If I Grow Up

by Todd Strasser

  I did as I was told. Marcus looked over the backseat as he backed the Mercedes out of the alley. He drove about half a block and pulled over. I watched silently while he dialed 911 on LaRue’s phone.

  “There’s a body in the alley of the nine hundred block of Whitmore,” he told the operator, and gave her LaRue’s name and address. Then he hung up, got out of the car, and dropped LaRue’s phone to the ground. He crushed it with his foot and kicked the pieces into a storm drain.

  Back in the car, he said, “Get this straight. LaRue was a runner because he wanted to be a runner. There’s only three ways up—treasurer, enforcer, or runner. We’re okay in the treasurer department, and LaRue didn’t want to be no enforcer, and that’s that.”

  I sat in the front seat, silent, arms crossed. People in this country were supposed to have choices. Wasn’t that what America was about? Freedom to choose? But when you grew up in the projects, there were no choices. No good ones, at least.

  I thought Marcus would start the car, but he didn’t. “You think LaRue liked living in that apartment with you and your gramma? A man wants a crib of his own. He wants a ride and enough bank to keep his babies in Pampers and go out at night if he chooses.”

  “What happens to my sister and her babies now?” I asked.

  Marcus drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. He thumbed off a bunch of bills and handed them to me.

  The distant wail of a siren broke the silence. A cop car with flashing lights came up the block and turned down the alley. Marcus started the car and we drove away.

  “How come you waited?” I asked.

  “To make sure the right people found the body.”

  HYPE

  No stories about the execution-style murder of a seventeen-year-old gangbanger and father of two appeared on TV or in the newspapers. No politicians made speeches. But two weeks later when a blond eighteen-year-old college freshman disappeared in Mexico while on spring break, it was all over the TV for days until she was found dazed and dirty, but otherwise okay, on a street corner.

  Gramma’s funeral insurance paid for the burial. She didn’t have life or health or any other kind of insurance, but every month she paid forty-eight dollars to cover the cost of a funeral in case one of us died. When Nia became pregnant, she’d added LaRue to the policy. In her mind the worst and most undignified thing that could happen was to end up in the potter’s field, the place where the city put the lost souls who had no families or money for a “proper” burial.

  Nia stayed in bed and cried for days while Gramma and I took care of the twins. After a week she went down to social services and applied for support, but they said it would be months before the paperwork went through. So each day, she left the babies with Gramma and went upstairs where Marcus gave her a job processing crack.

  Then Gramma came down with shingles. We had to prop her up with pillows on the couch. The disease gave her blisters on her face and arms, but the worst part was the pain. She’d wince and moan, and we knew it was bad because usually she never complained about anything. It was so bad that she didn’t even care about watching Judge Joe Brown.

  I called the clinic, and they said they had medicine that would help. The next morning the sun was out, and the air felt warm and moist. There were even some robins hopping around the yard, trying to pull worms out of the dirt. I was walking along Abernathy when I ran into Lightbulb with his head bowed and a sad look in his eyes. He didn’t notice me until I was just a few yards away.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  He looked up, surprised, then hung his head. “Snoop’s gone.”

  “Sorry, man.”

  “Wanna help me look for him?”

  “Can’t. I got to go down to the clinic and get medicine for my gramma.”

  Lightbulb nodded. “Catch you later.”

  “Hope you find him.”

  I got Gramma’s medicine and was leaving the clinic when I noticed a beat-up, old, white Cadillac Seville across the street. A skinny hype girl got out. It was morning, and she was wearing a short skirt and red high heels and lots of makeup, so it was obvious what she did to support her habit. I started to look away and then did a double take. It was Laqueta.

  She crossed the street, her ankles wobbly in those red high heels, and went through the special clinic door where junkies got their methadone. Meanwhile the Seville stayed parked with its motor running. It was a sorry-looking vehicle. The red fabric on the roof was torn, one fender was crushed, a headlight was missing, and an old, sun-bleached “for sale” sign hung in the rear window.

