Playground

by 50 Cent

  I took the plate she thrust at me, but somehow I wasn’t feeling all that hungry anymore. Even the smell made me sick.

  27

  I’d been so lost in remembering that afternoon that several minutes had passed in Liz’s office in silence. I looked down at my lap. My big, baggy-jeans, fat-kid lap. “What would you’ve done in my place, Liz?” I asked suddenly.

  Liz blinked. She’d been staring at me so intensely it made my skin crawl, like she was in a trance or something. “What do you mean exactly, Butterball, in your place? I believe, as I said, that there’s never a time or a place for beating anyone up. Whatever the problem you have with someone, violence is never the answer.”

  “I get that,” I said slowly, and I was really starting to. “But that’s not what I mean. Or not exactly. What’s done is done, but now I see—I mean, I understand that nothing really went down the way I thought.” I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, then drew my hands to my temples as if to block out the nonexistent glare in that dark-ass room.

  I started up again after a long pause. “See, the thing is, I thought Maurice had been telling stories about me. Really bad, nasty stories. Whether those stories had any truth in them is beside the point. Truth doesn’t matter so much at Watkins; it’s what people say about you that counts, know what I mean? And I was pretty sure that if Maurice kept telling his stories, life as I knew it would be over in a big way. So I did what any decent man would do in the circumstances, and I took the necessary steps to protect myself. You following me?” I said, but I still didn’t look up.

  I heard Liz make an “mm-hmm” sound and went on, “But now I find out, in the most random possible way, that Maurice never told stories about me to anyone. So when I went over and clocked him on the playground that day, he had no idea what was coming. And all afternoon, I keep replaying the moment over and over, and I see that stunned look on his face, and it doesn’t make me mad anymore like it used to. It makes me . . . sad, you know?”

  And as I spoke I felt the shaming splash of warm liquid sliding down my cheeks, but I no longer cared all that much what Liz thought about me. Everybody else, yeah, but not Liz, not right then. I was just too tired to give a shit anymore. Tired, and—that word again—really, really sad. “I was wrong, and there’s nothing I can do about it anymore.”

  Liz didn’t interrupt to say that of course there was something I could do about it, and I was grateful to her for that. We both knew it wasn’t true, so what would’ve been the point? I wasn’t playing games, so neither was she. “I mean, Maurice doesn’t even go to Watkins anymore, you know? One semester left of junior high and he’s gotta start over somewhere else. And the thing is, Maurice was my friend. Yeah, part of the reason was because I didn’t have any better choices, but still. He was the only one who ever bothered to be nice to me at that shitty-ass school, and this is how I repay him? Man, I’m a bigger piece of shit than I thought.”

  “You’re not a piece of shit, Butterball,” Liz said—first time she’d spoken in what felt like an eternity.

  “Yeah, I am,” I said. “But at least now I know it, right?”

  Would my dad still be proud of me if he found out why I did what I did—meaning, no reason at all? Knowing him, probably. But for some reason, that wasn’t much consolation. The more I thought about that whole day on the playground, the lower I felt.

  A few minutes later, as I pounded down the stairwell outside of Liz’s office, I realized that she hadn’t asked me, not even once, about the stories Maurice had told about me. Or hadn’t told, as it turned out. And that, I decided, was pretty cool of her. She knew when to be nosy and when, as they say, enough was enough.

  28

  The apartment really did look nice. Evelyn had listed the cabinet where my mom kept her old TV and the actual TV, too, on craigslist on Saturday night, and she’d sold that shit before we’d woken up on Sunday.

  When I got back from Liz’s, this young guy and his wife had come by to pick up their purchases, and they’d seemed real excited to be getting such a good deal, never mind that the TV was ten years old and weighed more than most pianos. They paid Evelyn with a stack of twenties, and after I helped the guy lug his loot down four flights of stairs, she peeled one off the top and handed it to me: “my cut,” she called it. I wasn’t sure what my mom would think of that, but I just nodded thank-you and went right to my Batman box where I stashed my laptop fund.

