Team Seven

by Marcus Burke

  I feel bad, but shit, the lights ain’t got shut off lately so fuck it. At the court playing one-on-one is the real hustle. And old-timers come by Kelly Park all the time. They can easily drop a prideful hundred on a lunch break trying to prove they still got it. Usually that’s the money I use to pay back Smoke for a re-up. Anyway, me and Tunnetta walked inside my grandfather’s toolshed and I took my stash out from under his grease-cutting sink and rolled us up a joint. The whole time I rolled, Tunnetta’s leg bounced as she watched me, her eyes bright and focused.

  “Can you teach me how to do that?” she asked.

  “What you know ’bout green?” I laughed.

  “I can learn. Be nice!” She slapped my arm.

  “Ever ate a Fruit Roll-Up?” I sparked the joint. “Just think about stuffing some weed inside. Then up, up, and away.”

  I hit it a few times, then passed it to her. She held it like a dirty thong she’d found mixed in with her laundry or something. She squinted and sniffed. She sucked.

  “Now hold the smoke in your mouth and inhale again and hold it.”

  She sucked again. Held her breath in like a yawn. Her head fell back and she put her hand to her chest, sighing a thick stream of milky smoke. She hugged her sides and started humming. She hit the joint like a champ and I was half jealous, half impressed.

  Birds flying high, you know how I feel.

  Sun in the sky, you know how I feel.

  She moaned, rocking side to side, waving the joint like an orchestra conductor. She kept singing that one verse like she was in a trance. I didn’t want to interrupt her. She took another toke, coughed, and then burped. Her face got pepper red and drooped into her cupped palms. My head was tingled-fried and I was starting to feel spacey. She sniffled and I thought she was laughing. I snapped my fingers loud and she looked up. Tears in her eyes, her lips pouted out as her jaw bounced.

  “I just miss my mother is all. It’s lonely in the house without her,” she gasped.

  She closed her eyes and it felt like she was leaning toward me. I didn’t know what to do so I touched her face. Her skin felt like fuzzy Braille. I kissed her and we fumbled over each other. We stood and I cradled her back, pulling her closer to me. I slid my hand down the back of her jeans and she let me. Even though it was wide wit’ no weight on it, it sure was soft. We bumped up against the shed door and it blew open. We both jumped back and almost fell, the daylight squinting our eyes. Flustered, she said she better go. We never talked about the kiss, but the next day in class I asked her what song she was singing.

  “ ‘Feeling Good’ by Nina Simone. It was Mama’s favorite song,” her note read.

  Tunnetta liked weed and we started smoking together after school a lot, like two or three days a week. She told her father she was tutoring, and I mean, that was our initial idea. We’d get high and sometimes she’d sing. She never cried again, though. Sometimes we’d kiss. Sometimes I’d even get halfway between second and third base and freeze up. I don’t know why, but I would.

  Mostly we just chilled and talked. I don’t know what we were but I did know that friend shit was officially over. It started feeling like we ought to be more, but I was plain embarrassed of her too.

  Beezy was the first one that caught us. It was a half day of school. Her father didn’t know this, and we’d planned to kick it until school usually got out. We were walking and Beezy was right outside in his front yard all sweat-greased up, looking like a water buffalo ass-deep in the shrubs. I told Tunnetta to wait at the edge of his walkway. She posted. When he saw me he went up and sat on his porch. He looked at me, then down at Tunnetta.

  “Let me find out you chippin’ it,” he said.

  “She’s my math tutor. Relax.” I kept stone-faced.

  “Your stupid ass for damn sure ain’t taking no math lesson on no Friday afternoon.”

  Caught. “Come out of my business, son,” was all I could say. He shook his head. Beezy’s funny as hell and my best friend, but two things I know about him: one, the nigga got a loud mouth and, two, he likes to show off. I didn’t like the way he kept looking down at Tunnetta.

  “Man, I’ll catch up with you,” I said and dap’d him.

  “Going to study, huh?”

  “What! You wanna come?”

  I started walking. Beezy’s nosy ass couldn’t let it lay, though. He leaned over his porch railing and started eyeing us. Tunnetta was bugging the fuck out too. She asked me if she could use his bathroom like my crib wasn’t only down the street.

