Khadija looked at one of her many colorful G-Shock watches. “It’s almost one o’clock now,” she said. “I’ll meet you in front of the school in an hour. Then we can catch the train out to Stone Mountain. Is that cool?”
“Why can’t I just wait for you and we go together?” he said. “It’s not gonna take me that long to get dressed.”
“That’s fine. I’ll go get changed.”
“Five miles, Khadija? I need to ease into getting in shape. You’re tryna kill me.”
“No, I’m not,” she said. “Let me go get into my workout gear. I need to be back here by seven to eat.”
Franky walked over to his girlfriend, reached out, and gave her a hug. He liked touching her; he liked being in her presence. To put it plainly, he liked everything about her. As he held her in his arms, he looked down into her eyes. She stared back up at him and smiled.
“I have something to tell you,” he said with a serious expression on his face.
“What?” she asked with a worried one on hers.
“Your breath is kicking it,” he said, fanning his nose.
Khadija pulled away and punched him in the arm.
Franky rubbed his arm, getting the sting out. He looked at her and couldn’t stop smiling.
“Whatchu smiling about?” Khadija asked.
“You,” he said.
“Okay. Let me go get dressed, shawty.”
Finally. He was happy.
He was back in school, his cousin was home from jail,and he had the most popular female freshman at M&M High School as his girlfriend.
“What are you two lovely people doing in here?” Mrs. Davis, Khadija’s mom, said as she hurried into the office and searched her filing cabinet for something.
“We were studying, but now that we’re done, Mrs. Track Star over there wants to go running around Stone Mountain. And she said it’s five miles.”
“Yeah, but it’s a pretty five miles,” Mrs. Davis said. “Your dad is cooking out tonight, so make sure you’re back by six or seven,” she said to Khadija.
“I know,” she said.
“Well, make sure you’re not late since you know.”
“Franky, you are more than welcome to come back and have dinner with us.”
Mrs. Davis looked like an older version of her daughter. The only exception was she was lighter in complexion and a little heavier in the hips. She was cordial to Franky and seemed to be feeling him out.
“That sounds like music to my ears,” he said. “I doubt you’ll ever hear me turn down a home-cooked meal.”
“Good,” she said, and retrieved the paperwork she was trying to find, smiled at him and Khadija, then walked out.
Franky wished his parents could’ve met Khadija’s family. He could see all of them sitting on the deck of their huge house in New Orleans overlooking the water while his dad and Mr. Davis talked shop over a smoking grill. Khadija was exactly the kind of girl his dad talked about.
I like people who are from the hood but who never let the hood define them, he would often say.
Khadija fit that bill. She was serious about her schoolwork and her future. She was truly her own woman, andher parents gave her lots of freedom because she had proved time and time again that she could handle it. Both of her parents were cool, but Mr. Davis treated Franky like he was a member of the family. Franky often felt like he was talking to his own dad when they sat around and had their chats. Mrs. Davis was a workaholic and had a mean streak in her, but there was no doubt how much she loved her children. She was an elementary school teacher but moonlighted as an income tax preparer. Mr. Davis was a military man and was often out of the country doing his soldier thing. They both had a love for football, and when Mr. Davis picked him up and took him to get his football physical, they were connected from that point on. Mr. Davis was a diehard University of Georgia fan and even named their family dog UGA.
Franky walked around the converted office and looked at the family pictures that lined the bookshelves. There were all kinds of pictures of Khadija in all phases of her life. He picked up a picture of Khadija taken when she was around four or five years old. Both of her front teeth were missing, yet she was smiling for the world to see. He smiled when he looked at her. She had a million and one different color beads in her hair. Times change but some things stay the same.
18
Franky and Khadija sat beside each other on the MARTA bus, laughing to themselves at the passengers. Khadija pointed out a man who was sitting across from them wearing a tight-fitting one-piece jumpsuit and some platform shoes that were straight out of the seventies. He was skinny and had on a large set of headphones that had probably been popular in the seventies as well.
“He has to be going to a party,” Khadija said. “Please tell me he’s going to a party and this is not his everyday attire.”
“I think the brother looks fly. Super Fly. I’ma get me one of those outfits for our prom.”
“Who you going with?”
“You,” Franky said.
Super Fly wasn’t paying them any attention. He was bobbing his head to the beat of whatever he was listening to. Then out of the blue, he yelled out the James Brown tune he was listening to, then started fanning himself.
“That’s right,” Khadija said, laughing. “Cool yoself down.”
“Go over there and wake up your auntie,” Franky said, nodding toward a woman who was asleep. Her large wig was tilted to the side, and she was nodding back and forth. Her mouth was open, and when her head tilted back too far, she would open her eyes, close her mouth, and look around to see who was watching.
They couldn’t control their laughter when she turned her attention to them. The old woman twisted up her lip and turned her body away from them in her seat.
The skinny singer’s song must’ve gotten good to him, and he yelled out another verse.
“He is killing that banana-yellow one-piece suit,” she said.
“Maybe he has a show. I don’t know—that’s your family,” Franky joked.
“He looks just like you,” Khadija said. “Look at his lips. Y’all gotta be related.”
