Team Seven

by Marcus Burke

That shit’s on Pop more than it’s on me. It don’t matter where he is when he is gone. Jail or the streets, he wouldn’t be home anyway. He’d probably be in Lynn with his other family. The bigger problem is that Pop lost sixteen hundred dollars worth of product. The money was a matter I had to take up with Smoke. It was his product, really. Charge it to the game. I started small, but once the clientele’s hunger grew so did the weight I dealt with. This is also the point when the games were over and things began to unravel.

  Smoke wasn’t hearing the whole Poppa-got-bagged story. One month. I had one month to get Smoke his money. Or else! And that deadline has come and passed and now I’m working for Reggie. Of course, he fronted me the weight. Trying to pay back two debts at the same time, I’m basically working for free.

  As I walked up the parkway looking at the mounds of wet fallen leaves, my wristwatch beeped again. Fourth period was well under way. I had fourteen gram bags to move and wasn’t going back to school. I still felt a bit hazy from the joint, plus Ma probably already got that call from the school office. I walked by the Tucker, my old elementary school, the shriek of kids playing at recess in the air, and I leaned up against the chain-link fence, watching them play.

  A group of little ones stood around a rainbow-patterned parachute and raised it above their heads in unison. The parachute belled up into the air as they all ran inside and sat on the edges of the balloon, hiding as it toppled down on them, a wilted mushroom. In the front of the playground on a patch of concrete a group stood squat-legged around a silver spray-painted baseball diamond playing kickball, waiting for the next pitch. The smell of pizza floated across the playground, making my stomach gurgle.

  The fence rattled and I heard the approaching buzz from the custom exhaust on Smoke’s gunmetal-gray Honda Civic hatchback, and it straightened my stance like a zipper up a dress. I turned around and the car darted by and didn’t stop. Not irregular these days, considering, but as they sped past I saw Nina in the passenger seat ducking down, clearly trying not to be seen. I recognized her silk head wrap. High or not, I know Nina when I see her. She was supposed to be at the same place I wasn’t: school.

  At the stop sign Nina’s head popped up completely. I paused at the sight. I’d ignored the rumors in the hallways about them two dating, ’cause I’d never seen them together, but there was no denying it now. I kept walking and I didn’t really know how to feel about them two. Shit sure is changing. I’m big enough to fist-fight Smoke now, which has been crossing my mind more and more lately. But Smoke now carries a gun. He and Nina blow through the stop sign, bang a right, and vroom-vroom up the avenue.

  The avenue was still and quiet as I walked away from Tucker toward Mattapan. The bell from the Methodist church announced that it was noon and a green SUV honked its horn at me from the other side of the avenue, breaking my trance. I looked over and it was Aldrich Watson, the last nigga I wanted to see, and he had his sidekick Eric Saucionni riding shotgun too.

  The Watson family lives on the other side of town, where the money’s at. Aldrich is one of them uppity Fresh Prince of Bel-Air minstrel-show-type niggas, always touting a so-called genuine version of blackness that he so desperately wanted to connect to. He’s a nice enough kid and we play on the same AAU team, but we’re two different breeds. The Watson family ushered me into their upper-crust black world and Aldrich marveled at my everyday blackness and the roughness around my edges, jockin’ my every move. Only reason I let him come around sometimes is ’cause I feel indebted to his folks for all they’re doing for me. Mr. Watson likes me, he always says I remind him of himself when he was younger. He usually rides us to our games, and when Pop got arrested Mr. Watson offered to employ him upon his release.

  “Yo, Dre, you got any work on you?” Aldrich called to me.

  I just looked at them and didn’t say anything until Eric called out too and I thought, Fuck it, and approached the Land Cruiser. I pulled the chrome handle to the back side passenger door and it was locked. Eric popped his head out the window.

  “Got any work?” he asked, looking confused.

  “Yes, dickhead. Not ’bout to give it to you right here in this school zone, though. Aldrich, ride me ’round the block.”

  Eric Saucionni irked the shit out of me. He was a wigger if I ever met one. We go to school together. Big Maal and them BRC cats let him hang around. “Somebody gotta talk to the cops and somebody gotta buy the weed,” Big Maal would laugh.

  The doors clicked open and I got in.

  “What y’all looking for?”