  “Come on up, Chocolate Chip.” Beezy yelled from the porch and held his screen door open. I don’t even know how he heard her. Tunnetta smiled at me and took one of them strong stomps.

  The 106 & Park countdown was on BET. I tossed my backpack on the floor, kicked my Timberlands off, and stretched out on the three-seater. Beezy sat at his computer. He’s forever zombied-out at the computer screen. Tunnetta rustled her way out of the bathroom and into the doorway. She stood there waiting for someone to say something to her. I nodded my head at her and put my palm flat up to my chest a little bit under my chin and twisted so Beezy couldn’t see. I walked two fingers across my palm. Her face went soft and she nodded.

  “ ’Ight. Bye, Andre. Thanks, Beezy.”

  Beezy looked up from the computer and muted the television.

  “What about studying?” He looked at me and chuckled. “If y’all ain’t gon’ study you ought to stay and watch ‘Freestyle Friday,’ Chocolate Chip.” She looked up cheesing all bright, batting her eyes back and forth, smearing honey between me and Beezy.

  “Okay! My dad thinks I’m tutoring anyway.”

  She sat down on the other couch across from me. Beezy played Teddy Pendergrass’s “Love TKO.” He was sampling the hook for a beat he’d been working on. It was like he’d plugged the red peg into a Lite-Brite. She reached between her legs and popped the CD out of her Discman and sat next to him at the computer. I couldn’t hear what he was saying to her, but I looked over and she was cracking up, slapping her leg and clapping her hands. I’d never seen her laugh like that. She never laughed at my jokes that way. I saw his forearm on her knee and got a flash of fire in my chest. He was showing her a scar but I felt like he needed to keep his hands to himself. I unmuted the TV and let them rock out.

  Tunnetta had a CD full of baby-makers, some old-school rhythm and spice shit, Al Green and Marvin Gaye cuts. They seemed to have so much in common. The freestyle battle came on 106 & Park. This nigga Beezy was so busy flapping his gums to Tunnetta about how he and his older brother Smoke be doing this and doing that that he missed the first contender, Poster Boy’s whole verse. This he realized right as it cut to commercial break. He tossed a pillow at my face.

  “You couldn’ta told a nigga the joint was on?”

  Tunnetta thought that was hilarious too. I was pissed off beyond words. The show cut back and the second contender, Young ’Tastic, was terrible. Poster Boy won the battle.

  “Glad I got to see the whole battle, nigga!”

  Beezy gave me the stank-eye and smiled. I wanted to kick him in the teeth. He felt my heat and said he needed to go and shower. He clicked off the light in the room and walked out. Ginuwine’s “So Anxious” was the old-school joint of the day on the countdown. I turned the volume all the way up. Tunnetta was wearing her glasses for the first time in a long while, and the video was reflecting off her lenses.

  “Come here,” I said.

  She sat on the far end of the couch, one cushion between us, her staring at the wall, me staring at her. Her eyes looking buttery and sweet. I scooted over toward her and leaned my head back into her lap. She started tracing my ears and I closed my eyes.

  “They’re so little and cute,” she whispered.

  She laid her left arm across my chest. I raised my hand and wiggled my finger in between hers. She started swaying to the video and I opened my eyes. She drizzled them caramel eyes down on me and we kissed. Her hands were clammy too. Her fingers started to wander an
d soon she was rubbing her fingers over my chest. My heart was beating so hard my whole body was shaking, I tried to think. Think of anything. I opened my eyes and sat up.

  I turned and kissed her and she kissed me back harder. I pulled away, then looked at her, then over in the corner to the attic door. I hugged her and I began rubbing my hand on her back under her shirt.

  “Wanna go upstairs?” I suggested.

  She bit down on her lip and nodded yes.

  Inside Smoke’s “Poom-Poom Room” we sat at the foot of the bed.

  “Why don’t we get comfy?” I asked. We both slid back and I snaked the comforter over us. She turned and grabbed me by the chin, looking me in the face.

  “Andre, I want to ask you something. Do you like me?”

  “Yeah,” I mustered out, slightly winded.

  “Look, I know this isn’t going to work out, but you at least have to still be nice to me.”

  Buzzkilled. I didn’t answer her. She grabbed my belt buckle and bobbed down, disappearing under the blanket. I tugged her hair and lifted the covers.