  With the big-ass cabinet out of her way, Evelyn had really gone to town decorating and spent the whole evening rearranging shit till it was just right. She was pretty anal, but by the time she was done, the apartment had never seemed so spacious or comfortable. For a second I thought I might almost have been proud to bring Maurice here. A second after that I felt sick to my stomach again.

  There were still half-unpacked boxes stacked all over the place, so I didn’t really notice the white box in the middle of Evelyn’s glass coffee table. I just pushed it aside with my feet as I kicked them up onto the table.

  I reached for the remote, but I guess the Time Warner guy hadn’t shown up because when I pressed the power button, only black-and-white static appeared on the screen.

  I shut the TV right back off and just sat there, trying to figure out what to say to the woman who was running around our kitchen like she belonged in there. Evelyn worked a more regular shift schedule than my mom, so me and her would probably be spending all sorts of time together from here on out. I wasn’t too sure how I felt about that.

  After a few minutes, Evelyn walked in with a plate of food in each hand. I saw her glance at my sneakers and the big smudges they were making on her coffee table, but she decided not to say anything. She sat down on the couch next to me and passed a plate over. Then, after thinking about it for a second, she kicked her own feet onto the table, right on the other side of that white box from mine.

  “Burton,” she began—damn, there she went again! “I wanted to talk to you about something your mom and I’ve been discussing these past couple of days. Would that be all right with you?”

  Instead of answering, I started in on the plate of meatballs she’d brought me. I had to admit they were pretty good. Evelyn was clearly trying to get on my good side, or she wouldn’t have cooked a dinner I actually liked. So why couldn’t she just let me enjoy the meal in peace?

  Evelyn seemed real nervous, probably because she wasn’t used to carrying much weight in any conversation. She had that in common with my mom, who she’d just mentioned for the first time. “. . . And Shari wanted me to make it clear that this shouldn’t be seen as a bribe or anything like that . . .”

  I looked over at Evelyn, who’d been talking on and on. A bribe? A bribe for what?

  “And it just so happened that they’re updating the data systems at St. Vincent’s, and whenever that happens, all the administrative leads are given the opportunity to buy back their old work computers at cost. And well, your mom’s always talking about how you want some way to edit your movies, so I offered to . . .”

  Evelyn reached forward to the white box that was between us on the coffee table. And all of a sudden I realized what it was, and what exactly she was saying to me.

  “It’s a couple of years old, but it still works great. And I got the IT guy to wipe the hard drive this morning, so there’s a lot of storage space and you can put pretty much any program you want on there . . .”

  I threw my plate of meatballs down on the couch next to me and grabbed at the box Evelyn was holding. I’d seen that kinda box before, and I couldn’t even believe this was happening. It was a Mac. A Mac laptop, and it was mine. Damn.

  “They use Macs at the hospital?” I asked because I wouldn’t have expected that of a ghetto place like St. Vincent’s, but then what did I know?

  Without waiting for an answer, I opened the box and pulled out the laptop. It was white, not one of those sleek titanium jobs that the DJs use, but still—I would’ve had to make my bed ten times a day for a year to afford that shit o
n my own. Man, this was just unreal.

  “So I guess you like it?” I heard Evelyn say.

  “Oh, yeah, shit, sorry,” I said. “Yeah, I love it, for real. Thanks so much.”

  “No problem at all,” Evelyn said, and she almost sounded as happy as I felt. “But remember, it’s not a bribe, all right? The timing just happened to work out, and with all the money we’ll be saving on rent, paying for it wasn’t really a problem. I just thought since you’re grounded and all, you’ll have some extra time on your hands.”

  I nodded. Right then I didn’t care that I was grounded or who was reminding me of it because I’d rather spend time on this computer than—what? Hang out with the friends I didn’t have? Get my face kicked in again?

