s appointment yet.”
She never mentioned any appointment. “Is Candace sick?” I ask.
Miss Lamb’s eyes open with the realization that she spoke out of turn. She nudges me back toward the door. “It’s probably best that you wait at home and come back in thirty minutes,” she says. “A lady doesn’t like to be caught off guard by her suitor, Efrain.”
What else can I do but step? When I get home, I reach out to Chingy, but his mother says he’s playing hoops at St. Mary’s. So I trip for the next half hour. Why would Candace keep something like that from me? Does she have an illness or disability that I can’t see? Is this why Candace said that sometimes she gets sick of people being nice to her?
I freshen up and arrive at her building on the hour. Instead of buzzing me in so I can head upstairs, Candace comes down to meet me. On sight we both know what’s up. She knows I know about her aunt’s slip of the tongue, I know she knows, she knows I know she knows. Just one nerve-racking metaphysical mess of a moment, man.
I say, “Ready to go?”
Pretending to fuss with her jacket to break eye contact, she just mumbles, “Yeah.”
“Still wanna go downtown?”
“Uh-huh.” Usually when Candace and I hang out, I take her hand or she links her arm through mine. It happens naturally. But today when we walk toward the subway, a yard of tension hangs between us. “Hey, how was your class?”
I tell her, trying to muster the same enthusiasm I had when I left the campus. I fake it long enough for the 6 train to come. Once we find seats on the subway, I finally ask, “How’s your day been so far?”
Candace takes a deep breath. Then she smiles. “Your ears must’ve been ringing, because I was talking about you.”
Her answer surprises me. “To who?”
“My group.”
Here it comes. “I didn’t know you were part of a group.”
“It’s not something I tell just anyone
. The few people outside my family who know either had to know or …” Candace finally looks me in the eye. “… I decided to trust them.” Like I told Chingy, I’m trying to know this girl. I mean, know her, know her. So I take her hand, and Candace squeezes it as if to transfer the truth without words. PE to KE. “It’s a support group for kids like me, you know, teenagers who survived Katrina. And Rita, too. Anyway, the doctor my bigmouth aunt told you about?” I laugh as she rolls her eyes, and the tension between us bends. “She runs the group. I meet with her one-on-one every Wednesday after school, and on Saturday mornings, we have group …” She hesitates to finish her sentence, and I squeeze her hand. “… therapy.”
Candace waits for me to say something. My girlfriend is in therapy. She sees a psychologist, psychiatrist, or whatever. Her problems are serious enough that the doctor needs to meet with her alone in private. I remember the rumor about why Candace transferred from Mott Haven to AC. I just shrug and say, “It’s all good.” What a stupid thing to say, E.! “I mean, not the reason why you have to go, obviously! Just the fact that you do go.” Man, I’m making a lot of assumptions. I ask, “Do you feel like it helps you?”
Candace nods. “My doctor says that she wishes I would talk more during group, but it helps me a lot to just listen. To know that I’m not alone. But today I talked a little.” And the way she looks at me says that even though I’m not a part of the group, I’m part of the therapy.
“Can I ask you something?”
Candace sighs with relief. “Please!”
“You promise you won’t get mad?”
“No, but ask me anyway.”
“It’s something I heard, and I just want to know what’s true.” I throw my hands up ready to block blows. “It’s not like I already believe it or anything like that.”
“Will you ask me already? And will you please put your hands down, Efrain? Everyone’s staring at us like a bad reality show couple.”
“My bad.” I drop my guard. “Okay … Is it true that …” I can’t keep it that real. How do I repeat the hurtful gossip about her now that I know she trusts me? “… you got expelled from Mott Haven for stabbing some girl and burying her under the football field?”
Candace hits me in the arm. “Shut up!” We laugh a bit, and then she says, “I was taking an elective in environmental justice, and I did my final presentation on New Orleans since Katrina. I knew things were bad at home, but, man …” She looks away from me, and I follow her eyes to the MTA’s Train of Thought ad across the car. In silence, we both read it.
There are roughly three New Yorks. There is, first, the New York of the man or woman who was born here, who takes the city for granted and accepts its size and its turbulence as natural and inevitable. Second, there is the New York of the commuter—the city that is devoured by locusts each day and spat out each night. Third, there is the New York of the person who was born somewhere else and came to New York in quest of something…. Commuters give the city its tidal restlessness; natives give it solidity and continuity; but the settlers give it passion.
Candace smiles at the ad, then turns back to me. “The school system in New Orleans was always bad, but now it’s worse. The crime rate’s off the meter…. Anyway, I finish my presentation, and the teacher asks if anyone has any questions. I’m one of the last people to go, and nobody’s been asking anybody questions all week. Then this girl Dacia yells, ‘You one of them refugees?’ And everybody starts laughing at me. Well, maybe some people were just laughing ’cause Dacia was supposed to present next if there was time left in the period.”
“Yeah, she was just asking questions to waste time.”
Candace shrugs. “Anyway, I say, no, I’m not a refugee, but the girl is like, ‘You kept saying how New Orleans is the City That Care Forgot and how the Black folks there were treated in an un-American way or whatever and that things are so bad that you had to leave and you can’t go back. That means you a refugee!’”
“And the teacher didn’t shut her down?”
