Efrain's Secret

by Sofia Quintero

  When we reach the office, Trace is outside smoking an L. “How you left the block?” he asks Nestor.

  Nestor offers him his hand, and they pull in for mutual back slaps. “It’s a lovely day in the neighborhood, bro.” Trace laughs, which I’ve never seen him do. Yeah, Nestor definitely is on the rise in Snipes’s operation because Trace doesn’t smile for anyone, let alone laugh with them.

  Trace opens the door, and we all file into the building and into Snipes’s office. He has the radio on the quiet storm while he throws darts. The man’s pretty good, landing most of them near the bull’s eye, although none actually hit. On a table against the wall is a giant submarine hero, some tubs of macaroni and potato salad, paper cups, plates, and whatnot. Beneath the table sits a cooler of sodas and forties on fresh ice.

  LeRon points at the hero and yells, “Yo, that’s for us?” He ignores the guys who clown him for asking, circling the buffet and praying for consent.

  “Go on, Frazzle,” says Snipes, and we all laugh. No one thought he knew about that, and I wonder if I got the credit. “Fix yourselves a plate and sit down.” Everyone swoops on the hero like pigeons to crumbs. Despite Nestor’s grim warnings, the mood is ridiculously light. Snipes turns off the radio and heads to the front of the room and waits for us to settle. Once everyone has their plate and a seat, Snipes begins. “I called y’all here to give you a heads-up. The block is hotter than you think because last week’s sweep wasn’t on the same old, same old. I got intel that five-oh hosed the av because they heard Hinckley and me are about to declare war over these corners. The po thought Clean the street, make both crews worry too much about them to mess with each other.”

  With a mouth whitened with mayonnaise, LeRon yells, “They was grilling me like a steak, yo. The DT even started volunteering all this scuttle about Hinckley, trying to get a reaction one way or the other.” He sinks his Frazzle-like fangs into his hero.

  “He tried to play me like that, too,” says a dude in the back of the room. “Gossiping like some girl, man. I thought I was back in high school.” Some guys snicker. “I told ’im straight up, Yo, if I cared about that shit, I’d stay home and watch TMZ.”

  Everyone laughs. Then Nestor asks, “But nobody flapped, though, right, Snipes?”

  “Everybody in here stood tall.” Heads holler No doubt and That’s how we do. “Don’t get it twisted,” he says, waving for everyone to quiet down. “Just because I appreciate loyalty when it’s given doesn’t mean I don’t expect it or mete out consequences if my expectations aren’t met.” Now there isn’t so much as a gulp on a mouthful of Red Bull, and I suspect I’m not the only one sneaking glances around the room looking for who’s missing from this appreciation party. More No doubts and That’s how we dos but with noticeably less enthusiasm. “Still, I’m happy to see my soldiers staving away the competition and dodging the regulators.”

  Suddenly Nestor slaps my shoulder and says to the group, “Even the rookie stood tall, and they came at my boy hard.” But we never talked about that. Did he find out what happened to me in the holding cell at arraignment? Is he aware of how fast I fell when true thugs came for me? What if that incident made the grapevine? Nestor would’ve had to spin some yarn on the street to convince the guys that I’m not the one who snitched.

  Somebody howls, “Scouut!” Others chime in while Nestor pats me on the back. A queasy feeling comes over me. I like the props, but I don’t deserve them. My night in the pen wasn’t my finest hour, even though I didn’t flap. The more love Nestor and the boys show me, the harder I have to fight to keep from vomiting.

  Snipes looks at me and says, “Scout will tell you that I had my doubts about him from the day I met him. And when Julian stepped to you a while back, it surprised me when you came back the next night.”

  “Me too,” says Trace.

  “But let Scout be an example to all of you. Too many of you out here have it in your heads that the only thing you need out there is heart. You be talking sideways about a brother for going to school. You want to talk about gossip? Shit, I’m ’bout to call the Colonel ’cause I know some heads in here be clucking all day, every day.” A few of the guys laugh, but most stare at their half-eaten sandwiches. “If you don’t have a strong mind, you’d better have mad heart. And if you ain’t got no heart, then you’d best be smart. A man needs to have at least one or the other in order to survive. But the man who takes the effort to develop both is the man that thrives.”