  Laqueta came out of the clinic and went back to the car, but she didn’t get in. She leaned in the window and handed the driver a small bottle of red liquid. In return he slid her some dead presidents.

  The car pulled away. Laqueta looked across the street and our eyes met. Her eyebrows dropped as she recognized me and probably realized I’d seen what she’d just done. Then her face changed. She raised one eyebrow and licked her red lips. I turned away and headed home.

  Back at the apartment, I gave Gramma the medicine and then headed out to the yard. Terrell was in his usual spot on the bench.

  “S’up?” he said.

  “Just saw Laqueta down at the clinic selling her methadone. She’s a hype now?”

  Terrell bristled. “She had a hard time. Her little boy fell out that window, and Jamar dumped her.”

  “So that makes it okay?”

  “No, it don’t make it okay,” said Terrell. “I’m just saying, that’s all.”

  “Know what else she’s doing?”

  Terrell narrowed his eyes. “What is this?”

  “I’m just asking if you know what your cousin’s doing for drug money,” I said.

  Terrell’s jaw hardened. “Yeah. So what’s your point?”

  I stared at him. “Don’t you get it? What’re you doing on this bench?”

  “You know what I’m doing.”

  “You think Laqueta’d be a junkie-hooker if it wasn’t for gangbangers like you out here selling dope?”

  “What she does is her business,” Terrell muttered with a shrug.

  But I was still in his face. “No, man, it’s your business. You’re the one making money while she’s out selling herself. And for what? So you can get a little bling? Go to a club on Saturday night and find some new skank to get pregnant?”

  Terrell and I glared at each other. We were lifelong friends. The only real friend each other had. But lately I’d begun to wonder. “This is cold-blooded, Terrell. You’re making money off your own people. Off your own family, for God’s sake.”

  “Maybe I ain’t as high and mighty as you, okay?” Terrell shot back. “Laqueta’s grown-up enough to make her own decisions. Meanwhile I’m trying to work my way up. Because it’s either this or mopping floors at King Chicken with my peeps coming in and laughing at me. And I don’t know what you think you’re doing that’s any better.”

  “What I’m not doing is selling the same drugs my cousin’s addicted to.”

  “And what are you doing instead, schoolboy?” Terrell sneered. “Gonna stay in Munson until you graduate? And then what? Get yourself a job working in some factory? Or driving a truck? With guys like Marcus making more in a day than you make in a month? Wait a minute, schoolboy. How come you ain’t in school today?”

  “Had to go to the clinic and get my gramma some medicine.”

  “So? The day ain’t over. You can still go.”

  He was right. And the truth was, I wasn’t at school because I didn’t feel like going. It was the first nice day of spring, and I wanted to be outside. Besides, school wasn’t leading anywhere. Most of the time I only went to see Tanisha. More and more I couldn’t connect the things they were teaching us with life as I knew it. What difference did it make that Earth was on tectonic plates that sometimes moved and caused earthquakes and tsunamis? There were no earthquakes around here. Who cared what dead
crackers like Mark Twain and Shakespeare wrote? How did any of that matter when all I saw around me was unemployment, drugs, and death?

  Terrell raised his hand in an offer of truce, and I felt the anger start to drain away. Maybe he was right. Who was I to criticize him? All of us were stuck here, just trying to survive. He took out a pinner, lit it, and offered me some. Despite everything I’d just said, I took a hit. Sometimes it was the only way to cope.

  “Face it, DeShawn,” Terrell wheezed as he exhaled sweet smoke. “This is all there is.”

  MONEY

  “It’s been a long time since we went out,” Tanisha whispered in my ear. We were lying on a mattress on the floor of an abandoned building near Munson High. Kids used the place to skip school, get high, and hook up. The mattress was filthy and stank, but Tanisha kept clean sheets hidden in a garbage bag in a hole in the wall.

  “We go out and get seen, I get killed,” I whispered back, stroking her cheek.

  “Only around here,” she said. “We could meet downtown. Or on the South Side where nobody knows us.”

