I stop too late. The twitching muscle in my brother’s jaw tells me he knows what I was about to say.
In a low voice he says, “No, I guess your pal Leaky is nothing like me.”
We stand there, tense and in silence, until Rochelle runs into the room and heads for the beds. Thin and wiry, with no fear of heights, she scrambles up the ladder. She bounces around on the top bunk in the middle of the things I scattered on the blanket to stake my phony claim. But I’ve changed my mind. I won’t start out by pretending. No fake-outs. I will just be myself and tell him my rules.
I have dibs on the bottom bed. Live with that, Mr. King of the World.
“You’ll be up top. I sleep below,” I say. I want to sound firm, only my voice choses this time to crack into a nervous whisper. I begin throwing my stuff from the top bed to the floor.
“But we like being up high!” Rochelle wails.
Lamont bends to pick up some of the papers I tossed down.
“What’s this?” He begins reading the swim-team papers.
“That . . . Those are mine.” I try to snatch them from his hands.
“The Racing Rays?” The team’s name rolls off his tongue as if he’s said it before. “Did someone put you up to this?”
“No one put me up to anything. I like to swim and dive. Now give them back!” I try jumping to get the papers, but he steps back, holding them out of reach above his head.
“What makes you want to join a swim team?” Lamont asks, his voice unemotional. I almost confess how being in the water brings back good memories of days when I totally trusted him.
“Seriously, why not try boxing or football?” he continues. “Go where the money flows. Do something with a big-time paycheck.” He doesn’t mention basketball and never even glances again at the pennant on the wall.
“T wants to dive,” Rochelle explains with exaggerated patience. My sister hears all, knows all. Then she adds, “What’s dive?”
Lamont keeps looking at me. “You want to be a diver? God, the world really is crazy. My brother wants to be a Racing Ray.”
“Why shouldn’t I want to be part of something good? Something that would maybe get me a scholarship to college.”
“No reason, I guess. If it’s really what you want.”
I’m shaking because I’m mad at Lamont and at myself. Why didn’t I toss those forms the minute Mom said no?
Because I still had hope. I believed in miracles.
“T, come back up here,” Rochelle calls. “I want you to play with me.”
“We can play down below,” I mumble.
“No! You come up here with me,” she insists, her little hands fisting. She used to have crying meltdowns. Now that’s she’s older, she just pouts like crazy to get what she wants. And she wants me up there. We only played together up on the top bunk one time since the beds were delivered. Now she’s acting like it’s our special place. I reach up to lift her down, but she struggles to pull free.
“You come here with me,” she says. “This is where you belong.”
“Do you want the top bunk?” Lamont asks, looking at me.
“Yeah!” Rochelle yells. “T likes it here, and I like it here too.”
I hesitate a second too long.
“You want the high ground, you’ve got it, Short Stack.” Lamont drops my papers back on the bunk beside Rochelle and then throws himself on the bottom bed. The springs squeak from his weight when he hits the mattress. My mattress.
“Get up!” I yell. “That’s not what I want.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “You know, that tone would make half the guys in the cellblock salute you. The other half would go after you.”
I wonder which half he would have belonged to.
“Stay up there,” he continues. “It’s safer.” He places his hands behind his head. I step back, away from my brother and that threat. I should have known I would never win against him.
Even Mom is quiet during dinner. Lamont grabs a second piece of the steak she cooked and bites down hard, caveman style. I move my fork through my food, not very hungry and feeling no need to swallow. Rochelle is the only one who doesn’t seem to feel the thick, ropy tension swirling around the table.
“Your parole officer called,” Mom says. “He wants you to come to his office at one o’clock tomorrow.”
Lamont shrugs, clearly not surprised. “The harassment begins,” he says gruffly.
“He has to do his job,” Mom says, her voice still calm. “Just follow the rules. That’s your ticket to staying out of prison,” she says.
Lamont suddenly looks as uninterested in food as I am. “All that man does is hand me a cup to fill.”
