Team Seven

by Marcus Burke

  D-roc and Buggy were over in the corner near the big-screen TV, sitting on a weight bench watching ESPN, lifting cement buckets full of water like they were dumbbells, both of them tossed me the peace sign. Sticks was on the other end of the basement with boxing gloves on, punching a dirty old heavy bag. He pumped a fist at me and nodded his head. I followed Reggie over to the big card table in the middle of the basement, where Claude and Tony were sitting. The Lox’s new album, Money, Power & Respect, was banging from the two subwoofers on both sides of the table. I coughed a few more times as I pulled up a chair and sat down.

  Tony looked at me and said, “Well, if this ain’t the most dribblingest, throwingest nigga I ever done seen. Wat’s good, lil’ homie?”

  He threw me a dap and I reached across the table and it felt like I’d stuck my finger in a socket. He gripped my hand so hard that he shook my whole body, nearly pulling me out of the chair.

  “That was good shit, son,” he wiggled his eyebrows.

  Claude nodded and tossed me dap. Then he too strong-armed me like he wanted to dislocate my shoulder.

  “Yeah, goo’ shee-t,” he said.

  I didn’t really know what to say so I just nodded back and said, “Yeah,” under my breath.

  There was a bunch of dried-out grape-sized flower buds on the table everywhere, some loose, some still on the branches. I knew it was weed from the smell, it reeked sort of like mothballs and fresh-cut grass. Tony and Reggie were smoking small blunts while they snapped the buds apart, stuffing them into mini baggies. Claude grabbed a cigar from a brownish-colored pouch whose label read “Backwoods” in red letters. He slobbered all over it and then slowly unraveled its skin and tossed out the tobacco. Then he sprinkled some of the crushed buds inside and started rerolling it.

  He finished rolling the first one and Reggie and Tony stopped what they were doing and Tony said, “Session; two-minute warning,” and all the guys slowly started making their way to the table. I looked around at them as they settled in, they all looked so tired, with bloodshot eyes and moving slow. Claude lit the cigar and started smoking it. He blew a thick stream of smoke across the table at me and passed the blunt to Reggie. Reggie took a couple puffs and they kept this rhythm up until D-roc let the blunt linger in his hand and Buggy punched him in the arm and said, “Pass the blunt, nigga,” and snatched it from him. I grinned but no one else started laughing so I held it in. Claude took out another Backwood and started rolling another. The music pulsed through my whole body as I sat, feeling like I’d been inside a steam room too long. The air was foggy and thick, and my head felt loopy and light. I looked around at all the guys, they were laughing and smoking, but I didn’t know what they were laughing at. I saw their smiling faces and felt like maybe they were laughing at me and I started feeling awkward. I couldn’t really hear their voices, all I could hear were my thoughts and the idea of Ma smelling weed on me made me feel sick to my stomach. I looked over at the cable box and it was four thirty. Ma got off work at five thirty, so I jumped to my feet and said, “Thanks, y’all, but I gotta go,” and headed for the door.

  Reggie looked me in the face as I made my way across the basement. Then he grabbed my shoulder and laughed. “Aww, this lil’ nigga got his first lil’ contact high. Shake it off, nigga, you good, son.”

  “Yeah, I’m good,” I said as I rustled away.

  “Well, come back tomorrow if you wanna put some money in your pocket, ya hear?”

  I said okay and he gave me a strong dap, and as I started heading for the door he yelled, “And don’t go telling your mama what you seen down here neither, she just starting to come around.”

  I said, “Okay,” and let myself out.

  From that day forward, once school let out at three, I power walked home, dropped off my stuff, hit the side alley, and grabbed the order and the cash. I got back from the munchies run around three fifteen and as long as I kept my mouth shut and stayed out of the way they’d let me hang out for a little bit. If the air wasn’t too strong, I could cut out no later than four thirty, giving me a good hour for the contact to go away. When I got home I’d put my hoodie and coat on the back porch to air out from the smell in Reggie’s basement. By the time it started getting warm out I almost felt like an honorary member of the crew, but they were all older than me and they spoke in a code they made up all on their own and I couldn’t crack it. I laughed when they laughed but half the time I didn’t know what they were talking about.

