Quadir gulped. “Um, nah. But, we could just make friends. It’s cool.”
Jarrell straightened and sucked his teeth. “What? You mean you don’t know nobody? Aw, hell nah, we out!”
“Wait, hold up! We just got here.”
“You bugging! Got us out here looking scrambling, plotting on people’s food and shit.”
Steph shook his head. “Rell’s right. I ain’t with this.”
Quadir’s heart raced, his hands drenched again. He hadn’t thought his plan through fully. He expected his friends to go along with it like they went along with all his ideas. He knew it was selfish, but what he had to do . . . he felt better having them near.
“Just a few more minutes. Or . . . maybe we can ask to play?”
“Yeah, and get played,” Rell said, hopping off the bench. “Let’s bounce. We can play at the courts back home. With OUR peoples.”
Quadir glanced over his shoulder, focused on a shirtless brown-skinned brotha in red shorts taking it to the hoop, girls on the bleachers cheering him on.
“Man, forget y’all, then. Never wanting to try nothing new. You go on home if y’all want.”
Jarrell shrugged with a laugh, chucking the deuces, and headed for the gate. But Steph noticed the desperation in Quadir’s eyes and the way he kept clocking that one kid on the court.
Following Jarrell, Steph gave the court another once-over, and that’s when he saw it. Red Shorts duke giving Quadir a subtle head nod.
But he said he didn’t know anyone out here, Steph pondered. Unless he was supposed to find someone. Or they were supposed to find him.
Steph stopped in his tracks, glancing at Quadir’s new green shorts. “I know he didn’t . . .”
He charged back to the bench, shoving Quadir out of his way.
“Yo, son! What you doing?”
Steph snatched Quadir’s bag, ripping it open. Packed at the bottom was a ziplock . . . the crack vials had mini red caps.
He grabbed Quadir by the collar and shouted under his breath. “Son, are you fucking crazy?”
Quadir flustered, his hands up to block a hit. He had never seen Steph so enraged.
“Come on, man,” he stuttered. “I ain’t doing nothing, just . . . making a delivery.”
“Are you stupid? And you bringing me and Rell with you? What if this was a setup? A trap? We could’ve all gone down!”
“Aight! I’m sorry.”
“What the fuck you doing getting wrapped up in this shit?”
Quadir stared at the ground, shame cast upon his face. “It was only supposed to be one time. Just something to make some bread. Son, we need it.”
Steph could kill Quady. But he knew his friend’s heart. He knew he’d sacrifice everything he had for others. Even his innocence.
Steph noticed Red Shorts watching them from the court. He loosened his grip.
“Go home, Quady,” he snapped. “Forget this shit. And I’m . . . doing this for your own fucking good.”
He grabbed a bag off the bench and stormed off. Once out the gate, Steph passed a cluster of cats chilling by the car with Fast Pace on repeat. That’s when he overheard a light-skinned duke in a red tank top and jeans with bad acne say the familiar name that made his heart jump out of his throat.
“Oh yeah, that Rashad kid lived over on Ralph Ave . . .”
Frozen in fear, Quadir watched Steph through the gate, wondering if their friendship could still be salvaged. Would he ever forgive him? Could he even forgive himself? Red Shorts shook his head and kept playing. Too many eyes on him, the dropoff clearly canceled.
Quadir grabbed his bag, noticeably lighter than before, and opened it with a groan.
Steph had switched their book bags.
37
Quadir
All I want to do is dive on the sofa and play Jeopardy next to my moms. I’m wrecked. Last person I wanted to hurt was Jasmine. She’s been through enough. The look on her face, I swear I’ll remember that for the rest of my life.
Rell is on the courts when I make it to B-Voort, and I’m mad happy to see a familiar face.
“What up, son!” I yell from the gate.
He glances over his shoulder and continues shooting his free throw. I must be tripping, ’cause I swear he looks tight. He didn’t even crack a smile. Maybe the light just blinded me or something. I’m halfway across the court when I peep his kicks.