  And heads mumble Real talk as if it were the gangsters’ amen. It crosses my mind that maybe I should hang back after the meeting and have a man-to-man with Snipes. Be real with him. Tell him that I have to quit and focus on preparing for the next SAT, improving my grade in physics, looking out for Mandy and even Junior, putting Moms at ease, winning back Candace…. That as much as his respect means to me, as much as I’ve grown to like LeRon and the others, as much as the money eases my mind, he was right. These streets are not for me.

  Nestor’s voice interrupts my fantasy of coasting out of the game as easily as I slid into it. “You dropped this,” he says, handing me the Kermit sweatshirt that LeRon asked his sister to make me. I take it from him and dust it off. If I tell Nestor what I’m thinking, he’ll insist that it’s still too soon to walk away. He doesn’t need to say that for me to know that despite all the love, he’s right. It’s the love that makes Nestor right. Just like these cats to make it so hard to leave now that I need most to go.

  Camaraderie (n.) brotherhood

  Somehow Melo manages to sleep through Claudia and Robby’s latest argument. I lie there in the dark on an inflatable bed wondering if lying in a Ranger grave is what drew Leo to the Marines. He probably gets more sleep in the freezing Iraqi desert in the middle of a war than during one of his sister’s nightly battles with her man of the moment.

  Then I think of Candace. Lying on that bed, I wonder did she feel the way I do now—alone on a float with no clue where she’s going or how to find her family? I feel so close to her now, I force her out of my mind. My immediate worries take up too much space; there’s no room for her right now.

  “That’s it!” Nestor jumps out of the bed, flings open the door, and storms into the living room. Now he and Robby get into it. They play a round of ¿Quien es Mas Macho? Nestor wins by reminding Robby that he doesn’t contribute a dime to this household. In the few days that my homeboy Efrain has been staying here, he’s bought more groceries than in all the months you ’ve been here, he says at one point. And he ain’t even blood. Ten years younger than you and ten times the man so shut the hell up or step the fuck off! The apartment door slams as Robby sulks off, and Claudia lights into Nestor for not minding his own business. Nestor takes the high road, enduring his sister’s rant without interruption until she chases tearfully after Robby.

  When Nestor returns to his bedroom, he slams the door and clicks the new knob. A startled Melo whimpers, and Nestor rushes over to soothe him. “Shhh, papa.” In the darkness, I imagine Nestor stroking his little brother’s hair as he coos in his ear. “Everything’s okay. Go back to sleep.” A few minutes later, the only sound is Melo’s deep breathing. Nestor whispers, “E., you up?”

  “How can I not be with all that drama going on?” I roll over on the air mattress. “Yo, why you had to put my name in it?” Especially since I haven’t given him a cent for staying here, which just makes me feel like an herb.

  “For months Claudia’s been trying to move that chump in here, and I knew from the jump he was going to try to run shit.” Nestor’s shadow sits up in the dark. “The night we got knocked, he saw his shot and rushed the crib. Fool hasn’t left since. He’s the one who broke the knob off my door talking about Let me get at least one freakin’ kid out of my hair. Sits around all day watching TV, smoking L’s, eating up all our food while Claudia waits on him hand and foot. I’m telling you, bro, I need to move the hell up out of this piece!” Nestor throws himself back down on his bed.

  “Word to life.”
>
  We’re quiet for a few minutes. Then Nestor says, “Yo, E., remember that book Baraka had us read? The one about those three guys in Newark who made an oath to go to college and become doctors.”

  “The Pact.”

  “Yeah, that’s it. When you graduate from AC, let’s find a nice apartment somewhere far from these clowns. Be roommates.”

  The idea appeals to me even though it doesn’t fit my dreams. “For me, far from here isn’t Brooklyn, kid. When I graduate, I’m kicking rocks all the way to Massachusetts or someplace like that.” Only if I’m lucky. Harvard now has the same faded pattern of that yellowing wallpaper in my mother’s kitchen.