  “You sure?” I asked her and she ignored me.

  My knees bucked and my stomach tangled in knots as I felt her mouth’s warm repetition. I leaned back groaning and grabbed the back of her head. I looked over on the nightstand and grabbed the gold-wrapped Magnum sitting there. She came up for air and I waved it in her face. She took my shirt off and I struggled with the buttons on hers. She laughed and got undressed by herself. I got the condom on and straddled her, poking around until I popped her piñata and felt a tight rush. Her back arched up and I looked down into her face. It looked like she was in the middle of a painful shit. I stopped.

  “Am I hurting you?”

  She grabbed my hips and told me to keep going. I pumped a few times more, but she clearly was not enjoying it. I saw the crimson contrast against the condom and almost gagged. We both hopped off the bed naked, mad-dashing for our clothes. The room smelled like a long day’s walk, and it was time to roll. I realized the shower water was off and the TV was muted and that Beezy had probably heard everything.

  “Maybe I ought to walk you home,” I said and we started moving toward the door. We got down into the TV room and Beezy’s bitch ass whistled as we walked out. I didn’t say anything to him.

  “Bye, Beezy,” she said and we bounced.

  We rounded the corner of Lothrop onto the parkway. We got a block away from her father’s bodega and I forgot it was a half day at school. Everyone was still out: Hot Girls, Bad Girls, BRC, and my Team Seven crew. I didn’t say anything. We just kept walking toward them. They were all posting outside the store, huddled up in a circle. Sade Fulton and Monika Allen were in the middle of arguing about something. Sade saw us and put Monika on pause. She pointed and led the pack toward us. We met paths and I stopped. Tunnetta had no clue what was going on.

  “Excuse us,” Tunnetta said and stepped to the side.

  I looked at her and thought, Us?

  “And look at this ol’ saggy-ass chocolate-chip-faced cellulite-body-ass-bitch,” Sade said.

  Tunnetta pulled my sleeve. “Come on, Andre.” It was a good move.

  Sade grabbed Tunnetta’s hair. “Bitch, you gon’ act like you know something!”

  “Let me go!” Tunnetta struggled.

  They fell and Sade was on top. She started hooking off rapid-fire. I watched, sandwiched between Big Maal and Reggie, cringing with every hit. I stepped and put my arm out about to break it up, but Big Maal put an elbow in my chest.

  “What’s it to you? Let ’em,” he said.

  “Reggie, you don’t think this shit’s foul?” I asked. Tunnetta’s mouth was bleeding and I could see the beginning of a dotted eye.

  “Stop acting like a lil’ bitch,” he replied.

  Tunnetta wrestled away from Sade and staggered into her father’s store. I started walking in after her, but Reggie put his arm around me and said, “Creeping is one thing, but ain’t no Captain Save-a-Hoes in our clique. Let it go.”

  The next day she didn’t look at me. I didn’t talk to her or Beezy that entire week. One week turned into two and then three, and I heard she’s fucking Beezy now. I really miss her, but in the hallways I guess that makes sense.

  9

  Running Rebel

  The bed shakes and I wake up facedown in a soggy pillow. I turn onto my back and glance over at Janet, she’s naked. She slaps the bed and stands up. Eyes like two green olives, she’s glaring at me.

  “Now you’re awake. You nasty motherfucker!”

  A baby is crying. Whose baby? Not sure, guessing it’s hers. Janet’s a regular jungle-fever hooch on the reggae circuit, she’s at all our shows. I cough and push up on my elbows, I feel the piss ooze out of the mattress and know it’s been another one of them nights and I know I must do better. She looks at me again. I am sorry, but saying it won’t help so I don’t and roll over on my side. Pipe in hand she pulls open the curtains and the foggy sting of whiteness from the snow floods the room. She bangs the pipe on the sill and blows in it. Loads it with a hit, flames the lighter, and inhales. I listen to it crackle as my head begins to accordion in and out. Every time I blink the room kaleidoscopes in front of me, shuffling our lust trail from last night leading up to the bed: empty red tops, Colt 45s, dirty clothes, fabric roses, and our underwear.

  She walks into my view facing the window, and all I can see is her lower half. The bottom tips of her greasy blond hair, her dimply pimpled raspberry ass and the topless fairy riding a half-moon tramp-stamped on her lower back. She turns around and grabs the golden tuft of hair on her crotch.