“Aye yo, what’s that on your feet?”
Rell pivots his foot and grins.
“Oh, these? These are them new Air Jordans XIV.”
Those cost a grip, no less than two stacks. How he get the . . .
“Yo son, we’re not supposed to be messing with that money yet,” I snap. “We agreed—”
“How was your trip to Bishop today?” he asks with a sly grin. “You like it? They treat you right? Team was cool?”
Damn, I didn’t have a chance to tell Rell about Bishop yet. Not that I wasn’t going to, I just didn’t have a chance.
That’s a lie, I didn’t want to be talked out of it. Deadass, I wanted this decision to be my own.
He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, don’t act like you don’t have plans for that money too.”
“Aight, so I got plans. Ain’t like I’m acting on them plans YET! You out here flossing! If Jasmine find out you dipped into that money—”
“Oh yeah, how is Jasmine? I saw her running by here not too long ago, crying. Trouble in paradise?”
I keep my face straight. I don’t want him thinking his little game is affecting me.
“Son, I don’t know what you talking about.”
He bounces the ball. “Man, you out here keeping secrets. Lots of them.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He chuckles. “Nothing, man. Nothing.”
Damn, did Jasmine already tell him about the drugs? He probably hates me too. Seems like everyone does now.
“Anyways, so about this track with Fast Pace,” Rell says, throwing another free throw and missing. “They don’t have to record ‘together.’ I’m thinking, how about we let him record first, grab the track, then find some old verse to throw on there. Maybe we could convince them to record at Kaven’s. I know it ain’t all official like what the celebrities be using, but Pace is from the hood like us. I bet you he’ll be down. We can even dress Jasmine up again, take pics of her in the booth. What’d you think?”
The plan sounds . . . mad dumb.
“Rell,” I sigh. “I think we need to come clean.”
He stops dribbling, shifting the ball under his armpit. “What?”
“Son, the shit is getting too hot! We can’t keep this up anymore.”
“So after ALL that. All that running up in studios, trekking down Fulton, late nights sneaking, chucking and jiving for some Harlem cat, you just ready to give up? You got the money you need for school, so you good now? Nah, I’m trying to get paid for real! You might be living that good life, but I’m still up in the projects.”
It always comes back to this . . . money. “Son, we gonna have to come clean eventually. How long you really think we were gonna be able to keep this up. And Jasmine is—”
“Ohhhh right. Jasmine. Of course,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “I knew it had to be some chick. You ain’t never been one to think on your own.”
I take a step forward, ready to shove the ball down his damn throat. “Yo, what’d you say?”
“You been creeping on Steph’s sister from the moment his body went in the ground, b. You would have never pulled this shit if he was still alive.”
Rell’s nose is flaring. I’ve only seen him this mad before once when some kid called him out for wearing fake Tommy Hilfiger shorts to the block party.
“Look, she got nothing to do with this.”
“You talking all the hot talk about ‘doing this for Steph.’ You think this is what Steph would’ve wanted? Your ass messing with his sister?”
“You think Steph would have wanted you spending HIS m
oney on some fucking sneakers? That’s STEPH’s money! You didn’t make that shit! Steph did. You ain’t talented for shit!”
Rell drops the ball, stepping to me, chest puffed out.
“Yeah, well, I’m talented enough to keep this whole operation together while you creeping with my best friend’s sister.”
“He’s my best friend too.”
Rell pokes his chin out, straddling his legs, fisting one hand into the other.
“Don’t look like it from where I’m standing.”
I give him a once-over, my voice reaching a new low. “Oh, word? Well maybe you should take another look.”
We stare each other down, inches apart, right in the middle of the courts we played mad games on. My fists tighten. Am I really about to fight my best friend? We already lost Steph, are we about to lose each other too? Rell snorts, shaking his head.