“She tried. She explained that a refugee is a person who flees a foreign country to escape danger or persecution. Then the teacher asks me if there’s anything I want to add. I say, ‘Yes,’ and I look straight at Dacia and say, ‘Don’t call me a refugee.’ Then the teacher says it’s her turn, and I can go back to my seat. Then she starts clapping, and everybody else claps, too, but as I pass Dacia’s desk, she says, ‘Nice job, refugee.’ So I threw my notebook at her.” I start laughing. “That’s not funny, Efrain!”
“Did you break her jaw so the doctor had to wire it shut?”
“No!” But her eyes flash with horror.
“You hit her, though.” I can’t stop laughing. “You connected, didn’t you?”
“I would’ve missed her except she kind of walked into it so the edge of my book caught her in the nose.” A lot of girls I know would be bragging about that, but Candace sounds embarrassed. “Her nose bled a little, but I didn’t break anything, I swear.”
I stay laughing. “I believe you, mami.”
“What do they say about me at school?”
“That you hung some dude from the bleachers.” Before she can answer, I add, “And there’s another one that goes Candace snuck an AK-47 into the school and shot up her gym class.”
She finally smiles. “Uh-huh, I did that.” Candace no longer cares about the hurtful rumors, and that’s all that matters to me. “And you fixin’ to be next, so keep it up.”
“There’s one more story about you that they used for an episode of Law & Order.”
“Efrain, stop exaggerating!” Candace leans into me giggling.
Her touch pumps the idea into me like a transfusion. PE to KE. “I’m taking this year-long civil rights class and have to do a senior thesis,” I say. “Would you mind if I did something related to Hurricane Katrina and, you know, used your presentation as part of my research? Don’t worry, I won’t plagiarize.”
Candace glows. “You’d never do anything like that.” Then she kisses my temple. “You’re the best guy in the whole school.”
Inimical (adj.) unfriendly, hostile, having the disposition of an enemy
The block’s poppin’ more than usual even for a Thursday night. “It’s warm for November, the city workers got paid today …,” says Nestor. “I smell cheddar.” We had to re-up an hour earlier than usual, and I make money hand over fist. It’s dope to not grind for pennies. If every night were like this, I can see how dudes get caught up.
I only break for dinner, treating myself to un biftec empaniza’o with yellow rice and black beans at Floridita’s, a Puerto Rican restaurant across the street. When I walk out of Floridita’s, a disheveled guy wearing a week’s funk bops up to me.
“You got?”
“What you need?”
“I heard those white tops be whispering sweet nothings in a nigga’s ear,” he says.
It still bothers me to sell crack. The money is usually too good to resist, but I don’t need the extra sale tonight. “I’m out,” I lie, “but let me introduce you to my man over here.”
The throwback shakes his head. “Nah, man, never mind. My cash has to go long this weekend. You got any weed?”
“No doubt.”
“Hit me up with a nickel, then.” He gives me a ten-dollar bill, and I pocket it. I start to signal LeRon when I feel a hard yank on the hood of my jacket. I fly backward until I crash against the brick wall of the restaurant. A forearm slams across my throat, and my Adam’s apple reaches for my eyebrows.
Then milky dark eyes breathe the tang of stale endo into my face. “What the fuck you think you doing?”
With both hands, I grab at the arm and try to pry it off my neck. “Get the fuck off me, yo!”
“You run with Snipes!” The stench of old reefer invades my nostrils again, followed by another thrust of the forearm to my throat. “You one of Snipes’s boys, right?”
I close my eyes and brace myself for the blow. But then the forearm whips off my nec
k as if someone was rewinding a video. Then all I hear is a bunch of guys cursing, feet pounding, jackets chafing. I finally open my eyes to catch boys from my crew pulling back Nestor while some guys from Hinckley’s posse restrain one of their own. I run into the middle of the drama. “What the hell’s going on, man?”
“How you gonna try to hustle on this corner?” says this Latino kid I’ve never seen before. “All in our face like we ain’t shit.”
“You got it twisted,” says Nestor. “That’s all I was trying to explain, man. It’s just a misunderstanding ’cause my boy’s new, that’s all.”
“New, my ass!” shouts Reefer Breath. He’s a skinny, yellow-skinned dude with a knotty Afro and pointed jaw. “He’s been out here slinging long enough to not even be thinking about plying no trade on this side of the street.” He jabs his finger toward my face. “You finna get smoked?”
Nestor reaches into his pocket and moves toward Reefer. His boys crowd around him so our crew closes ranks around Nestor. Nestor takes a few steps back and raises his hands in the air, waving a fifty-dollar bill. “Look, let’s squash this before someone calls the po and we all get knocked, okay?” Soldiers on both sides mutter Word and For real. “Just consider this compensation for any inconvenience.”
Reefer Breath paces in a small circle like a mutt about to settle on a rug. He starts toward Nestor, but the Latino kid in his crew clamps a hand on his shoulder. “C’mon, Julian, squash it.”
Julian knocks off his friend’s hand. Eventually, he faces off with Nestor, but homeboy doesn’t blink. He just raises the bill and dangles it in front of Julian. They stare each other down for a few seconds with both posses set to jump. Finally, Julian snatches the fifty out of Nestor’s hand and walks around him to me. He points in my face and says, “This time it was a mistake. Next time …” His boys follow him, mean-mugging as they bop past me.
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