My sister, Miss Curiosity, looks up. “What did you put in his cup?”
“Juice,” I say quickly, biting back a laugh at the thought of Lamont peeing in a cup for a drug test. He throws me a shaky smile of gratitude. Mom covers her mouth, but I hear the laughter.
“Orange juice or apple juice?” Rochelle asks next.
“Orange,” I say, knowing she hates orange juice.
“Apple,” my inexperienced brother answers at the same time. If she asks another question, he’s on his own. I don’t intend to explain drug tests to a four-year-old.
Rochelle blinks and looks from my face to his. Then she holds her empty cup out to him. “I’m thirsty. Please fill mine too.”
I laugh, but I’m surprised and a little disappointed Rochelle accepts him so easily. She even giggles when Lamont goes to the fridge and returns with her juice.
I don’t forgive like that. She may be too little to remember stuff, but I can’t forget.
Ever.
Just before bedtime, I take my phone to the bathroom. There I slide down the wall and sit on the cold floor. I have to wait until my fingers stop shaking before I can manage to type.
Me: Lamont is here.
I send that message to Malik and wait.
Mom says I can’t bother Malik too much. College and basketball take up a lot of his time.
Before he left for college, though, he told me I could contact him anytime, for anything.
It only takes a few minutes for him to respond.
Malik: Hey T. How’d that happen?
I can’t fit the full answer to his question in a text. I take a deep breath before typing,
Me: Early release, good behavior or something, I guess.
Malik: Are you holding up? Do you need anything?
I’m scared, I type in a rush. Then I pause and stare at the send button. The truth is I’m not scared or apprehensive or nervous, anxious, petrified, or any of the vocabulary words I’ve learned. I open my pictures file and pull up one of the two of us, taken just before he left for the University of Illinois. Malik is smiling, confident, a black man who is going places. He’s a big-time, important basketball player, and the Fighting Illini are on the hunt for a play-off berth. I know he’d come if I asked. But I can’t ask. This is not important enough.
I erase those words and type out a new message.
Me: I’ll hang tough.
Then I hit Send and turn off my phone.
Dressed in the oversize Black Lives Matter shirt and a pair of shorts I use for pajamas, I return to the bedroom. Lamont’s chest is bare, revealing an updated version of his iron-hard custom body.
“You’ve been working out,” I say while rubbing my flat stomach. He’s got a six-pack; I’m running on empty.
“I had plenty of time for that. You can sit and think for only so long. Of course, I also had to attend anger management sessions.”
“Did those work for you?” My heart jumps. What if he really changed? Maybe I have a real brother again.
He looks me over, eyes narrowing. “What do you think?” He flicks a towel at me, snapping me hard in the back before padding down the hall in bare feet for his turn in the bathroom.
I think I’m in trouble.
I grip the ladder, take a deep breath, and force myself to climb to the top. I sink bonelessly on
the mattress and pull the blanket over my chest. I lie on my back and stare at the too-close ceiling. Resolute. I remember the word from my vocabulary lesson. I’m not scared; I am resolute. He’s not the only one who is older and stronger. He may live here now, only a few feet away from me, but he doesn’t get to suck me down his dark hole again.
Chapter
Nine
MY ALARM GOES OFF THE next morning at six thirty. I sit up and bump my head on the ceiling. The pain reminds me where I am, so I don’t leap out into the darkness the way I normally do.
Mom is already gone, headed for the CTA Red Line train to take her to work downtown. Her commute to the Loop takes almost an hour.
My job is taking care of Rochelle in the mornings. Mom trusts me, and I feel proud. I get my little sister dressed and fed and then take her across the courtyard to Mrs. Kanady in building number four. She does day care in her garden apartment. Rochelle stays there until Mom returns from work and picks her up.
“What are you doing up so early?” Lamont mumbles as I climb down the bunk ladder.
“I have work to do. Do you think life happens by magic?”
He merely grunts. I dress and leave him in the dim light from the rising sun.