  “Thanks, Evelyn,” I said, and if she’d only said my name for the first time the previous day, I don’t think I’d ever used hers to her face before, not even once. “Thanks a whole lot.”

  29

  Someone had vomited in the handicapped stall Tuesday morning, and by lunchtime, no one had bothered cleaning it up, just like no one had bothered to refill the vending machine. There was just no way I was going to sit for an hour smelling that shit. Maybe if I’d had my computer, I could’ve ignored the stench and gotten down to work, but I’d never bring that laptop within three blocks of Watkins. This school was so ghetto, it’d be jacked before homeroom let out.

  So, finally, I decided: Screw it. I’d go back to the cafeteria again, and this time I’d actually eat. I got myself a tray of fish sticks and was just walking toward my old table in the back when Andres slammed right into me. “Oops, sorry about that,” he said, but he didn’t sound all that sorry. And to prove it, he swiped his hand across my tray and sent a couple of the fish sticks flying.

  “Get outta my way,” I mumbled under my breath. I was mad, but I wasn’t in the mood to start nothing with him. Not now, not ever.

  “What’d you say?” Andres asked, real loud, so that everyone who wasn’t already staring at us swiveled around to tune in. “Were you crying again, or did you have something you wanted to say to me?”

  “Nah,” I said. “I just wanna go eat.”

  “No shit?” Andres said. “But then I guess you don’t get a hot body like yours without doing a lot of eating, do you?”

  “I guess not,” I said and moved to walk around him.

  “Ah, I was just kidding, Butterball man. I just wanted to see if you wanted to come sit with us today?” He gestured over to his table where Darrell and Bobbie were sitting and staring right at us. “We haven’t seen you around much lately and just wanted to see what was up.”

  Andres was definitely up to something, and whatever it was couldn’t be good. He’d already wasted enough of my time, so I just said “Nah” again and tried to walk around him.

  “I’m serious, Butterball, man, me and the boys wanted to rap a little with you. Whatcha doing after school today?”

  “I’m busy making movies,” I said without thinking and immediately felt stupid. I never talked about that shit, and even if I had, Andres was the last person on earth I would’ve told. Every day, it seemed like I was giving him another reason to make fun of my ass.

  And sure enough, Andres cracked up once he’d processed what I’d said. “Making movies, did I hear you right? Movies of what—you eating a fried chicken? Or, I know, how about a whole action sequence that shows you pissing down your leg?”

  The kids at the next table laughed their asses off at this, but I felt—nothing at all. It was almost like I was immune. I just left Andres standing there and started walking in a straight line till I reached the back corner table where Maurice and I had sat for so much of seventh grade. When Jamal and Shaun saw me coming, they made a move to get up, but I shook my head and took a seat at the opposite end of the table. I felt them watching me nervously, but I just didn’t feel up to getting into it with anyone right then. Instead I started to house what was left of my fish sticks. But somehow, I can’t really explain why, they didn’t taste half as good as they used to.

  30

  The next two days went pretty much the same: I got through them somehow. Just a couple more weeks to go and Watkins would be behind me forever, and you’d better believe I was counting down every single hour.

  By that Thursday, my face had healed up almost all the way, and people had gotten bored of checking me out and whispering shit whenever I walked down the hall. It was like I’d gone back to those first months of seventh grade, before I got to know Maurice, when I drifted through my days silent and invisible.

  For some reason, though, I no longer minded my invisibility all that much. Being ignored was a gift, and probably the only reason I’d started to look forward to high school. Most kids at Watkins got fed into Clara Barton High, which was an even bigger school, with students from Roosevelt and Hempstead, too. Maybe it’d be easier to get lost in the crowd again. I was betting on it.

  After school on Thursday, I was supposed to head right back to the apartment to wait for the Time Warner guy, who after like a dozen rescheduled appointments was finally supposed to show up to hook up our TV and Internet between four and seven. But it was sunny and warm out, and I’d been cooped up inside all day since I never went out on the playground after lunch anymore. I sorta just wanted to enjoy the sunshine and delay my return to another long afternoon alone in the apartment.

