Still panting and sweating, Alice grimaced as she glanced up. But before the guy could say anything else, Jerome started shooting again. The brother ducked and dodged and raced back out of the building like he was related to Olympic star Carl Lewis.
“Fuck!” Jerome kicked a desk for having missed the guy. He turned back at the safe. He pulled on the lever, banged on it, and then even attempted to pick it up, but it wasn’t bulging. In the distance, police sirens wailed. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”
“Aaaaargh!” Alice felt the baby crown. “Jer—Aarargh!”
Finally giving up, Jerome jetted back around the counter. “Get the fuck up. We gotta go!”
“I…whew, whew…I can’t. Aaaargh!”
The sirens grew louder.
Jerome grabbed her by the arm and attempted to tug her toward the door, but Alice just screamed louder. “Fuck this shit. You’re on your own.” He grabbed her .38 from off the floor and stuffed it in his pocket.
“Wh-what?”
He bolted toward the door.
“Wait! Jerome! Don’t leave me! Jer—Aargggh!” She clutched her stomach and pushed down again.
The bell jingled as Jerome flew out the door, leaving her to deliver her baby right next to the dead woman on the floor.
Love
17
Ta’Shara
I sit mute in the police interrogation room. It’s been damn near six hours, and I still haven’t had my one phone call. Not that I’m in any hurry. My mind is running rampant with wild scenarios of Tracee and Reggie doing everything from beating, yelling, grounding, or even turning me back over to foster care. Still, I have no intention of talking. I’m not dumb. There’s nothing more dangerous on the streets than being labeled a snitch.
I have no doubt whatsoever that Profit is sticking to the script as well. No way will he give up his peoples or even Essence, for that matter, for the illegal gun. Our story is simply that we were at the wrong place at the wrong time. Essence’s burner is the only thing that can potentially trip us up. Where did it come from, and how did Profit get it?
Profit lied, saying he grabbed it off one of the dead victims, but there was one old dude huddled behind a potted plant that no one saw who reported to the police that Profit had raced into the lobby blasting at the thugs coming in from the streets. Then I stun everybody and said that gun was mine.
After that, I shut the hell up.
Now, an annoyed Officer Tanner stretches his long, lanky frame back into the metal chair across from me and expels a tired breath. In his eyes, it is clear that he would like nothing more than to wrap his hands around my throat in order to finally get some answers.
“C’mon, Ta’Shara. You look like a good girl,” the officer says with a belittling smile. “You just got yourself caught up in a bad situation. Maybe you thought being in a gang was cool or something. Maybe your boyfriend, Profit, talked you into joining or something. I get it. Girls like bad boys.”
I laugh.
“What? You think this shit is funny?” he challenges. “I got fifteen dead bodies on my hands. Eight of them innocent civilians who didn’t have shit to do with this damn gang war bullshit. They went to the hospital seeking medical assistance and ended up with bullets in their heads for their trouble. And you find that funny?”
I shut down at his combative tone.
He stares me down. “Now where would a good girl like you get a nine millimeter with the serial number filed off?”
Silence.
“You want to know what I think?” he asks.
I fold my arms under my breasts and just glare at the man across from me.
“I think that the gun belonged to your boy. I think it’s the same weapon that was used to kill a cop last night over in Orange Mound. I’m willing to bet my life on it.”
I roll my eyes and shake my head. This asshole was waaay the fuck off base.
“That shit is going to be confirmed when we run ballistics on the weapon. Are you sure you still want to claim that the weapon is yours? That could place you at the scene of another crime.”
“You do what you gotta do,” I say evenly, and stop myself from flashing the annoying cop my middle finger.
“All right, smart-ass.” The cop jumps up from his seat, the metal chair flipping backward and banging against the floor. “I’m sick and tired of this bullshit. I’m sick and tired of seeing you young gangstas holding this damn city hostage. I grew up in this city.” He paces in front of the table. “It used to be a good place to raise a family. Home of the blues and Elvis Presley. Tourists flocked to this city for good music and good barbeque. Now we bag bodies like it’s a goddamn third world country!”