  Even though I’m cool with them, they’re just friendly to me. My real homeboys are Chucky Taft and Beezy, and our moms are all friends.

  Chucky’s mother, Mrs. Vernice Taft, is like the mayor of Lothrop Ave. Her and Chucky were the first people who rang our doorbell to introduce themselves when we moved to Milton. As Ma tells it, the doorbell rang and when she answered the door there was a jug of sweet tea sitting beside the doormat and in our walkway was this white lady Mrs. Vernice picking up a plastic-wrapped foil tray of fried chicken and waffles with Chucky slung around her hip. Ma said they sat at our kitchen table and ate, while me and Chucky played with pots and pans on the floor.

  Ma was convinced from day one that there wasn’t any racism in Mrs. Vernice Taft, not to say she didn’t see it in some of the other white people that lived on our block. The Tafts live five houses down from us, just before the hill starts to rise. Beezy lives on the tip-top of the hill, we used to only really see him in the summertime because he went to private school, but this year he transferred to Tucker Elementary and he wound up in Mrs. Power’s class with me and Chucky.

  Spring always used to be the loneliest season. Chucky’s never around, he plays for the all-star travel baseball team. After school he’s either doing homework or off doing baseball stuff with his father. With the warm weather, them Squad Six boys are outside, and I know better than to linger on the corner too long and risk being spotted by Vernice Taft, who’d tell Ma. But with Beezy around things were all good. Finally I had a homie my age to chill with. I started taking him with me on the store runs, but the way them Squad Six boys would come at Beezy snapping jokes was off the hook. I mean, sure my dude was fat but he was still my homeboy. We knew our peoples didn’t bang with each other, but they all went about their business as if the others didn’t exist, like they weren’t hustling on different ends of the block.

  One day them Squad Six boys weren’t around after school, so I dribbled my basketball in the street, crossing up the sewer caps. When they came back to the block they were all fired up and D-roc kept telling me, “Dre, don’t let me catch you rolling with that fuckin’ nigga Smoke’s little brother no more. We don’t fuck with them. Period.”

  To stay loyal to the game, from that day forward me and Beezy were strictly school friends. It was weird having a best friend that only lived up the block yet we had to sneak around like criminals just to kick it. I was loyal for a little bit, but shit, Beezy was one of my best friends. Plus I couldn’t really be in on all the real Squad Six dirt anyway, like why I wasn’t supposed to be talking to Beezy in the first place.

  “Andre. You only ’bout what? Ten or eleven? You got some shit going on for you, lil’ nig. Just play your position, keep your eyes peeled, go to school, and be a good kid, son-dun. Shit, you see us out here all day, these house-broads calling the cops on niggas, haters trying to run up and shit. Just enjoy now, because once you punch that clock the work don’t never stop, ya dig?”

  This is the sermon Reggie used to give me every time I would try to get in on the good stuff, like riding out with the boys. Then came the day. Ma asked me why she hadn’t seen Beezy around lately, and when I told her that I wasn’t supposed to be chilling with him she told me, “Negro, this is the U-S of A. If you want to hang out with Miss Myra’s boy from up the street, then you do that. I like Reggie but the rest of them punks ain’t ’bout nothin’. Listen to Reggie. Not Claude, not Buggy, not Sticks, not Tony, and especially not that fool D-roc, or any of the rest of them fools.”

  With
Ma’s good ammo winding up my back, one day me and Beezy snuck away after school and went to the basketball courts at Kelly Park to play some one-on-one. As I was working Beezy’s chunky butt out I heard some noise coming from behind us. It was the boom from the bass in D-roc’s car. I can tell his speakers from anywhere. You can hear them before you see him. When I heard the bass my heart dropped. I wanted to run and hide in a trash can. I knew it was him and the Squad Six boys, that’s how they roll. I also knew that when they got here they were not going to be feeling this little stunt. Really there wasn’t shit to do but just whoop Beezy’s ass in the game. Whoop him long and strong. That way at least I might get some props after the game. I had been working on my jump shot, like Reggie said to do.

  As if things weren’t already getting funky enough, about five minutes after my Squad Six boys got there and didn’t even address me, I looked down off the court and I could see Smoke and company rolling toward the park too. Right as Smoke and his crew got to the court I had game point. Both crews were postin’ on picnic tables on opposite sides of the court.