  I couldn’t blame her. For months the only places she and I had been together were school and this drafty old building with boarded-up windows and broken glass and garbage all over the floors. But being seen wasn’t the only problem with going out.

  “Gramma’s sick, and Nia’s welfare checks ain’t started yet,” I said. “We’re already behind on the rent and cable.”

  “I’ve got money,” Tanisha said. “All those nights I can’t see you, I babysit.”

  I felt my heart twist. Most girls wouldn’t put up with a guy who couldn’t show them a good time on Saturday night. Tanisha was different, and what we shared was special. Special enough for me to risk my life to see her.

  “What’s for dinner?” Gramma asked from the couch. Even with the medicine, she could hardly move without pain, so it was up to Nia and me to cook.

  “Let me check,” I said, even though I knew there was hardly anything. The money Marcus had given us was gone. The night before, we’d had rice and ketchup, and at least once a day Nia had to give the twins sugar water instead of formula.

  I went into the kitchen. Nia was standing beside the counter, her head titled back and eyes closed, gulping something from a can in her hand. She finished with a sigh of satisfaction, then opened her eyes, saw me, and quickly hid the can behind her back.

  Her face flushed and she turned her head, unable to face me. What could she be hiding? Had she become a wino without me noticing? Realizing there was no sense in pretending, she brought her hand out from behind her back and placed the can on the counter. It was baby formula.

  “Don’t tell Gramma,” she whispered, her eyes brimming with tears of shame. “I was so hungry.”

  Now I saw what I’d missed before. My sister was skinnier than I’d ever seen her. Her cheeks were hollow, and her hands and wrists were bony. Anger rose up from deep inside, and I turned to leave.

  As I went through the living room, Gramma said, “Where’re you going?”

  “To get some food.”

  Nia followed me through the front door and out into the hall. “You got money?” she whispered.

  “No,” I said. There was the money in the envelope Marcus had entrusted to me, but I’d given him my word. Facing that choice, I’d rather break the law.

  “Then how?”

  I turned away and headed downstairs, footsteps slapping, seething with fury, feeling like I wanted to hit someone or something as hard as I could. And that’s what I figured I’d have to do, with a rock or a brick. Go down Abernathy a few blocks and wait by the intersection for the right car—one driven by some older white woman with a pocketbook on the seat beside her. Pretend I was crossing with the light and strike fast. Smash the window, grab the bag, and run. Just thinking about it made my heart thump hard and my head feel hot. It was a step down to a place I’d tried all my life not to go. But Gramma was sick, the babies needed food, and we were all hungry.

  Was it fate that I ran into Terrell coming up the stairs? He was wearing a light blue and white University of North Carolina cap backward with a do-rag under it; a matching, oversize, blue and white UNC jersey; basketball shoes; and long denim shorts. He was listening to an iPod, and on his wrist was a gold-plated watch with a thick gold band. Plus he was carrying a shopping bag. I’d never seen him so tricked out.

  “What’d you get?” I asked.

  Terrell took a Nike box out of the bag and opened it. Inside were bright white basketball shoes. “Nice, huh?”

  The blue and white basketball shoes on his feet were hardly scuffed. Meanwhile I had one pair of sneakers, and I had to keep them fresh with white shoe polish.

  “S’up?” he asked.

  “Got twenty I can borrow?”

  Terrell smirked. “End of the month?”

  The anger, which had momentarily vanished, came back fast and hard. I felt the urge to say something ugly but caught myself. “Forget it.” I started down the stairs again.

  “Whoa,” Terrell called behind me. “How about King Chicken? On me.”

  I looked back up at him in his new clothes. “Thanks, but there’s Nia and Gramma, too.”

  “Got it covered,” Terrell said. “Come on up while I drop this off.”

  I didn’t move. I didn’t want his charity.

  “Come on, DeShawn. How many times have you saved my sorry butt?”

  Next thing I knew, I was climbing the stairs with him.

  “Marcus is thinking about making me the new runner,” he said.

  “After what happened to LaRue?” I asked in disbelief. “You whack?”