My expression doesn’t change. This pig ain’t getting shit.
“Fuck it!” He turns, kicks the chair, and finally storms out of the room.
I exhale and my shoulders deflate before I swipe the tear away before it rolls down my face. I didn’t have shit to do with happened tonight, and I ain’t about to let some racist muthafucka pin the woes of the world on my shoulders. I have bigger problems—the main one being LeShelle.
I still can’t believe my older sister was just seconds away from putting a bullet into Profit—and then him turning to polish her off. Shit. Everything happened so fast. It was amazing that I had even recognized LeShelle when I came running into the waiting room. What would’ve happened had I not chased after Profit? I shift around in my chair, ready for these muthafuckas to either charge me with something or let me go.
Two hours later, they finally release me to my foster parents.
A relieved Tracee sweeps me into her arms and squeezes me so tight I come close to suffocating. I don’t complain, mainly because I can feel Tracee’s thin frame trembling as she plants kisses over the top of my head. “Thank God,” she sobs. “I was so worried.”
My gaze shifts over Tracee’s shoulder to Reggie. A mass of thin worry lines monopolize his forehead and his dark eyes.
“Are you all right?” he asks gruffly.
I nod as tears sting the backs of my eyes. I remain silent after hours of interrogation and here, after just a few seconds with foster parents, I want to confess everything. The last thing I want them to believe is Officer Tanner’s outlandish lies about me being involved with a gang. They have done so much for me, and I don’t want them to regret it.
“Good.” Reggie coughs and clears his throat before turning away, but not in time to hide the flicker of disappointment on his face. “Let’s get out of here.”
Tracee finally pulls back enough for me to breathe and then loops my arm through hers before leading me out of the precinct and to a rented Nissan. Once I’m in the backseat, I hand Reggie his car keys and tell him where his car is parked at the hospital, but I don’t tell him about the busted taillight. For that, I wait until he sees it for himself.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble weakly.
Reggie remains silent, which only makes me feel worse. They’re going to send me back. My mind scrambles for something I can say or do to make things up to them, but I can’t think of a damn thing. Tracee scoots behind the wheel of the Nissan and tells me to come sit next to her in the passenger seat since Reggie will take his car straight to work.
I climb out of the backseat and walk over to the passenger side. Briefly, I catch Reggie’s eyes, but he quickly turns. I sniff but am unable to keep my tears from splashing down my face. Opening the passenger door, I glance up at the hospital. There are still teams of police cars and media vans littering the front—a reminder that last night’s shooting wasn’t just some nightmare. I sit down and buckle my seat belt and then cast a final glance at the hospital, trying to guess which window belonged to Profit or whether he was still even there dealing with his shoulder.
“What were you thinking?” Tracee asks the moment she shifts the car into drive. “A gang?”
“I’m not in a gang,” I mumble.
“The police said—”
“The police don’t know what the fuc
k they’re talking about.”
She whips her head toward me. “Watch your mouth, young lady!”
I drop my head. “Sorry.”
“I don’t know what the hell has gotten in to you,” Tracee starts again. “After all Reggie and I have done for you.”
The tears return. “I know.” I sniff and try to mop them up with the back of my hand. “But I swear to you, I’m not in a gang.”
Tracee shakes her head as if she can’t bring herself to believe me. Now that she has reassured herself that I’m all right, she shifts gears and is showing her disappointment. “Does any of this have anything to do with your sister?”
I stiffen. “Why would you ask that?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because sneaking out of the house, stealing Reggie’s car, and being involved in some gang shoot-out sounds more like something LeShelle would do.” She pulls up into our driveway and parks.
I look away.
“Well?” Tracee presses. “Does any of this have anything to do with LeShelle?”
More tears burn the backs of my eyes. No matter what has happened between me and LeShelle in the past, there’s no way I can or will sell her out—despite what it might cost me. I turned my back on my sister once; I don’t have it in me to do it again.
The silence in the car thickens. After a full minute, Tracee turns away as if she can’t stand to look at me anymore. “You better go and get dressed for school.”
“Aren’t you going to ask me what happened?”
