“That Nazi went too far this time! He fired Tyreke while his girlfriend’s dying in the hospital!”
“Now that’s just downright cold,” Kazim quipped. “Firing someone on Labor Day!”
Marley narrowed his eyes at Kazim, This ain’t time for jokes!
Jeylan jerked loose of Marley’s grip and stormed out.
While his friends were usually off at the billiards hall on Monday nights, D’Melo volunteered with Baba at the Lincoln Downs Health Clinic. Although Baba wasn’t allowed to practice medicine, he mentored the younger doctors. D’Melo didn’t do much in terms of work. He went mainly to see his father in action. He reveled in Baba’s energized spirit. His father was finally in his element, like a fish released into a lucid pond. D’Melo beamed with pride at how much the clinic staff admired and respected his father. He could have stayed there forever soaking it in. But that night, his time was cut short.
His phone buzzed. It was Marley in a tizzy explaining how Jeylan was about to get himself into serious trouble. “D’Melo, you gotta get down to the drugstore and stop him. You’re the only person he listens to.”
D’Melo bolted out of the clinic. By the time he reached the store, Jeylan had already managed to get inside. Just as D’Melo was about to enter, a light went on in an upstairs window. For a brief moment, he wavered—his life, his future in the balance. If he was arrested, he could lose the scholarship he needed to go to college, and the orderly and ordinary life he desired so deeply. But as usual, his heart bested his wary mind. He could never hang his friend out to dry.
He nudged the door ajar, careful not to chime the shopkeeper’s bell dangling behind it. Jeylan was spray-painting his indignation in huge letters on a wall.
“Jey! Let’s go!”
D’Melo yanked on his shirt but Jeylan wriggled free.
“Hey! We gotta get out of here!” D’Melo whispered desperately through clenched teeth. “Someone’s upstairs!”
“No one’s here,” Jeylan grumbled, nearly finished with his hateful display. “My brother said the Nazi and his wife are out with friends.”
D’Melo snatched the paint can from Jeylan’s hand. “I’m telling you, someone’s upstairs!” D’Melo exhorted, emphasizing as much urgency as he could in a hushed voice. “A light came on.”
He clutched Jeylan’s arm and steered him forcefully to the door. The creak of a loose floorboard at the rear of the shop pierced the silent darkness, throwing them into a panic. Jeylan flung the door open, neglectful of the bell. Ding-ding! Ding-ding! Usually the soft chime of the bell evoked old-fashioned mirthful images of festive holiday times. But now it sounded more like the locking clank of a prison-cell door. D’Melo spun around. The silhouette of a woman brandishing a baseball bat materialized on the stairway in back.
D’Melo hustled Jeylan out of the store. A police siren wailed in the distance. They ducked into a dark alley and flattened their bodies against a brick wall. A red light whirled over their tense faces as the police car screamed past. They peaked around the corner to make sure the coast was clear, then skulked the few blocks to D’Melo’s house, keeping low and in the shadows.
“What were you thinking?” D’Melo shouted at Jeylan, his heart pounding.
Jeylan knew that D’Melo avoided trouble like his ancestors had avoided lions. “I don’t know, man,” he panted, trying to catch his breath. “I just lost my head.” He laid an apologetic hand on D’Melo’s shoulder. “I’m sorry I got you into this.”
D’Melo’s mind was churning. What if the woman recognized me? D’Melo was very well known in the community because of his basketball stardom. I’m screwed. His heart dropped when he thought of Baba. What if Baba comes home and he sees me getting arrested? He massaged his temples, trying to ease the dizziness in his head.
“Jey, on your way home, you gotta stay out of sight,” D’Melo cautioned. “If the police see you at this hour on a school night, they’ll assume it was you that broke into the store.”
“Alright, dawg,” Jeylan concurred. They clasped hands into a shoulder bump. Jeylan scanned the length of the street, then vanished into the night.
D’Melo stirred fretfully in bed. It was too dark in there. I couldn’t see her, so I’m sure she couldn’t see me either. While this thought provided him with a sliver of comfort, he was mostly waiting in knots for the police to pound on the door any second.