“Yo, this is some fugazi-ass shit,” he mumbles. “Got us out here fighting in the cold like some dumb-ass Negros. You running around here like some cocky ass God of Thunder, acting like I’m just some duke in a tin suit.”
“What? What the hell you talking about?”
“Thor? Iron Man? The Avengers? Come on, son!” His face loosens up as he glances back at B-Voort. “Yo, when you just gonna come clean and stop lying about what you really want? You wanna be with Steph’s sister? Fine. You don’t want to be with Ronnie? Fine. You wanna go to some bougie school? Fine. You want to go to college? Fine. But lying about all this shit . . . you ain’t keeping it real with anybody.”
Too wound up, I swallow, not really knowing what to say.
Rell snatches up his ball and heads for home.
By the time I walk in, Jeopardy is over, and Mom has already turned to UPN to watch Moesha. She loves singing that theme song: “‘Mo to the, E to the . . .’”
“There you are,” Mom says, putting a KFC bucket in the fridge. “I thought you were coming home right after school. I’ve been waiting!”
“My bad, I . . . went for a walk to clear my head.”
“You hungry? Want me to heat up the chicken?”
I drop on the sofa, my coat and book bag still on like I have no plans on staying.
“Not really.”
Mom is cheesing hard. “So . . . how was it?”
“Huh?”
“Boy, the school . . . Bishop! How was it?”
“Oh. It was aight. I guess.”
Mom shuffles across the room, her arms crossed. “Quadir . . . what’s wrong?”
There’s so much wrong I don’t know where to start. “Mom, do you think I’m a liar?”
She doesn’t skip a beat. “Yep.”
“Damn, Mom. Not you too.”
She chuckles. “Quady, you are the king of white lies. Even when you were little and I asked if you wanted seconds, you would say ‘no, I’m not hungry,’ even though I knew you were. You were always trying to make sure everyone ate first. From your sister to the mice. I mean, do you really think I believe you’re sleeping over Jarrell’s all the time? I wasn’t born yesterday, you know.”
Damn, Moms be on it.
She heats up a plate and even though I told her I wasn’t hungry, as soon as I see them biscuits, my mouth waters.
“So let me guess, you don’t want to go to Bishop. But you going just to make me happy. Am I right?”
I shrug. “Sort of. I mean, it’s a good school, and the team is on point. But . . . we ain’t got the money.”
She sighs and sits beside me. “You always talking this ‘we’ stuff. I’m the parent here, remember? I’m supposed to take care of you. And if I say don’t worry about it, then don’t worry about it. Me and your father . . . we always figure something out.”
“I know but . . . I ain’t blind, though. I can see when we hurting.”
Mom sucks in a breath, faking a smile. “I know. And it’s one of the things I love best about you. You lie to protect people’s feelings, thinking you know what’s best for them. But do you ever think that maybe telling the truth works just as well?”
I think about the lies I told Jasmine and stuff my mouth with mashed potatoes.
“So what do I do?”
“You need to start being straight with people. The truth will get you farther and faster than lying. ’Cause every lie gotta be followed up with another lie, and sooner or later you lose count.”
38
August 22, 1998
Under the cover of darkness, Jasmine was a shadow among shadows, stealthy with her moves through the back paths of B-Voort. Hair braided down, covered by a thin hoodie, she returned from her evening excursion unscathed, until she reached the front door.
“Where you been?” a deep voice echoed in the courtyard.
“Shit,” she screamed, jumping out of her skin.
Steph sat perched on the back of a bench like a black owl, his hands folded.
“I–I went to a concert,” she stammered.
Steph twisted his lips. “Really, Jazz? You gonna straight up lie to me?”
She knew she was busted. She could lie to the world, but not to the one person who could see right through her.
“I–I was . . . with a friend.”
“A friend got you out at three in the morning?”
“He’s not that—”
“He!”
“Nah, Steph. Not like that! He’s a part of this . . . group.”
Steph measured the weight of the words she used to circle around the truth. “What group?”
