If I Grow Up

by Todd Strasser

  IF I GROW UP

  ALSO BY TODD STRASSER

  Boot Camp

  Can’t Get There from Here

  Give a Boy a Gun

  SIMON & SCHUSTER BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2009 by Todd Strasser

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  SIMON & SCHUSTER BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Strasser, Todd.

  If I grow up / Todd Strasser.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Growing up in the inner-city projects, DeShawn is reluctantly forced into the gang world by circumstances beyond his control.

  Includes bibliographical references.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4391-5663-6

  ISBN-10: 1-4391-5663-8

  [1. Gangs—Fiction. 2. Violence—Fiction. 3. Inner cities—Fiction. 4. Poverty—Fiction. 5. African Americans—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.S899If 2009

  [Fic]—dc22

  2008000655

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.SimonSays.com

  To Lia, who helped open my heart,

  and Geoff, who helped open my eyes.

  CONTENTS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PREFACE

  TWELVE YEARS OLD

  A SHORTY FALLS

  MARCUS

  IF I GROW UP

  SHOOTING

  WEAPONS

  CLOWNING

  DISAPPOINTMENT

  BULLETS

  DRIVE BY

  THIRTEEN YEARS OLD

  OUT OF THE HOOD

  SOON TO SHOOT

  SARDINES AND A LOAF

  BAIL MONEY

  RANCE

  HERO

  JUMPED IN

  FOURTEEN YEARS OLD

  23RD PERCENTILE

  DEALER

  WILLIAM

  DICE

  FIFTEEN YEARS OLD

  BABY DADDY

  ANIMALS

  LARUE

  HYPE

  MONEY

  NO CHOICE

  SIXTEEN YEARS OLD

  SHOOT OUT

  JUST A BOY

  DO WHAT’S RIGHT

  A SECRET MEETING

  GONE BEFORE DAYLIGHT

  THE GANGSTA DISCIPLES

  SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD

  BAD TO THE BONE

  TWENTY-EIGHT YEARS OLD

  PRISON

  NOTES

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Behind the bling and the glowering crossed-arm poses of rappers are poignant lyrics filled with pain and anguish. Not since the antiwar folk songs of my youth have I heard such intense anger and frustration in music. And no wonder. For a significant number of minorities in this country, life, at best, promises to be little more than decades spent at menial low-paying jobs that ultimately enable others to reap the financial benefits. It’s true that there will always be a few exceptions—the entrepreneur, the politician, the actor, music or sports star—but for each one of them there will also be hundreds of thousands of undereducated and disadvantaged souls trapped in an endless cycle of hopelessness and despair. This acknowledgment is for all the rappers and poets who speak out against the way things are, to let them know that people are listening.

  PREFACE

  In my last book, Boot Camp, I wrote about a secret prison system for teenagers in the United States. Teens do not have to be found guilty of a crime to be sent to one of these facilities, also known as boot camps. All they have to be is under the age of eighteen and have parents or guardians who want to send them away.

  There is yet another system of detention in our country that holds not thousands, but millions, of innocent people against their wills. Unlike boot camps, which are often located in remote parts of the landscape, these social and economic gulags are hidden in plain sight, often in inner cities, but also anywhere that young people are denied the basic social, economic, and educational opportunities necessary to succeed.

  Like many Americans, I believe that the United States provides its citizens with some of the greatest educational, social, and financial opportunities on Earth. But those opportunities are not shared equally. Today significant numbers of American citizens—mostly minorities, and many living in impoverished inner-city areas—are doomed to fail before they have the chance to embrace the possibilities for a happy and rewarding life that so many of the rest of us enjoy.

  For those of us who live in suburbs, small towns, and in the better parts of urban areas, the impoverished inner cities are portrayed by the media as a cauldron of moral decay and crime that now and then produces a talented athlete or music star. We forget that millions of inner-city denizens are just like us—well-meaning human beings who yearn for the simple and basic privileges our country promises: a decent education, a job with a chance for advancement, and a safe place to raise children.

  When those privileges are denied, or are unattainable, young men and women seek other avenues to satisfy their needs and fulfill their dreams. This, many believe, accounts for the steady increase in gang membership that has occurred over the past three decades. It is important to note that gang membership knows no ethnic or racial bounds. In addition to Hispanic, African-American, and Asian gangs, it is currently estimated that close to 30 percent of gang membership in smaller cities and rural communities is Caucasian.

  Still, the majority of gang members in this country are minority city dwellers. As Malcolm W. Klein states in his book The American Street Gang: Its Nature, Prevalence, and Control, “Street gangs are an amalgam of racism, of urban underclass poverty, of minority and youth culture, of fatalism in the face of rampant deprivation, of political insensitivity, and the gross ignorance of inner-city…America on the part of most of us who do not have to survive there.” (My italics.)

  Since the dawn of the human race, we have banded together to improve our chances of survival. It seems to be basic to our nature. Given this, perhaps we can understand why, when faced with hopelessness, racism, and inescapable poverty, young inner-city men are likely to join gangs.