Rochelle loves fancy clothes, with lots of bows and lace. Some days she gets picky, but today she agrees to the pale gray sweater trimmed in black lace and beaded jeans Mom chose for her last night. She brings a doll to the table and pretends to feed her from the pancakes I make.
Lamont wanders in mid-breakfast and leans against the wall with arms folded across his chest. His shirtsleeves are so tight they barely contain his biceps. He rubs the small scar on his forehead, his eyes flickering from me to Rochelle and the doll.
“I have pancakes shaped like bunnies,” Rochelle says with her mouth full of pancake and pieces of the banana I used to make ears and nose.
“I see,” Lamont says, smiling.
The landline rings. I jump—I’ve almost forgotten what the home phone sounds like. It hardly ever rings and never in the morning. I lift the receiver and hear an impatient male voice say, “Lamont, you there?”
“Who are you?” I ask. There is something oddly familiar about the voice.
“Get Lamont,” the unknown voice insists. “I know he’s there.”
“You can’t call here.” I turn to glare at my brother as I speak.
Lamont lifts the phone from my hand and says, “Yeah?” His voice is cautious but firm. “I just got here. Give me a break.” A pause while he listens and nods. “Yeah, I got it. Don’t worry, that was only my brother.”
Only!
“Who was that?” I ask as he hangs up the phone and heads back to the bedroom.
“Nobody,” he answers without looking back. I guess that means it was one of his gang friends checking up on him. I glance at Rochelle, who continues eating. She can remain unconcerned by our family drama. I can’t.
“Was that Darnell, maybe, or Cisco or . . .” I can’t remember all the names of the guys who hung with him two years ago. “You have to stay away from gang members—all of them. That’s part of the rules. You can’t go back to the old days.” I can’t go back.
He turns around and walks back into the kitchen, shaking his head. “Darnell is still inside.”
“Oh. I thought, since they let you out, he’d be out too.” I shake with relief. Darnell is older than Lamont, nastier, and really seemed to hate the whole world. He especially hated taking orders from Lamont.
“It doesn’t work like that. I got out because . . .” He pauses. “Doesn’t matter.”
“How did this guy know you were here?” I ask.
“Someone always knows things. For the right price, you can get them to tell you.” He stares at me as he speaks. I’m not sure if that is a warning or some kind of threat.
I turn back to Rochelle. “Come on,” I say, pulling her away from the table.
“I’m not finished yet,” she complains. I wait while she stuffs the last two bites from her plate into chipmunk cheeks, then lift her from her chair to her feet.
After wiping syrup from her mouth, I point her toward her room. “Get your backpack. It’s time for school.”
“Hurray!” she squeals, instantly obedient at the thought of getting back to one of her favorite places. I start cleaning the dishes.
“Why does she go to school? She’s only three,” Lamont says as she disappears down the hall.
“She’s four, but I guess that’s easy for you to forget. Rochelle likes it when I call her day care school. It makes her feel more grown-up.”
“What about you?” he asks. “I used to think school was all boring and bogus, phony stuff. They never taught anything important. Do you like all those lectures and homework and the stuff teachers keep trying to cram down your throat?”
“I love school.”
“Love? You have changed,” he says softly.
“You bet I have,” I say as Rochelle returns dressed in a denim jacket, with one strap of her bunny backpack on her shoulder.
“I’m ready,” she says, jumping up and down. “Hurry, T. Let’s go!”
“Just a minute,” I say. “I have to finish cleaning the dishes.”
“I can do that.” Lamont steps forward.
“This is my job.” I don’t trust him to help. I don’t trust him at all. I stare at my brother until he backs off. He thrusts his hands in his pockets and heads back to the bedroom.
I really do need only another minute or two before I am done. Then I straighten Rochelle’s pack on her shoulders, grab my own stuff, and lead her out the door. After leaving her at Mrs. Kanady’s, I start for school. Lamont is also leaving, trudging down the street with his head bent, hands deep in his pockets. Heading off to meet his phone friend, I guess. “Keep it up,” I murmur at his retreating back. If he spends his time hanging with his gang buddies, Mr. Cho will have him back in prison real soon.