  From the roar of both crews I could tell shit was about to hit the fan. Me and Beezy returned to sworn enemies. Beezy checked me the ball and I drove baseline on him. Up and under and the game was over. With both crews watchin’ close, the tension in the air felt like Nana Tanks’s homemade pickled pepper sauce. I thought my heart was going to pop out of my throat.

  D-roc yelled out, “Man, we just the best, ain’t it! Squad Six! We got little niggas that’ll body ya!” He jumped up and down with his fist pumping into the air like he was letting off shots. Now I don’t really think he was speaking to anyone in particular, but Kendrick, Smoke’s homeboy, seemed to take a special offense to D-roc poppin’ off at the lip like that.

  “Yeah ’ight, nigga, you better shut the fuck up before y’all niggas get exposed.”

  D-roc rumbled back, “ ’Ight bet. What you trying to do?” Reggie shot him a look. Then D-roc said, “Fuck it. I’ll put five hundred on my little soldier right now, what!”

  Reggie smirked. “Naw, fuck that. We’ll put up a whole stack. These niggas is puppy treats. I got faith in my little nigga.” He looked down at me. “Andre, get at these bum-ass niggas.”

  Then he looked back over at Smoke. “We go hard out here. I’ll send my little nigga to merk you. Game’s to fifteen.”

  I really didn’t even want to play anymore, but then Beezy slammed the ball in my chest talking about “Check up, pussy.”

  That’s all the invite I needed to oblige him in a good old-fashioned Squad Six beat down. I shoulda just socked his fat ass when that ball touched my chest. Instead, I gave his punk ass fifteen straight buckets. Beezy had nothing for me inside or outside. I ran circles around his jiggly fat ass. He should have known not to pull my gully card in front of my crew. When the ball dropped through the net on my fifteenth point, I caught it and slammed it down like a touchdown spike.

  “And take that to the bank, fuckhead! Now go get our money, bitch!” And I chest-bumped him in the back as he walked away. Beezy ain’t say nothing. Smoke had a whole lot to say, though. When Beezy got over to his side, Smoke mushed the stack in his face. The dollars drizzled everywhere.

  “What a waste you are, you fat shit,” Smoke said as Beezy brushed by him and started walking home. Smoke’s eyes got small and his nostrils flared and he started scratching his head. “Hold da fuck up. I know you ain’t ’bout to bounce without touching this little nigga up. I wish a nigga would chest-bump me in the back. Beezy, bring yo ass!”

  Beezy turned around. I wanted to evaporate. Shit, I won, why I gotta fight? But from the devil in Beezy’s face, I knew he was about to buck. I told Reggie to hold my stuff.

  Reggie looked me in the eyes. “Yo, break his neck, ya heard me? Don’t be afraid to hurt ’im ’cause he ain’t afraid to hurt you. These boys ain’t ready.”

  After Reggie told me that, I turned around and boom! Beezy tagged me in the face. “What up? I ain’t the only one leaving here with a L today,” he said.

  At first I didn’t think Beezy was going to fight me for real. I mean, we were boys no more than an hour ago. But I tasted the blood flowing from my nose and it was on. I grabbed the fat fuck by his shirt and chopped him right in the voice box.

  “Yeah, kill all that noise, bitch,” I said as he crumpled down to the floor holding that fat-ass double chin he called a neck. He fell and I hopped on top and started hooking off. It was like everything went fuzzy. I couldn’t feel any of the licks he was laying on me. I just kept swinging until I heard Smoke say, “Ayo, that’s enough, yo. Y’all got that.”

  D-roc, barked, “Nah, you the one that done wound up your little toy soldier, let them niggas fight.”

  But Reggie grabbed me. “Now that’s how the fuck you hold it down, Andre! See, I told y’all bitch-made niggas, you don’t want no drama! Now where the fuck is my money!”

  Reggie put his hand out. Smoke took out a rubber band and slung it around a roll of cash and flicked it halfway across the court.

  Reggie laughed, “Boy, I tell ya, these new age cats sure are disrespectful.” He patted the top of my head. “You earned it, playboy, go grab that up.”

  As I jogged over to midcourt to grab the cash, I watched as Smoke walked Beezy away from the court like a principal who’d just broke up a fight, except he was choking him by his shirt collar like a dog.