  Perhaps the saddest, most sinister, and devastating aspect of gangs is that, in the absence of positive influences, opportunities, and role models, they recruit basically good, constructive, and naturally well-meaning young men (and to a lesser degree, young women) and turn them bad.

  This is the story of one of those young men.

  TWELVE YEARS OLD

  The divisions between black and white, and rich and poor, begin at birth and are reinforced every day of a child’s life.

  “SOME ASK US WHY WE ACT THE WAY WE ACT WITHOUT LOOKIN’ HOW LONG THEY KEPT US BACK.”—FROM “RIGHTSTARTER (MESSAGE TO A BLACK MAN)” BY PUBLIC ENEMY

  A SHORTY FALLS

  The shouting and screaming outside started at dinnertime. We were sitting on the living room couch, eating macaroni and cheese, and watching Judge Joe Brown on the TV. Between the banging of the heat pipes and the noise outside, it was one big racket.

  “DeShawn, turn up the sound,” Gramma said. I put my tray on the couch and turned up the volume. The TV was old, and no one knew where the clicker was anymore. It was just me and Gramma that night. My big sister, Nia, was out with her boyfriend, LaRu
e.

  Outside the yelling got louder and the police sirens started. Gramma flinched and put down her fork. She shook her gray head wearily, and the skin around her eyes wrinkled. “Noise around here is gonna make me lose my mind.”

  I glanced toward the thick green curtains that covered the window. Ever since gangbangers cocktailed the apartment down the hall, Gramma had kept the curtains closed all the time.

  “Don’t go near that window,” she warned. “They could start shootin’.”

  The curtains already had two bullet holes the size of bottle caps. There were bullet holes in the walls, too. Gramma had put a picture over one of them, and another was blocked by our little Christmas tree decorated with tinsel and candy canes. We would have been safer living on a high floor, but the elevators were always broken and it was hard for Gramma to climb the stairs after cleaning houses all day. In the projects, the older you got, the closer to the ground you wanted to live.

  The sirens and shouting grew louder. I gave Gramma a pleading look.

  “No,” she said firmly.

  “But the police are here,” I argued. “Won’t be any more shooting.”

  “I said no,” Gramma repeated, but her words sounded weary and defeated, and I knew I could wear her down.

  “Come on, please?” I pestered. Outside the sirens had now stopped, but there was still lots of shouting. “Just let me look.”

  “Oh, okay.” Gramma gave in just like I knew she would. “But be quick.”

  I hurried over and peeked through the curtains. The window was streaked with dirt, and cold winter air seeped in around the edges. Outside a crowd of people had gathered in the dark. All I could see were the tops of heads and shoulders. “Must be something big going on,” I said. “Let me go see. Please?”

  “No! You ain’t allowed out after dark.”

  “I’ll stay right by the front, I promise.”

  “No.”

  “Nothing bad’s gonna happen with all those people out there.”

  “No!”

  “Come on, Gramma, I’ll only be a few minutes. I swear.”

  She let out a disheartened sigh. “You ain’t gonna stop botherin’ me till I say yes, are you? Come back quick, hear? And don’t go nowhere else.”

  I grabbed my coat, went out into the graffiti-covered hall, down the pee-smelly stairs, across the bare lobby, and through the dented metal doors to the outside. Cold, dark air filled my lungs. The crowd was still growing. Fearful of being trampled, I went behind the mob where it wasn’t packed so tightly. There I found Lightbulb, walking in a circle with his eyes squeezed shut and his fingers in his ears. He wore a black wool cap pulled down over his head, and a ratty, old-man-size coat that dragged on the ground.

  “S’up Bulb?” I asked.

  Lightbulb opened his eyes but shook his head and kept his fingers in his ears. He’d gotten his nickname because of his light skin and the shape of his head. Sometimes he wasn’t right in the head, either.

  “Come on, don’t get all janky on me,” I said.

  “A shorty fell.” Lightbulb winced as if just talking about it caused him pain. “Long way down. He’s dead for sure.”

  By the age of twelve, seeing dead folks was nothing new. The gangbanger who lay glassy-eyed in a pool of blood in the lobby. The lady who was stabbed and crawled down four flights of stairs, leaving a long, brownish red trail before she bled out. The crusty old wino who froze to death on a bench. But I’d never seen a dead kid before.

  The crowd was packed tight. No way someone my size could fight through all those legs and hips to see. Besides, the police were lining the area with yellow crime-scene tape. The ambulance men were in there, crouching down. I figured the best place to see would be from the monkey bars in the middle of the yard.

  The bars were cold in my bare hands as I climbed. Around me rose the broad, flat buildings of the Frederick Douglass Project. Lights glowed in some windows and red and green Christmas lights were strung across a few balconies, but many more windows were boarded up and dark.