My school is five blocks from my building. I pass a construction site on the way. Several new houses are being erected on a once-vacant lot, and a bunch of construction workers mill around. More houses will mean more families, and that’s a good thing. Another construction project is under way a few blocks in the opposite direction, near a park where I sometimes go to play. A sign at that spot identifies the place as the future home of a new grocery store from a major chain. Mom and I will finally have a place to buy food close to home. No more taking a bus to shop in one of the big grocery stores in another neighborhood, then slugging with the bags back home on the bus. Even in good weather, it’s hard. In winter, shopping is miserable.
There is another open lot between me and school. No construction here, and no junk or debris litter the ground. Rocks have been moved away, and grass grows in thick, green clumps. More than a dozen old men and women—and Dontae—are on the grass performing morning tai chi. Nothing stops this group from performing their daily ritual. Today, one old man even wears a short-sleeved shirt along with a look of steely concentration. Members of the group move slowly, all at the same time, like some gentle flash mob without music.
Dontae waves when he sees me. He finishes a few more moves, waves goodbye to the others, and grabs his backpack from the ground before rushing to me.
“Take a drink,” I remind him as we resume our walk to school. He groans but pulls a water bottle from his pack and drinks deep.
“I didn’t expect to like tai chi so much,” he says as we walk. “But it’s better than all those experimental meds the doc wants me to take. Better than the yoga mess my mom tried pushing me into.”
“You just like being with old people.” I grin.
“Well, yeah. I mean, they’re nice. Not one of them is a bully, and some are interesting. Speaking of bullies, how was your first night with your brother?”
I shrug. “I’m still alive.”
Dontae nods. “Well, that’s good.”
“And I’m sleeping on the top bunk.” My voice hitches when I admit that. Lamont pushe
d and I caved, a memory that makes me angrier every time it whirls through my brain.
“Ouch.” Dontae shakes his head sadly. “I guess he’s not as smart as we thought.”
“No. He’s way smarter.” I’m not worried about my brother trying to hurt me while I sleep—that was never my real concern about his return. The feeling that tugs at my heart is fear that he’s going down a destructive path again. Fear that I’ll be sucked down with him all over again if I don’t keep pushing him away.
Chapter
Ten
WE CONTINUE OUR WALK TO school through the heart of our neighborhood. This part of Chicago is not a stop on any tourist excursion. We have parks and shops and a few small museums, like the Bronzeville Children’s Museum on 93rd Street. Rochelle loves visiting that place the way I like going to the Pullman Porter Museum. They both reveal a history experience different from the stuff the Hun hands out in class. I guess tourists to Chicago don’t want to see them or anything else in our neighborhood. We have some great block festivals in the summer, but not even the scent of food and sound of music filling the air are enough to coax people into dropping their fears and coming by to see what we have to offer.
We arrive at school, and Dontae and I take our seats in class as the Hun walks in. “Morning, everybody,” he says. I try to concentrate on the lesson, but Lamont won’t stop popping around inside my head. That makes it hard to think and concentrate on my schoolwork. The day drags until the bell rings announcing the lunch period. Dontae walks next to me as we head down to the cafeteria. Linda walks a little in front of us.
I first met Linda two years ago, but I didn’t know much about her until we ended up in the same seventh-grade classroom. I just knew what everyone does. She was eight when her parents divorced. Her mother took out an Order of Protection against her father, but he was so angry, no piece of paper could stop him. Barnetta, Linda’s older sister, found their mother dead on the kitchen floor. At least I had time to tell Dad goodbye. As bad as it felt watching the cancer eat at him as he slowly grew weaker and fainter and finally faded away, I’m glad I had those last weeks. Linda woke one morning to find her mother already dead and her father arrested by Carmela’s dad.
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