  Nestor is quiet. “You really think you’re going to get into Harvard?” He asks as if he wants to know whether I truly believe that much in myself. As if he wonders whether there is enough confidence so he can find some for himself.

  But for all my bravado and hustle, I actually don’t. Not deep down inside where the truth lives within me. The darkness demands that I face the inevitable. “I can only tell you one thing for sure. I’m not staying here.” I hold my next thought, wanting to be sure I only say it if I mean it. “Wherever I land, you can ride with me if you want.”

  “Can I bring Melo?”

  I burst out laughing. “What you think this is, kid?” Then I get uncomfortable. “People are going to think we’re gay!”

  “No they won’t!”

  “Shhh! You’re going to wake up your brother.”

  Nestor lowers his voice. “It’s gonna be like Two and a Half Men. I’ma be Charlie Sheen, and you’ll be that other cat. His brother the herb.” I grab my pillow and fire it at his shadow. We crack up. “Chill!” Nestor snickers. “Don’t wake up Melo.”

  “Whatever, yo.”

  Then Nestor gets serious again. “I can’t go and leave him here, E. You know that. If I can barely take it…”

  “Okay. But y’all can’t come with me if you’re going to be slinging or anything like that. You need to make your rent legit.”

  “I know.” Silence passes until Nestor yawns. “We don’t have to settle everything now. Let’s just sleep on it.” I hear him kiss Melo on the head, then roll over.

  Within minutes, I yawn, roll over, and sleep on it, too.

  Contrite (adj.) penitent, eager to be forgiven

  A few days later, I get to the corner of St. Ann’s and 141st Street fifteen minutes early. I catch the initial break in Chingy’s stride at the sight of me, and I expect him to rush past me or even cross to the other side of the street. Instead, he regains his swagger and heads toward me, slowing down to a stop to face me. I speak first. “What’s up?”

  “S’up.” After a few seconds of silence, Chingy continues to walk, and I fall in next to him. “Your moms … She be asking for you. I told her that I see you in school every day, but I don’t know where you be staying at.”

  “Tell her I’m at Nestor’s.”

  Chingy shakes his head as if to say Nah, I can’t tell her that. “Your sister ran up to me the other day crying. Asking if you were dead or in jail.”

  “Damn.”

  “I let her know you’re all right, but I don’t think she believed me.”

  “I want to come home, but it ain’t that easy.” Anticipating an argument from Chingy, I rush to defend my position. “With the raid and everything, if I try to bounce now—”

  “I know,” interrupts Chingy, his voice filled with understanding. “Now you know why I never wanted to get into it.”

  “Yeah, well, I got in it, so …”

  We walk for a block in silence. Then Chingy asks, “You retake the SAT yet?”

  “Nah, not yet. The test is in two weeks, but I don’t know if I’m ready.” I don’t tell Chingy about the recurring nightmares I now have about the test. I log on to the computer to take the SAT, but instead of loading the first screen of exam questions, it flashes Chingy’s admission calculation system. The computer demands that I guess what my score will be before it will allow me to take the test. I enter “2200.” The screen blinks, and the box where I typed my guess is empty again. This time I put in “1650,” and again, it spits the empty box back at me. I panic, typing in one random number after the other as the clock on the wall clicks away minutes as if they were seconds. I say, “My concentration’s wrecked these days.” I wait for Chingy’s sarcastic remark, but he just nods his head as if that’s all he needs to hear.

  We walk the final block in silence. As we reach the entrance to the school, I say, “Chingy, will you do me a favor?” Finally, he gives me a look as if I have some nerve, and I take that because this is the guy I once knew. I reach into my backpack for the three-page letter I wrote after waking up from that nightmare and not being able to go back to sleep. “When you see Candace at work, will you give this to her for me?”

  Chingy stares at the envelope for a second, snatches it from my hand, then runs into the building before I can say thanks. The first bell rings, and I rush toward Señorita Polanco’s class. Throughout the day, Chingy no longer gives me those cold stares in class, but he doesn’t speak to me either.