She takes a deep breath. “The Guerrillas.”
“The Guerrillas? You trying to be one of them? You crazy?”
“Steph, they all about black empowerment and . . .”
“Jazz, no!”
“But they understand me.”
“I understand you!” he barked.
“No, you don’t! You don’t know what it’s like . . . to be different than everybody else. To have people tease and call you names, telling you to go back to Africa . . .”
“Man, think about what you saying right now. That’s what gangs do! They make you feel like you one of them, that no one understands you but them. That’s the mind games they be playing. That’s what Dad always said about them.”
“Yeah, and then he got killed, and no one did anything about it! Everything he did, he did solo. No one had his back! At least being with them . . . I’ll have my peoples. I won’t be alone.”
Steph snapped his mouth closed, noticing the crack in her voice. He pressed his hands together as if in prayer.
“Jazz, look me in the eye and tell me you really want to do this.”
She crossed her arms, stomping her foot a few times, her chest tight with frustration. “Damn it.”
Sinking down on the bench next to him, she leaned her head on his knee, holding in a sob. Steph patted his little sister’s head lovingly. She was one of the few people in this world he would take a bullet for.
“They want me to fight . . . this girl. Like, some kind of strength test.” She looked up at him. “I can’t just . . . drop out. I already started the process.”
Steph sighed, looking up at the sky, up at his pops, searching for the star he lived upon.
During a class trip to the Liberty Science Center, Steph learned about light pollution and how all the bright lights in the hood prevented folks from seeing the millions of stars in the sky. He imagined himself running around the hood with a bat, snuffing out streetlights, just for one night, so that everyone could see what they’d been missing.
He would be a hero. Just like his pops.
“Don’t worry, Jazz. I’mma fix this.”
“How?”
Steph gently wiped one of her tears away. “Don’t worry about it. Just . . . just stay away from them for now. Aight?”
He stretched up to the sky and climbed off the bench.
“Where you going?
“I’mma have a talk with them. Set them straight.”
“Steph . . . don’t . . .”
“You trust me, right? Then trust me. Everything’s gonna be okay.”
Steph marched off, passing the bodega, palming the business card in his pocket.
39
Jasmine
Sometimes I stare at the corner by the bodega, squint, and can see Steph standing there, the same spot he always chilled at. I exhale, thinking, it was all a dream! Then I wake up to the nightmare that he’s really gone.
The hood is quiet on Black Friday night. Everyone’s still out buying up the stores. I hope folks are supporting some local black businesses. We shouldn’t even be celebrating Thanksgiving, some holiday to commemorate the Indians saving white people from starvation and in turn they “thanked” them by slaughtering their tribes, stealing their land, and poisoning the earth.
“Don’t be a hard rock, Jazz. Let them have their fun.” That’s what Steph would say. I would give anything to hear him say those words to me now. Maybe I’d listen and stop taking life so seriously. Everybody’s human; we all make mistakes. We all want to let loose and have fun.
Even me.
Quadir walks out his apartment in his bubble coat and knit hat, crossing the street toward my direction. I hold my breath as he stops a few feet away.
“Hey,” he mumbles, hands stuffed in his pockets.
“Hey.”
“Been watching you for a while out here by yourself. My mom is working a double, and if I eat any more leftovers, I’mma bust. Can I . . . keep you company?”
I wipe my face and stay silent.
“Please, Jazz, please. I . . . really need to talk to you. I miss talking to you. You the only one I really wanna talk to, all the time.”
There’s a sadness in his voice that I can’t fight. I shrug and scoot over. He sits on the back of the bench, staring at the bodega with me in silence.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about that weight and had you thinking different about your brother. That was mad foul. I never wanted to hurt you.”
I still can’t look at him. As much as I want to.
“You were right, though,” I say with a sniff. “Steph . . . had a lot of secrets. Secrets he kept from us to keep us safe.”
Let Me Hear a Rhyme Page 20