An hour passed. D’Melo twisted and turned until he finally fell into a restless sleep, marred once again by images of his mother being killed. But this time, he was the one driving the car that thrust her into oncoming traffic. The police arrested him. Baba staggered, feral-eyed and unkempt, into the dank prison visiting room. Reeking of alcohol, he settled himself at the cold gray metal table that separated him from D’Melo.
D’Melo recoiled at Baba’s pungent whiskey breath. “Baba, have you been drinking?”
Baba’s eyes, glassy from tears of disappointment and drunkenness, rose to meet D’Melo’s. “Son, I never expected this from you,” he slurred. “I must have done something wrong. I can’t live anymore knowing that you’re in here because I failed you.” He removed a shiny pistol from inside his coat.
“Baba! What are you doing?” D’Melo checked the room frantically to see if any guards were watching.
Baba jabbed the pistol into his own chest.
“No!” D’Melo lunged across the table. He was too late. An ear-splitting gunshot rang out and Baba collapsed to the floor. D’Melo tried to dive down to him but was jolted back by the heavy chains anchoring him to the table. He yanked desperately to free himself of the shackles keeping him from his father. A dark maroon shadow crept along the floor around Baba’s lifeless body.
“Baba!” D’Melo screamed. “What did I do!”
D’Melo jerked awake, his heart thumping fiercely. Baba rushed in. He wrapped concerned arms around D’Melo. “It’s okay, son. Just another nightmare.”
D’Melo squeezed so tight that Baba struggled for air.
“Baba, I’m so sorry,” he wailed. D’Melo then stammered through what had happened with Jeylan at the drugstore.
Baba seemed to have let out a small sigh of relief. Things could have been much worse. In Lincoln Downs, hardly a day passed without a tragic story. Senseless killings, police brutality, and drug addiction headlined the array of misfortunes that plagued the lives of the young men in the community.
“All I ever wanted was a quiet and peaceful life,” D’Melo groaned, disappointed with himself. “What if the police find out I was there? They’ll never believe that I wasn’t a part of vandalizing the store.”
“Son, you didn’t do anything wrong. You must trust that the Great Spirit will work in your favor.”
D’Melo’s alarm clock shrieked to life. He exhaled a heavy breath.
“Breakfast is already on the table,” Baba said. “Your first day of school—new year, new eyes.”
D’Melo dragged himself out of bed. The excitement he felt just a day ago had been replaced with the anxious gnawing in his gut that had become all too familiar. Perhaps he subconsciously sensed that before long, the reality of his life would be far more horrifying than his nightmares.
Chapter Two
“I’m Zara. Zara Zanič.”
D’Melo waited at the window for Jeylan to swagger up. This had been their morning routine for the past ten years. On schedule, unlaced Timberlands clomped along the timeworn sidewalk. D’Melo kissed Baba’s cheek and bounded out the door.
On the way to school, neither mentioned the previous night’s foolhardy fiasco. Giving voice to it would only have provoked D’Melo’s volatile angst and made Jeylan feel guiltier than he already did.
A block from the school, Marley and Kazim were clowning at the corner, waiting for their friends. The four had been inseparable from the day D’Melo moved into the neighborhood.
Just after Christmas of 2008,
ten years ago, Baba and D’Melo had arrived in Lincoln Downs. Their moving van ground to a halt in front of the brick row house Baba had rented. D’Melo’s seven-year-old legs wobbled as he lugged boxes nearly as big as he was up the stoop stairs. Then, the moment they were more or less settled into their new house, D’Melo scooped up his basketball and started for the door.
“It’s too cold for basketball,” Baba cautioned.
But mere frigid air couldn’t deter D’Melo from the love of his life. “It’s never too cold for basketball,” he chirped.
The local court was tattered and neglected—frayed nets clung to the hoops for dear life and there were more weed-filled cracks on the court than visible painted lines. But D’Melo couldn’t have cared less. As long as there was a court and a hoop, he was good to go.
He squeaked open the rusted chain-link gate, having no idea he was about to enter hallowed ground. The Citadel, as it is known in Philadelphia, was a celebrated institution at one point in time—“The Pride of the City.” Many Philadelphia basketball legends had graced the Citadel with their mastery. Some even went on to memorable careers in the NBA.