  Nor does he show at the corner of St. Ann’s and 141st Street the next morning either. Or the morning after that. Or the one after that. Not a word from Candace either.

  Assail (v.) to attack

  It’s almost one in the morning, and I’ve been out here since seven. With the SAT next weekend, I tried to study for those four hours after school in the library, but my head wasn’t in it. Even when the money flows, my heart isn’t into this hustle these days either. Every time a car rolls up, I relive the sweep and fall back. But the charges over our heads slow no one’s roll but mine, so occasionally I get aggressive with the foot traffic just to keep suspicions at bay.

  Hunts Point becomes my escape from the midnight showing of the melodrama du jour at Nestor’s apartment. Now Claudia is accusing Robby of messing around with Marlene. Last night I had to listen to Nestor fantasize aloud about actually catching them in the act so he can call the cops on Robby or kill him, depending on how he feels in the heat of that moment. Let me be on the street when that happens. In fact, sometimes I don’t mind being out here, and it isn’t because of the money. I chop it up with Nestor, LeRon, and the other guys, allowing me to forget that I might have shot the lights out on my future. On the streets, we talk light and laugh hard, never looking any further than when the next blockbuster will hit theaters or Nike will release the latest Jordans.

  But now it’s time to call it a night. “I’m out,” I say. “I’m too through with this cold.”

  Nestor tightens the strings of his hood. “I’ll walk you to the train.” We walk to the corner of Bruckner and wait for the light. “So, E., when do you take that test?”

  The question throws me. We never discuss college unless I bring it up. “This Saturday.” I fake a laugh. “Too soon.”

  “No matter how you score, you’re still going to college, you feel me? Don’t forget our pact.”

  “No doubt.” I rub my hands and blow on them. The light changes, and we start across the expressway.

  “If you don’t get into Harvard, go to Hunter,” says Nestor. “Just the other day, I was reading in the Post that it’s one of the best public colleges in the country.”

  “Word?” And for some reason, the news actually gives my heavy heart the tiniest lift.

  “If you’re gonna be the first Hispanic mayor, you have to go to college, man,” says Nestor. “No ifs, ands, or buts about it, bro.”

  He’s so adamant, I have to laugh. “If I’m going to be the first Hispanic mayor, I need to quit slinging, kid.”

  But Nestor is mad serious about this. “No worries, E. I keep telling you, that little arrest ain’t going to hurt you none. You’re only seventeen. Chances are they’ll… What do they call that when they throw out your criminal record?”

  “Expunge.”

  “Yeah, they’re going to expunge that shit, so forget about it.”

&n
bsp; “But how do I know that when I’m on the campaign trail, someone like LeRon won’t try to blow up my spot?” The dream of becoming the mayor of New York City is so out of reach, I can afford to clown the possibility. “Yeah, he’s going to wait until I run to get some payback and put a brother on blast to the New York Daily News for calling him Frazzle.”

  Nestor laughs. “Nah, man, LeRon likes that Frazzle mess. You’d be lucky if he came to you with his hand out. Pay him off and call it a day. It’d be worse if the dude actually wanted you to give him, like, a job!”

  I run with that. “I’d hook up LeRon, no doubt. Maybe I give him a job with Children’s Services, you know, entertaining the kids in group homes or something.” Nestor busts out laughing. “You didn’t think I was going to make him the commissioner of something, did you?”

  Nestor laughs so hard, he has to lean on me. That gets me started. We stumble a few paces, holding each other up like two drunks. He finally says, “But you’d look out for me, though, right, E.?”

  “Yeah, kid, I got you.”

  “I’m not saying make me a commissioner or anything. But you could hook me up with a little somethin’, right? They ain’t gonna expunge my record, but you could still grant me a mayoral pardon or whatever.”

  “Don’t count that out, Nestor,” I say as I remember something I learned in my criminal law elective last year. “Under certain conditions, you might be able to file a petition in court to have your criminal record expunged even if you’re no longer a minor.”

  Nestor’s eyes glow in the beam of the street lamp. “Word?”