“Are you going to tell me the truth?”
I shut down. I hadn’t planned on telling the whole truth, just parts of it. The Douglases couldn’t handle the real truth. Not them, nestled in their green lawn suburban fantasy. Dinner at six, in bed by nine, and church every Sunday. What did they know about trying not to get punked or jumped in school by so many different gangs no one can possibly keep count? What did they know about falling for a guy who everyone keeps telling you you can’t have? Or what it feels like to constantly battle my sister’s wishes, but still rely on her and her status for protection?
“We’ll talk about it tonight,” Tracee says, turning and then climbing out of the car. She doesn’t even wait for me to follow her into the house. In fact, it seems like she wants to get away from me as fast as she can.
An hour later, I’m dropped off at school. Things quickly go from bad to worse. With word of last night’s battle between the GDs and Vice Lords, everyone is reppin’ their shit hard. From the front door to my locker, I pass five fights where niggas are body slamming each other against every goddamn thing. Those who aren’t fighting are just hollering and egging the shit on like it is all just a big-ass game.
I have never skipped school, but I’m seriously considering it. At least until everything calms down again. I search through the crowd, looking for my girl Essence. I don’t know if she got locked up last night or if she just high-tailed it out of that muthafucka after the shit went down. Since she already has a rap sheet a mile long, she most likely just got the fuck on.
Some trick shoves her way through the crowd and shoulder bumps me so hard I hit the floor. “What the fuck?” I scramble back to my feet before niggas seize the opportunity to stomp on my ass.
“Hey, bitch,” Qiana spits. “’Member me?”
Before I have a chance to respond, Qiana comes at me like a raging bull and slams me against a row of lockers. In the next second, she swipes her small loop earring out of her ear and a fist slams against the right side of my jaw. “I told your ass to stay the fuck away from Profit.”
A fury I have never experienced before explodes out of me, and I just start swinging. Once I get started, I can’t stop. I rage against the fucked-up street politics that keep trying to lock me up in a steel cage. My fists fly and connect against Qiana’s short chin. Then I surprise the cheering crowd by spitting out a short razor I keep tucked in my cheek and use with lightning precision.
Just because I ain’t in a gang don’t mean that I don’t come correct. Qiana is learning that shit quick, fast, and in a hurry. She tries to get the fuck out of the way of my blade when it comes slicing toward her face. She fails and cries out when her right cheek splits open.
“Ahh. Got damn!” A nigga laughs and points from the sidelines. “Cut that bitch again!”
The crowd cheers and kicks Qiana back into the circle when she attempts to flee with her hand holding her face together. Blood gushes through her fingers and drips onto the floor. Nobody gives a fuck, especially my ass. I’m ready to polish this bitch off once and for all.
“Come on, bitch,” I taunt, waving her forward. “You’ve been talking shit for a minute. Let me show you how I get down!”
“Oooooh,” the crowd choruses, and then waits to see what the fuck Qiana is gone do.
Qiana keeps one hand against the side of her face, but with the other withdraws a gray metal box cutter—old-school shit. “All right, bitch. You wanna do this?” she sneers with thick wads of spit popping out of her mouth. She slides back the lever, and a thin, rusty blade rises up. “Let’s see if Profit wants you after I finish slicing yo ass up.”
I cock my head and keep waving the girl forward. I can’t wait to shut this bitch up once and for all. Maybe I’ll finally start getting some respect of my own. It’s way past time for a little bit of that. “C’mon, bitch. You think you’re bad enough to do it, then bring on your nasty, tricked-out ass,” I challenge.
Qiana inches around in a circle, but doesn’t make any sudden moves. Clearly she is looking for her other girls to jump in and back her up. But both us notice that there’s just as many Queen Gs holding the line with their arms folded as there are Flowers.
This is my and Qiana’s fight, and it’s gonna stay that way.
I laugh. After all this time of talking shit, this bitch is too fuckin’ scared to even make a move. “Whatcha waitin’ for, huh? You want my man, right? Ain’t that what this bullshit is all about? Profit doesn’t want your diseased pussy that be funkin’ up the goddamn hallways on the regular. Shit. Why don’t you douche that muthafucka after you let niggas run a train on you? I can fuckin’ smell you from here.”