Because of the Citadel, during the summers Lincoln Downs was transformed into a basketball mecca, buzzing with life and excitement. The community was treated to a packed schedule of tournaments, slam-dunk contests, and shooting competitions—and, of course, the over-the-top bravado of the competitors, who whipped the crowds into a frenzy.
But over the years, the talent declined and the glorious summer games gradually withered away. Eventually, and tragically, the thrills and athleticism on the court were replaced by gang activity. So the Citadel, once a shining symbol of community harmony and the epicenter of a vibrant Lincoln Downs, lost its allure and fell from grace.
The day D’Melo arrived, he was delighted to see boys his age engaged in a heated three-on-three game against a rival neighborhood. Jeylan, Kazim, and Marley were already losing badly when Marley twisted his ankle and couldn’t continue. Jeylan and Kazim, always up for a challenge, were going to finish the game with just the two of them—Marley, being a tad plump and athletically-challenged, was never much help anyway.
But then a mousy voice screeched from the warped wooden bleachers. Unbeknownst to the small group of bystanders braving the cold, this was the seminal moment that would eventually return the Citadel to the height of basketball glory it once enjoyed.
D’Melo was waving his hand at them enthusiastically. “I can play!”
Jeylan scrutinized D’Melo warily, sizing him up like a seasoned scout. “Are you from the LD?” he asked, his breath creating a cloud in the cold air.
“The LD?” D’Melo puzzled.
“Dawg—Lincoln Downs.”
“Oh! Yeah, I just moved here.”
Jeylan’s eyes flashed to Kazim for his approval. Kazim shrugged, blowing into his small kid hands to keep his fingers from becoming icicles.
“Come on then.” Jeylan waved D’Melo onto the court.
The smattering of bored onlookers turned their attention to the lanky kid sashaying across the frozen concrete. Jeylan pulled D’Melo aside for a pep talk.
“Listen, dawg. This game ain’t no joke. I don’t wanna lose to these fools. If we do, we gonna hear it all week in school about how we got beat by these Carver Heights jokers. Game’s to twenty. Make it, take it. We losin’ eighteen, thirteen. You pretty tall, so you guard their big guy.”
When the game resumed, D’Melo called for the ball, but Jeylan and Kazim only passed between themselves. Then Jeylan shot and missed. D’Melo leapt, snagged the rebound, and scored a left-handed reverse layup. Jeylan and Kazim gaped. Next possession, they passed to D’Melo. He dribbled hard left, spun back, and scored a floater in the lane. Murmurs of curious delight rose with sporadic puffs of white mist among the handful of now roused spectators.
Jeylan huddled with Kazim and D’Melo. “Hey, if we hit a three, we win.” Jeylan turned to D’Melo. “You kinda big. Can you shoot three-pointers?” D’Melo nodded confidently. Jeylan mapped out a play on his shivering hand and then broke the huddle. Kazim drove to the basket. He passed to Jeylan cutting backdoor. D’Melo slipped out to the corner three-point line. Jeylan zipped him a timely pass. D’Melo set his feet and let it fly with all that his seven-year-old body could muster. Swish!
The crowd bounced to its collective feet and burst into cheers, as if Lincoln Downs had just won the state championship. Jeylan and Kazim dashed to D’Melo and gave him a running chest bump. Jeylan swaggered over to the Carver Heights team and shot out his hand. They reached into their pockets and cobbled together ten dollars.
“See y’all suckers next week!” Jeylan gloated.
Before Jeylan could even feel the weight of the cash in his hand, Marley hobbled over and seized it. “I’ll take that,” he interjected. “Nice addition to our grad fund.”
D’Melo was befuddled. “You play for money?”
“Yep,” Jeylan said happily. “And now with you on our team, we gonna be rich!”
From that day on, their friendship evolved into the tightest of brotherly bonds—and gained them much notoriety. The denizens of all the local neighborhoods started respectfully referring to them as “the LD Boyz,” or simply, “the Boyz.”