  I was watching the police clear a semicircle of space near the side of my building when behind us on Abernathy Avenue, a car door slammed. A black Mercedes with dark windows stood at the curb, shiny chrome rims still spinning like they were going a hundred miles an hour. A man got out and the crowd began to part as he walked toward the building. He was shorter than some, but stocky and powerfully built. There was only one person who commanded that kind of respect: Marcus Elliot, the leader of the Douglass Disciples.

  He wore black slacks and a black leather jacket over a white turtleneck sweater, with a big gold chain hanging in front. An earring glimmered. His brown hair was short and neatly trimmed, and he had a square face and small, deep-set eyes that were almost always in a suspicious squint. The crowd quieted and parted, and even the police stepped aside. Marcus stopped and looked over the shoulders of the ambulance men. He stood there for a long time.

  The monkey bars rattled as Lightbulb climbed up. His pants were torn at the knees, and the sleeves of his big coat hung down past his hands. Sitting beside me, he started rocking back and forth. Near us, one of the ambulance men came though the crowd with something long and black.

  “What’s that?” Lightbulb whispered.

  “Body bag,” I whispered back. “Go find out who fell.”

  Lightbulb shook his head.

  “For a Snickers bar,” I said.

  “Lemme see.”

  “It’s upstairs. Give it to you tomorrow.”

  Lightbulb climbed down and disappeared. Meanwhile the ambulance men lifted the body bag onto a stretcher and rolled it through the crowd. The bag was mostly flat, except for a bump in the middle. Marcus walked behind them. His face was hard and flat. Jaws clenched, lips tight. Not a handsome face, but one that said he wasn’t afraid of anyone or anything.

  Lightbulb climbed back up. “It was Darnell.”

  Darnell was Marcus’s little nephew. I twisted back toward Abernathy Avenue. They’d opened the rear ambulance door to slide in the stretcher. The light from inside reflected on the men’s faces. You might have expected that Marcus would be looking down at his nephew. But he wasn’t. He was staring back at the project with a look as cold and angry as I’d ever seen.

  MARCUS

  Darnell’s momma was Laqueta, who was Marcus’s sister and my best friend Terrell’s first cousin. I didn’t know who Darnell’s father was, only that Laqueta’s new boyfriend was Jamar, the Disciples’ second in command, and that they lived up on the fifteenth floor. Everyone said Laqueta was the prettiest girl in the projects, with her big round eyes and straight white teeth and constant smile. At least, until the Gentry Gangstas threw Darnell off the roof.

  The next morning, Gramma made me put on a heavy coat, gloves, and a hat before I could take my bike outside. Despite the cold, I liked riding around because the ground was hard and you could go almost anywhere in the project. Not like in the spring when the yard was soft and muddy.

  Outside, something lay on the ground about thirty feet from the yellow-taped crime-scene spot where Darnell had fallen, far enough away that it might have been missed by the crowd in the dark the night before. It was a window guard, bent in the middle, as if someone had kicked it out of a window frame.

  “This where that little boy fell?” a voice behind me asked. I turned. It was a girl with big, pretty eyes, wearing a clean pink jacket with a hood lined with white fur pulled tightly around her face like an Eskimo.

  “Over there.” I pointed toward the yellow tape.

  “It’s so sad.”

  “They say the Gentry Gangstas did it,” I said, repeating what I’d heard.

  The girl scowled. “Who’s that?”

  It was hard to believe she didn’t know. “The rival gang,” I said. “From over in the Gentry Project. I heard Jamar, the baby momma’s boyfriend, told the police he saw two men run away wearing green bandanas. That’s a Gangsta color.”

  We were in the shadow of the buildi
ng where it was cold enough to see our breath come out white. A dozen yards away, in the bright sunlight, was a bench. I walked my bike toward it, and the girl and I told each other our names and ages. Hers was Precious, and like me, she was twelve. The wooden seat on the bench was broken, so I hopped up on the top. Precious stood in front of me with her hands in her pockets. The sun was strong and took some of the icy sting out of the air.

  “Where’d you get that nice jacket?” I asked.

  “My daddy gave it to me for Christmas.” She had a bright smile that reminded me of Laqueta.

  “Oh, yeah?” I hardly knew anyone who had a father at home. Much less one who gave gifts. “Only Christmas isn’t till next week.”

  “I got it early ’cause it’s cold and I don’t have anything else warm.”

  My best friend, Terrell Blake, came out with his bike. He was wearing baggy pants and an extra-large gray hoodie that hung down to his knees. He rode with one hand, the other jammed down into the hoodie’s pocket.

  “How come they let you out?” I asked, knowing he was supposed to be inside grieving for Darnell with his family.

  “It’s too sad and stuffy up there,” he said, straddling his bike. “Makes my asthma act up.” Terrell was taller than me, with skin a little lighter and a thinner nose. One of his front teeth was chipped from a rock fight we’d had a few months before. Recently he’d started to let his hair grow, and it was almost long enough to braid. He eyed my new friend.