“Awwww sheeeiiit,” niggas snap.
“Fuck you, bitch!” Qiana lunges, bringing the box cutter up high in the air.
I keep my moves short and quick, slicing open Qiana’s other cheek like the muthafucka is made out of butter. Euphoria surges through me when Qiana drops the box cutter and more blood pours out the other side of her face.
“Whup that bitch. Stomp that bitch. Finish that bitch off,” starts as a chant and then quickly sounds like a song. “Whup that bitch. Stomp that bitch. Finish that bitch off. Whoa!”
But the Flowers have seen about as much as they care to and surge forward to break the line. The Queen Gs do likewise and a full war breaks out.
“Break it up! Break it up!” Principal Davis shouts at the top of his lungs. Behind him a team of teachers pushes and shoves kids out of the way, but the crowd pushes back. One teacher screams when someone snatches her perfectly coiled bun and yanks her to the ground.
Principal Davis changes directions to help her. “Mrs. Fisher. Mrs. Fisher, are you all right?”
Somebody clocks me from behind, and I stumble to the floor where Qiana’s blood smears across my jeans and T-shirt. I panic because the bitch is liable to have any goddamn thing. My attacker keeps at me, but since she is behind me, I can’t see who it is.
“Get off her, bitch!” Essence’s squeaky baby voice slices through the chaos.
I have never been so happy and relieved to hear from my girl. The feeling is amplified when Essence knocks my attacker off of me. With all the pushing and shoving that’s going on, it’s amazing that I can even get back on my feet without being stomped to death.
POP! POP! POP!
“Shit!” I duck. I should’ve known that it was just a matter of time for shit to pop off.
Everyone screams and takes off running.
POP! POP
! POP!
“Come with me!” Essence shouts, grabbing me by the hand and jerking me toward one of the school’s side doors.
“Wait, E!” I struggle to keep up with my girl. “What happened last night? Do you know where Profit is?”
“We’re dodging bullets and you’re asking me about some nigga?” E asks, incredulous. Outside, she pulls me to the side. “Yo, you’re my girl and everything, but he’s got your nose blown wide open, and, news flash, we in the middle of a muthafuckin’ gang war, and you’re two steps from getting us both killed. And now the whole school knows you that nigga’s bitch. It’s amazing that the Queen Gs even had your back.”
“What? Nobody helped me fight that bitch Qiana.”
“Yeah. You keep telling yourself that.” She rolls her eyes and grabs my arm again. “C’mon.”
“Look, I understand if you’re still mad about last night, but I gotta find out what’s going on with Profit. If he’s been arrested or…” I finally see where Essence is leading me. I stop and jerk my hand free. “What the hell is she doing here?”
Essence turns. “She wants to talk to you.”
I shake my head. “I don’t have shit to say to her.”
“Stop being hardheaded,” Essence says. “You don’t really have a choice. Either come with me or she’ll just get someone else to drag you kicking and screaming.” She folds her arms. “And you know she will.”
Drawing a deep breath, I glare at E. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I am—even when it doesn’t look like it.”
While kids still scramble out of the building, I force myself to swallow my pride and walk toward the burgundy Crown Victoria where LeShelle sits, drumming her fingers and glaring at me.
18
LeShelle
POP! POP! POP!
“Will you hurry the fuck up?” I snap. I’m already pissed that I even had to come up to this bitch in the first place, and now Ta’Shara is acting like she has all the time in the world to get her ass in the car. I’m already agitated because I haven’t slept in almost forty-eight hours. My mind’s cluttered with questions. After I got separated from Python at the auto shop, I never heard from him. I know that he text-messaged McGriff that he was all right, but he hasn’t contacted me. That shit is bugging me the fuck out, but right now, I’m in ass-covering mode, and I need to know what the hell is going on with Ta’Shara and that nigga who capped a few GDs last night. I ain’t down for a blowback about shit I don’t know about.
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