As D’Melo entered the school, his emotions were swirling wildly. They ranged from elation about getting his final year underway to mourning that his extraordinary high school experience would end in just nine short months. From the anticipated thrill of stepping back onto the hardwood court to the dread of the bright light of stardom, a double-edged sword that would stalk him incessantly throughout the year. From reveling at the thought of the pride Baba would feel on graduation day to grieving about his mother not being there to see him receive his diploma.
Still, he found himself smiling as he took in familiar and comforting sights. Marley was poking unwitting students with his Lumalink, informing them of what their clothes were made of; Kazim implemented the first stages of his honey plan and was met with sneering rejection; and Jeylan stomped a pace ahead of D’Melo, as if he was his bodyguard. This was just what D’Melo needed to settle the pendulum swing of his emotions. Like Baba at the clinic, D’Melo was back in his element.
As he cleared the metal detector and the police pat-down, he was immediately confronted by what he dreaded most: attention. Life-sized banners picturing him in his basketball uniform festooned the length of the gray, institutional hallway.
“Oh, come on,” Jeylan muttered. “For real?” Jeylan, knowing D’Melo better than anyone, rolled up the banners one by one. “Don’t worry, D,” he said. “I’ll talk to Mr. Jamison about this.” Mr. Jamison, the school principal, meant well but didn’t fully grasp the extent to which D’Melo loathed the spotlight.
Other than the banners that pained his privacy, nothing of note happened during the school day. Just the usual exaggerated chatter about what everyone did over the summer and updates on the community—who got arrested, who got killed, and who got the new LeBron sneakers. D’Melo relished its normality.
In addition to his basketball accomplishments, D’Melo was student council president. As such, he occupied an office in the administrative suite after school every day. These office hours were for students to consult with their elected leader for the purpose of expressing their grievances or offering thoughts on how to improve the school.
However, since D’Melo’s election last year, only three people had ever shown up to talk to him—Jeylan, Kazim, and Marley—and it never had anything to do with the school. They just came to hang out. Even so, D’Melo hadn’t missed a single after-school session as president.
This day in his office was like pretty much all the others. After an uninterrupted session, D’Melo packed up his notebooks and got ready to leave.
Then, just as the office clock was about to tick 3:30, she blew in.
D’Melo was certai
n she was new. Even in a school of over a two thousand students, not noticing her was inconceivable. Not only was she just one of seven white students in the whole school, but she was particularly impossible to miss. The moment she bounded through the door, the energy in the office seemed to spike, like the numbers on a Richter scale during an earthquake. Her dynamism radiated through the chipping cinder-block walls. And if her vivacious aura wasn’t enough, she looked like a model. Her shiny, perfectly coiffed red hair with a natural tinge of fiery orange, slightly wavy toward the ends, swung just below her athletic shoulders. Her alluring countenance featured a sculpted jawline, high cheekbones, a perfectly rounded forehead, and minimal makeup—perhaps in recognition that to cover that face would have been nothing less than criminal.
Her well-thought-out ensemble completed her super-stylish presentation. She teamed light blue skinny jeans with a slim fit T-shirt tucked only in the front. A fine scarf made of an African-patterned fabric was looped gently around her elegant neck, its earthy tones floating from over her shoulder to her elbow. Her outfit was pulled together by a rustic beaded necklace, at the end of which hung a Bohemian polymer clay pendant of concentric circles dangling just above her belt line.
D’Melo scurried around his desk. He ducked behind the doorframe and peered stealthily out into the reception area. Is someone filming a movie in our school? he wondered. His enraptured gaze tracked her as she marched toward principal Jamison’s door. Her brown suede, knee-high boots clacked with purpose on the worn wooden floor until . . . “Ugf!” She rammed into the corner of the receptionist’s desk.
“Oooh,” D’Melo winced. “That’s gonna bruise.”
The stranger paused, apparently allowing the stinging throb to subside. She composed herself, then tramped straight past the expectant secretary into Mr. Jamison’s office—she didn’t even bother to knock.
“Dang,” D’Melo thought, riveted. “This girl’s got some serious gumption . . . or she’s just straight-up whacked.”
Spirit King: Return of the Crown Page 4