  Eric placed sixty dollars on the median and I retrieved it.

  Eric turned to me. “How far can that get us? We gotta get back to Cambridge. Aldrich’s on a free period so we took a ride. It’s bring-a-friend-to-school day.”

  Just this year Aldrich transferred to a private school to play ball and it seemed like it was the only thing Eric ever talked about. Eric always had the dopest gear and rocked it wrong. It irked me that Eric would prance around the hallways at school bragging about going to all the hip-hop concerts hosted by Jam’n 94.5. It irked me that Eric was like Aldrich’s mouthpiece. And Eric irked me most of all because, other than me and Beezy, no one else seemed to notice.

  We pulled ’round the rotary out front of Kelly Park and stopped. I tossed three gram bags on the median.

  “That far,” I said as I looked at Eric, grabbing the door handle.

  Aldrich perked up. “Yo! You ain’t try’na smoke my nigga. It’s been a minute. Feel like we lost touch and shit.” Aldrich tossed me a Dutch Master. “Here.” He handed me back a bag. “You roll one. I’ll roll one.”

  I nodded and started unwrapping the cigar’s outer leaf.

  “Where you wanna burn at?” I asked Aldrich.

  “Right here. Cops never come to Kelly Park, especially during the day,” Eric answered. Me and Aldrich made eye contact in the rearview mirror and continued to roll in silence. I finished and lit my blunt and soon after Aldrich lit his.

  “So where you been, my nig? I been blowing you up, yo!” Aldrich looked at me, looking genuinely hurt, as though us not speaking over the weekend was a legitimate gripe. “You missed the tournament too.”

  I ignored Aldrich and continued to smoke. I looked out the window and watched the basketball courts. Reggie was shooting around by himself under the far basket near the picnic tables.

  The higher I got the more I felt the need to get out of the car. Especially when Aldrich started blasting Jam’n 94.5. Nothing worse than a radio gangsta. The session wasn’t over but I caught Aldrich’s eyes in the rearview mirror, gave a salute, and slapped Eric in the back of his head and opened the door.

  “Hey!” Eric glared at me.

  Aldrich tossed a hand across Eric’s chest and shook his head no. At least someone could smell the danger.

  “I get out of school in ’bout two hours,” Aldrich said. “Why don’t you come by the house. It’s Friday. Let’s hit a party.”

  I looked at Aldrich and said, “Yeah yeah yeah,” and turned my back to them. My legs felt heavy, like I was wading through a sludgy grayness. I watched Reggie draining threes as I approached.

  “Yerp,” I called to Reggie.

  Reggie yerped back, took a few more shots, and held the ball, watching me walking toward him.

  “Lil’ nigga, you ain’t got school?”

  I giggled into my hands and looked down as I walked and didn’t answer.

  “Ain’t I just ask you a question, lil’ nig?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “Shit got all fucked up today.”

  I was so blunted I couldn’t even look him in the face.

  “You smoking up my shit?” He grabbed my shoulder. “Same thing that’ll make you laugh’ll make you cry. Tell me what the fuck you are doing out here at twelve twenty-five on a Friday afternoon stinking of product.”

  We walked and sat down on a picnic table.

  “ ’Ight, so I wasn’t skipping school. I was just stepping out to grab a re-up
and—”

  “Wow.” Reggie interrupted. “You a liability. You know that? I don’t need your moms coming ’round giving me the third degree ’cause you out here playing a grown man’s game.” He put a blunt to his lips and lit it. “You’re hustling backward. You know that? Why you don’t stick to ball? Something you’re good at.”

  I’d heard the little sermon a million times.

  “Why you ain’t stick to ball?” I blurted out, maybe a little too fast. “Reggie, you was the nicest.”

  Reggie’s nostrils flared. “Nigga, I balled till I falled. You already know. But me, I’m built for these streets. I ain’t no puppet for the blue-eyed devil, just to be his fall man. I got my team. I’m the Team Seven MVP. I ain’t built for no campus. Niggas like you know how to talk to white folk and shit. It’s too late for a cat like me. I picked my lane. Why you don’t be like that nigga Aldrich? Get the fuck out of here. Before you get caught the fuck up, fucking around.”

  I reached for his blunt. “I could hit that?”