  “Motherfucker! Don’t look at me like I don’t love my goddamn husband. I love my goddamn husband!”

  She bounces at the knees, pelvis thrusting to emphasize her words. She squats while yelling it again and flails her arms out, dashing over a bottle of orange pills across her nightstand. The pipe falls out of her mouth and shatters. Pills everywhere. She crumbles onto all fours.

  “Save them!” She looks up at me.

  The baby’s cry is now louder and gurgled. My mouth is beginning to film over and it feels as though a boiled egg is forcing its way up my throat. I jump and run out of the room naked, sticky, and cold. I make it to the kitchen sink and this is where I let it go. Throwing up makes me feel no better as I lean dry-heaving against the counter and looking at the floor. It sounds like that damn baby is screaming on a megaphone in my ear now, and I look up under my armpit. It’s in the living room snugged to the couch’s armrest, a roll of newspaper propped up under its chin, an empty bottle on its side.

  I turn around and it’s a white-black mulatto baby, head shrouded in curls. I walk over to it and it’s a boy. His chest puffs up and he slows the cry down to a groan. His eyes twinkle at me and his little arms stretch up in my direction. His bib looks like it’s made of yolk. He’s thrown up too. Poor little bastard. The place smells like a burnt diaper. This seems more like a job for a mother, and so I turn back for the room.

  Janet’s in bed spread-eagle, her arms crossed at her chest, head slumped back, geekin’ out, biting at the air, making nasally moans. I sit down next to her. All them curls and crying this morning got me to thinking about Ruby, Nina, and Andre—my family—and when it was I was last home. These thoughts always lead to worries and worries lead to ganja smoke, so I grab my jeans and put on my boxers. I pick up an old Boston Metro, fold it in half, and take out the last of my ’erb and start breaking up on it. The crumbling is over and now I’m beginning to spin my spliff.

  As I start tucking it together Janet shakes herself awake and starts looking at me as she kneads her nails into her thighs. Her eyebrows crouch together and she leans forward and smacks the joint out of my hand. Looking at the last of my ’erb sift into the carpet has the accordion in my head feeling motorized and the baby sounding possessed.

  I reach and pick up one of the orange pills she forgot to grab off the floor and eat it. Then I look at her. She tosses her hands at h
er sides as we both look down at the carpet.

  “Bring home E-Bone Battel. And you piss the bed and don’t even fuck me right.” She grabs at her crotch, gyrating again. “Thought Dom said you were one of those Mandingos.”

  I hear a ding in my brain and the accordion stops. My body begins to feel like a hot-air balloon and the fire’s taking me up. In moments like these I’ve learned women want this, they’re crying out and begging for it, so you’d better let your hands go.

  I reach and snatch her hair and it feathers out in front of me. Feels like I’m baling hay as she squeals. I stand up and pull her with me. Things get hazy and somehow she bites my chest and scratches at me. I swing and release her. There’s a thud and that’s her head on the wall. She’s down and crying too. I minute-man around the room getting road-run-ready but get stalled looking for my other boot. In the midst of looking around she says she’s calling the police. I ignore her and fish my other boot out from behind the bedpost. As I kick my foot into the boot I look over and she grabs a box cutter out of her purse. I start for the door and she hops up and stands in the doorway, box cutter in hand.

  “What?” I jump at her. “Cut me if you gon’ cut me then.” I wind up like I’m ’bout to smack her and she flinches back. I knock the box cutter out of her hand and bodycheck her to the floor. Her and the baby together sound like an engine running, and that’s exactly what I do. I bounce out the door of her bedroom.

  “You ain’t shit,” she yells as I bolt from the apartment. “I’m telling Woodley about this!”

  “Tell ’em, bitch, worry ’bout your fucking kid,” I stutter as I run.

  It’s snowing, I have a hoodie but no coat, and I’m in East Boston. Janet stopped chasing me at the door of her apartment, but I’m still running ’cause that’s all I ever seem to do. Run, run with my rebels, Dom Dixon and the Running Rebels. That’s my band, for now. Dom’s our lead singer, Ziggy’s on the keys, I’m on the drums, and Denzly’s on the bass. We gig up and down the East Coast but mostly stay in New England.