  Beezy turned around and looked at me. We made eye contact and it hit me. I really just fought him. When our eyes met we agreed, silently, that was stupid. I wanted to say I was sorry and probably would have if Reggie and D-roc weren’t jumping up and down in my face, shouting at me ’bout how I looked like “Tyson on that nigga, son.” I earned my stripes and I kept ’em. But it didn’t feel right.

  The whole ride home in D-roc’s car with the bass boomin’, all I could think about was how badly Beezy was getting it for letting me do him like that. All them Squad Six boys came to the conclusion that it wasn’t Squad Six no more; it was more like Team Seven.

  Ruby Battel

  When that boy strolled in my house looking like a crash test dummy, trying to act like nothing happened, I was ready to go. “Dre, what in God’s natural world happened to you? Look at you. You were fighting! Where was Reggie?”

  He looked at me like I was talking to him for my health. He sat there like he didn’t have crusted blood around his nostrils.

  “Oh, so I get it. Code of the streets, huh? You’re not going to tell Mommy what happened because you don’t want to be a sissy, huh? I know how this game works, Andre. Don’t forget I married your father. A cut above the rest, Dre! What don’t you get about that? All this foolishness in these streets ain’t for you. You’re not like these corner boys going nowhere fast in these streets. I’ll make sure of that. So who was it, huh?”

  When that boy told me that Reggie and Smoke put my baby and little Beezy up to fighting, my blood started to boil.

  When I asked him why he didn’t just come home, I wanted to smack him, talking about how he “couldn’t look like no punk.” I told that little boy, if I hear he’s out there fighting anymore I’m going to punk him and whoever else wants some. It’s times like this that I really just wish I had a little help. Maybe if Eddy would be around more that boy wouldn’t feel like he had to be so damn tough all the time. Lord knows, it’s not easy raising two. It’s just me. Even with the change Reggie drops off over here, it’s hard to make ends meet.

  No games. I took the situation into my own hands. The next morning when Andre left for school I called into work and told them I was going to be late. Hell, if them boys are too pigheaded to make peace, I will. See, I know Smoke, his mother and I are actually friends. I remember him when he was just a little stinka butt running around this block. Back when he wasn’t nothing but little Stanley Taylor, Miss Myra’s boy. Now he thinks he can terrorize my baby. Oh, I don’t think so.

  And I know Reggie loves Andre and won’t disrespect me. Smoke, or should I say
Stanley, he better not make me have to call his mother. He wasn’t afraid of much, but when it comes to Myra, she got that boy in check.

  I set out on a relaxing stroll around the neighborhood. Right when I got to the gate I could see Reggie and the rest of his squad hanging on the corner. I saw Reggie looking over. From the look on his face he could tell I was ready to begin acting up. I started in his direction and he left the corner and met me halfway. See, I appreciate the money Reggie gives me, but if he thinks I’m going to let him ruin my baby, he can take that money and wipe his ass with it. Before I could get a word out he gots to explaining, “Check it out, Miss Ruby. Before you come over here riffin’ and shit, let me tell you. You should be proud! The boy has hands. I mean, hot damn, he served that boy up something proper.”

  I took a step back. “Reggie, what the hell do you think this is? You think I’m trying to raise the future Mr. Get Bad? That boy ain’t but ten years old … I’m trying to raise up a good man!”

  “And I’m trying to help you, Miss Ruby. You think I started that fight? Naw! Shit, if someone up rocked your jaw then what you gon’ do?”

  This Negro must have thought I was one of his little around-the-way hoes. He wasn’t fixing to run that preschool game on me. I told that Negro, “Well, however it goes, I don’t want my child being used as a pawn in your foolishness. Dre came in the house last night looking hurt. I’ve got enough weighing down my heart without worrying about y’all fools messing with him. Come hell or high water, there ain’t nothing going to harm that boy. Especially these games y’all playing in these streets. Now I’ve got to live here, Reggie. It’s on you to make this right. I ain’t playing either. And you best tell your little gooney squad there will be no addition to y’all’s little crew. So rethink it. Y’all stay with that Squad Six business y’all like to write on the walls everywhere, and Dre’s going to be a kid.”