  Reggie pulled it closer to him and turned his shoulder to me. “Fuck outta here, nigga, look at you. You ain’t high enough, huh? Maybe that’s why your stupid ass got caught up in the first place.”

  Reggie looked me in the face and I glanced away.

  “Not even,” I fired back and took out a joint of my own and sparked it.

  “Oh, you big now, huh?” Reggie laughed. “All I know is you better don’t play with my money, fuck around and get in over your head. Miss Ruby won’t be able to save you on that one. I ain’t Smoke, nigga.”

  Reggie gripped the back of my neck, squeezing my pressure points, until I shook myself out of his grip.

  “Dawg, I’ma have it. Don’t worry about it.” I rose to my feet.

  Reggie spiked the ball at me, I spun away but it grazed my side and rolled off into the grass behind the courts. I stood there looking at Reggie sort of stunned, and took a drag from my joint.

  “Oh, I’ma worry about it, nigga! Fucking up the money causes big problems, Andre. Keep thinking nothing can happen to you until something does. You better be ready, how you act like you are.” He looked at me in the eyes and blew a thin stream of smoke. He started shaking his head. “What you tryin’a be out here anyway? A hustler or a ball player? Instead of trying to be what you ain’t, why don’t you be good to the things that are good to you, and protect that. Everything ain’t for everybody, Andre.”

  I turned around and walked off to get the ball and dribbled back over to the picnic tables and sat down next to him.

  “But I’m saying, Reggie, what happened, though? Why didn’t you take it further with basketball?”

  “Look, I ain’t ’bout to sit here and get into all the particulars with you. A lot of shit happened. Life happens, Andre, that’s what I been trying to tell you. I got responsibilities you wouldn’t even begin to understand.” He snatched the ball out of my hands. “What? You think you’re gonna go to the NBA or something? I got real. I grew out of that chasing-hoop-dreams shit. I was four times the hooper and hustler you are when I was your age. Back then I was moving too fast, all the attention went to my head, and a couple of the mistakes I made back then set me back. A few of ’em still follow me around now. I lost a lot of time sitting in a box, and it took me a while to get back on my feet. And I swear on my mama’s soul, I ain’t never going back to jail, especially not for gettin’ caught up with a lil’ reckless nigga like you.”

  Reggie took a long drag and looked up at the cloudy sky. He blew a couple of smoke rings. I don’t know what Reggie did time for, and I knew better than to ask. We both sat smoking and listening to the crackle of the blowing leaves until the rumble of Smoke’s Honda Civic approached. This time him and Nina didn’t even see us as they sped by.

  “And what the fuck’s up with that?” Reggie blew a stream of smoke in my face as we both watched Nina’s profile slide by.

  “I dunno but I’ma fix that too. Dawg, I’m on top of my shit.” Without dap’n Reggie, I started walking away.

  “You ain’t on top of shit,” Reggie called to me. “Where your daddy at? And how’d he get there? You, nigga, that’s how!”

  He’d hit a nerve. I stopped and looked back at Reggie taking a drag off his blunt. I balled my fist. Reggie looked at me and laughed out a cloud of smoke.

  “Keep walking, little nigga, ’fore I smack a high note outcha. Remember who the fuck you dealing with. You already know how I get down.”

  My better judgment told me to keep walking and I did. With every step I took it felt as though I was sinking and getting smaller. The day spoiled again and returned to rain and my joint went out and I tossed it in a sewer. What the hell was I doing walking up the street smoking weed anyway? The rain chilled me as I walked. I couldn’t think of anywhere to go but home so I did.

  When I walked into the apartment I heard the shower water running. Nina’s sneakers were outside the bathroom door.

  The water turned off.

  “Hello?” Nina called out.

  “Nina?”

  “Andre?”

  “What the hell you doing home? Riding ’round town in Smoke’s car and shit?”

  “Nigga, please, whatever—hold on.” A gust of steam engulfed me as Nina swung open the door in her bathrobe. “So what, you my daddy now? Why you ain’t at school?”

  “Nina, what the hell is wrong with you? You know that nigga Smoke gotta gang of hoes. What you doing riding ’round wit’ him for? You better not be fucking him neither!”

  I stepped into the steamy bathroom and got in Nina’s face. Nina pushed me back against the wall.