  “It’s good money,” Terrell said. “Big step up.”

  “You’ll get yourself killed.”

  “That’s the chance you take,” Terrell said as if it meant nothing.

  We got up to his apartment. Mrs. Blake wasn’t there, but Laqueta and two guys were. The TV was on, and the table and floor were covered with bottles and ashtrays full of cigarette butts. Laqueta and her friends wore stained, ragged clothes and looked glassy-eyed.

  “Gimme some money,” Laqueta said languidly, as if she knew he wouldn’t.

  Terrell ignored her and went down the hall. His room had a new metal door secured with two padlocks. It was already dented and scratched, as if someone had tried to break through. I didn’t have to ask who.

  Terrell undid the locks. Inside was a flat-screen TV and a new sound system. New clothes with tags still on them were scattered around.

  “I thought sitting on the bench didn’t pay,” I said, taking in all the swag.

  “Not till I figured out the system,” Terrell answered slyly. “I skim a little off every bag of weed and every vial of rock. Five bags becomes six. Same with the vials. End of the day, the money from the extras is all mine.”

  “Marcus know?” I asked.

  “Probably. Only no one talks about it.”

  An open bag of peanuts lay on the desk. Terrell saw me eyeing it. “Take as much as you want. The cousins is always sending us more.”

  I took a handful, and we left the apartment and walked to King Chicken. It was dinnertime, and the place was filled. We got in line. The scent of fried chicken made my stomach grumble.

  I was studying the menu when a commotion started in a booth where a heavy lady sat with three shorties. One of the shorties had tipped over a supersize soda, spilling it all over the table and floor.

  “Raydale!” the white-shirted manager called back into the kitchen. “Get the mop!”

  When Lightbulb came out of the back wearing black pants and a stained, white shirt with the tails hanging out, Terrell and I were taken by surprise. He pushed a yellow bucket with a wooden broom handle sticking out of it. Seeing us, he stopped and grinned. “Hey!”

  “How long you been working here?” Terrell asked.

  “’Bout a month,” Lightbulb said.

  “What about school?” I asked.

  Before Lightbulb could answer, the
manager yelled, “Raydale! Did I say you could talk to your friends?”

  Lightbulb hurried toward the booth and started mopping. Meanwhile the heavy woman pointed at the seats and started giving orders. “What about that there?” she asked irately, as if the spilled soda had been Lightbulb’s fault.

  “I’ll get it.” Lightbulb hurried into the kitchen and returned with a rag to wipe the seats.

  “And that?” The woman pointed at the plates, cups, and buckets sitting in a sea of soda on the table.

  Lightbulb started wiping the soda off the table, but as he did, it began spilling onto the floor and seats again.

  “Watch what you doing, fool!” the woman yelled.

  Her yelling flustered him. By now almost everyone in King Chicken had paused to watch. In a panic, Lightbulb swiped the towel across the table, splashing soda onto the woman’s son’s pants and shoes.

  “Now look what you done!” the woman shrieked.

  The commotion brought the manager out from behind the counter. “What’s the problem, ma’am?”

  “This fool’s making a mess all over again,” the woman complained. “He got soda all over my son.” She pointed at her son’s pants, which were practically soaked with soda from spilling the supersize cup in the first place.

  “You did that?” the bewildered manager asked Lightbulb.

  “No, sir,” Lightbulb stammered.

  “You calling me a liar?” the woman bellowed.

  “No, ma’am, I’m sure he’s just mistaken,” the manager quickly said. “I’ll be glad to replace any food that was spoiled. Why don’t you take a seat over here?” He showed her to an empty table, then said to Lightbulb, “As soon as you finish cleaning up this mess, I want to see you in the back.”

  Lightbulb hung his head like a scolded puppy. He finished wiping and mopping and went into the back. I hated the way they treated him. I hated seeing someone so smart working such a lousy job. But I was hungry and it was our turn to order. I got a big bucket of chicken with some sides of mashed potatoes. Terrell got a meal to go and paid for everything. We headed back toward Douglass.