  So when school let out at three fifteen, I wandered over to the side door that connected Watkins to Washington Irving Elementary School. It was the same exit Nia and I had taken when we’d walked to OfficeMax what felt like a lifetime ago. I thought I’d go check out what those elementary-school kids were up to—maybe I’d find something to shoot, though that was never all that likely here in Garden City.

  I’d just walked out onto Franklin, video camera in hand, just kinda scoping the scene, when I saw that little kid Malik from the basement of my building. I hadn’t known he went to Irving, but I guess it made sense, there not being a whole lot of educational options in this town.

  Malik was pretty hard to miss that afternoon. He was standing on the front steps of Irving, hopping from foot to foot, moving up and down the stairs like his sneakers had wings. Freaky as he looked out there, I had to admit the brother was nimble. It really did look like he was flying. For I don’t know how long I just stood there, watching my little neighbor move. I’d seen him pull this shit on the stoop sometimes, but this was different: This was right in front of his entire elementary school. And he wasn’t embarrassed at all. It was like he didn’t care who was watching. Wish I’d been more like that when I was in fourth grade.

  A few minutes into Malik’s performance, this big guy walked right up to him and started clapping his hands together real loud. “Man, oh, man, you’re better than the homeless guy I saw outside the Sunglass Hut last week! Collect any good tips?” he asked in this big booming voice, and a couple of other kids gathered around to watch.

  Malik, who’d stopped dancing, shook his head and backed away from the guy. Damn, he looked scared. Malik was an average-size kid, but next to the guy hassling him, he looked tiny and vulnerable and so sorta crushable.

  “I said, you collect any tips, twinkle toes?” the guy repeated even louder, and he was right up in Malik’s face now.

  Malik kept on shaking his head even as he dug into his pocket and pulled out a couple of wadded-up dollar bills, which the bigger kid snatched right off him.

  And before I’d thought about what I was doing, I moved forward until I was standing right between Malik and the guy who’d been bothering him. The guy was big, yeah, but only by elementary-school standards. At Watkins an asshole like him wouldn’t last a minute.

  “Give him his money back,” I heard myself saying. “Now.”

  The guy didn’t move, just shook his head at me. I stared him right in the eyes and read him inside and out. He wasn’t nearly as tough as he was pretending to be. I was at least two years older, and I had the weight advantage. And maybe most impor
tantly I had nothing at all to lose.

  “Did you hear me?” I said, my voice all low and threatening. “I said give him his money back. Now.”

  The guy glanced from me to Malik, as if to see if I was kidding. When it became clear that I wasn’t, he shrugged and passed the dollar bills back to Malik.

  “Good boy,” I said. “Now get your ass outta here.” Then, before he could make a clean escape, I looked him straight in the eyes again and added, “And don’t let me ever catch you hassling Malik again, aight? Pick on somebody your own size or I’ll make sure you’ll regret it.”

  The guy nodded quickly and then scampered off like I’d just shot at him. About the only thing he hadn’t done was wet his pants, not that I of all people could judge him if he had.

  Once the guy was gone, Malik looked over at me, as confused as he’d been frightened only a second before. “Thanks,” he said. “That was—that was really nice of you.”

  I shrugged. “You going back to Palace Houses?” I asked. Because that’s what the crappy five-story walkup where we lived was called.

  “Yeah,” Malik said uncertainly. “I guess so.”

  “All right then,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  We hadn’t walked five steps toward the sidewalk before I saw her. Nia. She was standing right there, staring at me with those dark eyes.

  “Hi, Butterball,” she said, and her voice was different than it had been at the 7-Eleven. It was softer, kinder, more like the old Nia from art class.

  I must’ve shown how taken aback I was when I asked, “What’re you doing here?”

  “Two of my little sisters go to Irving,” she said. “I pick them up on the days they don’t have dance.”