  “And what if I am? At least he’s nice to me.” She cut her eyes at me and stomped past.

  “So you’re his new toy, huh?” I shook my head. “It’s sad to see you like this, Nina. Real disappointing.”

  Nina stopped and turned around.

  “Oh, fuck you. See me like what, Andre? What? You’re better than me now? You ain’t no better, nigga. I seen how you did that pasty-face bitch Tunnetta.” Nina folded her arms, shaking her head at me.

  I took a few big strides up the hallway and again we were inches from each other.

  “You got something to say, Nina?”

  “Ain’t nobody scared of you. You need to get the fuck up out my face. Huffing and puffing wit’ your hardly hustling ass. Gettin’ Daddy locked up.” She sighed and rubbed her chin. She looked at me. “Disappointing.”

  It was a low blow. She knew it would hit a nerve and I got the overwhelming urge to put my hand through something. I chuckled with her a few times, then I jerked back and smacked Nina across the face, knocking her into her bedroom door. She jumped at me with a flurry of punches and kicks.

  “You ain’t no better than Daddy—you just like him, matter fact!” Holding her face, Nina ran to the phone. “I’m calling Mommy too. You gon’ hit me, nigga. Fuck you, Andre!”

  I stood watching Nina dial the phone and said nothing. I began to feel the scratches Nina landed on my cheeks, grabbed my backpack, and walked out of the house, heading toward the Watsons’ side of town. I stepped off the porch into the grayness. As I walked, the rain mixed in with my tears. I was slipping and of this much I was aware.

  11

  Born Again

  Subwoofers circled Bishop Jackson where he stood at the podium with his head bowed, stroking the bottom of his goatee, winded from having just finished bringing forth his sermon. Clergymen sat in pulpit chairs on both wings of the podium, regally robed in purples, reds, greens, and gold. The choir hummed along, entrenched in pews rising up the walls toward a spread of stained-glass windows. Every eye glued onto Bishop Jackson as he looked out at the crowd and wiped the glaze of sweat from his face. He set the rag down and picked up his Bible. The air went still for a moment as he clapped it shut. Glaring around, sizing up the crowd, he stretched his arms up toward the wooden pews. High heels clacked, boots thudded, and the choir stood.

  Ma stomped her feet and swam her arms si
de to side.

  “Use me, Lord, use me!” she screamed.

  “Glory, sister! Glory!” shouted a baritone voice from somewhere in the back.

  The band readied their instruments and the drummer ran a finger across the chimes and started a slow patter on his snare drum. The sobs and praises from those deeply communing with the Lord subsided. A calm began to fall over the congregation.

  Ma had begun sobbing around midservice after Deacon Harris stood from his seat in the middle of the stage, looking like he had a hot poker sticking up his spine, eyes rolling back in his head, speaking in tongues.

  Bishop Jackson moved toward Deacon Harris and poured anointing oil on a rag and slapped it on Deacon Harris’s forehead.

  “Speak, Lord!” Bishop Jackson yelled.

  His touch crumbled Deacon Harris like a wave splashing a sand castle. Bishop Jackson knelt down and gripped Deacon Harris’s forehead as though his head were a heart and his hand were a stethoscope.

  Bishop Jackson closed his eyes and began prophesying.

  “We’re living in the last days, sayeth the Lord of hosts. We need stronger vessels to weather these perilous times.” Deacon Harris was still down, half convulsing. Bishop Jackson was kneeling, palming oil onto Deacon Harris’s forehead.

  “Do not fear or shun the wicked ones in your life, for I am God and boundless redemption lives through me. Do you believe in redemption? Greater is he who knows my name, sayeth the Lord of hosts. Will you be a vessel carrying the lost back to light? Be a vessel! Stand with me today and watch me restore all that the devil has stolen from you! sayeth the Lord of hosts.” Bishop Jackson stood, wiped his hands, and walked back to the podium.

  Deacon Harris’s eyes began to steady and he came back into himself. The ushers hefted him up off the floor and back into his seat. Deacon Harris’s wife stroked his back and held his hand. As Ma watched the scene unfold, she broke down and started bawling. Me and Nina watched her mortified as the sermon switched gears into Bishop Jackson’s famous pitch about redemption through the blood of Jesus—the one that gets Ma every time.