“Then his Jheri curl juice is dripping on the seats,” Franky said. “He’s gonna mess around and make somebody slip and fall.”
They were enjoying themselves way too much and had just found another target to laugh at when the driver stopped, and it was time for them to get off. Franky gave the skinny singer a thumbs-up before exiting the bus.
“I’m glad you said good-bye to your people,” Khadija said. “You’re so polite, Franky.”
“Yeah,” Franky said. “My future uncle-in-law.”
They were laughing as if they didn’t have a care in the world when all of a sudden, Franky heard footsteps coming up behind them. Something told him to turn around, and just as he twisted his head to the left, a fist came flyingat his face. The blow landed flush between his eyes, knocking him off balance. He hit the ground, and his head slammed into the pavement. The pain was instant and caused him to temporarily black out. He heard Khadija yell and looked up to see her throwing wild punches and screaming profanities at her assailant. Then he didn’t hear her anymore and saw her fall backward. He tried to get up to help her, but his attackers were on him in no time. They were like a pack of hungry hyenas as they pummeled him from all angles. Fists with rings on them found his head, face, and chest. Steel-toed Timberland boots rained down on his back, legs, and buttocks. Franky was getting hit and kicked in every place imaginable, yet he kept his hands over his head. He counted three different people while covering himself. But as he was being pummeled by this pack of maniacs, his only concern was for Khadija. Where was she? He couldn’t see her anymore, and that caused him to panic, but every time he tried to get up, he was kicked and more punches battered his body. He tried to make out what the boys were saying while they attacked him, but nothing registered. He stayed covered up in the fetal position on the sidewalk and tried to wait out the assault. He saw his own bl
ood on the pavement, but he couldn’t do anything but try to protect his head. He felt someone tugging at his pants pockets, and he was thankful that he had only ten dollars on him. He felt his cell phone leave his possession. There was a loud boom, and just as sudden as the assault started, it was over.
He heard a familiar voice yell at the boys as they laughed and ran off. Franky slowly removed his hands from his head and tried to get his mind right. He slowly pulled himself to an upright position. He was dizzy and had troublebalancing himself even while sitting down. He looked to his left, then his right, searching for Khadija, but instead of seeing his girlfriend, he stared straight into the eyes of the midget, Shorty.
“Good Lord, young blood,” Shorty said, holding a gun that was almost as big as he was. “Somebody’s mighty mad at you.”
Franky grimaced in pain. His head was throbbing, and he instinctively reached up to massage his temples. His lip was leaking blood like a faucet, and his mind went back to when someone’s boot connected with his mouth. He could feel his right eye closing and swelling. He rolled over onto his knees and tried to get to his feet. He had to find Khadija. Where was she? He adjusted his head so that he could see better, because the vision in his right eye was already gone due to the swelling. While he was down on his hands and knees, he looked up and saw some boys running away. He zeroed in on their backs, trying desperately to make out something about them that he could use later to identify them and settle the score. All he could see were their backs, but then one of them stopped and turned around. He stared at Franky, threw his fingers up in the peace sign, then turned his hand upside down, the symbol kids used to represent the A for “Atlanta.” The boy, whom Franky had never seen before, smiled, then turned his hand upright and gave Franky the finger. Franky’s anger got the best of him, and he tried to stand but his body wasn’t ready for that. He slumped back down on the ground and took a few deep breaths to stabilize himself. Once he could halfway think straight, he looked around for Khadija. The insides of his Levi’s pockets were inside out, and his shell-toe Adidas were gone.
Franky found himself sitting on the sidewalk in a woozy haze. He was robbed, beaten, shoeless, and unable to locate his girlfriend. For the first time in his life, he knew what it felt like to want to kill another human being.
“I sure hate to let this thing off unless I really need to, but I’m too old to be fighting with them young boys,” Shorty said. “You need me to help you up, young blood?”
How are you gonna help me up, Shorty? I’m sitting down, and I’m still taller than you, Franky thought.
“Where’s Khadija?” Franky said, rolling onto his knees again as blood squirted from his nose and mouth.
“Oh, Lord,” Shorty said, running away from Franky and over to a lone figure lying on the ground by a trash can.
Franky saw her. He found the strength to get up, and he staggered over to her. He looked down, and his rage, which was already at an extremely unhealthy level, went off the charts.
“No,” he said, looking down at his girl, who was lying facedown on the pavement in her own blood. She wasn’t moving, and that sent him into major panic mode.
“Khadija,” he said as he dropped down on his knees beside her. He started shaking her while calling her name.
“Don’t move her,” Shorty said, as if he had some medical training. “Gimme that cell phone.”
Franky reached over and slid the iPhone from Khadija’s workout armband. He handed it to Shorty.
“What the …,” Shorty said. “Where the numbers at?”
Franky took the phone from him and promptly dialed 911.
“That’s a crying shame,” Shorty said, shaking his huge head. “These young boys done lost whatever minds they had. I couldn’t understand them whipping up on you—you a man. But this a lady. In my day, a man didn’t put his hands on a lady.”
Franky gave the 911 operator the information about the assault and the location. All the while, Khadija still hadn’t moved. Her eyes were closed and she was breathing, but that was all.
“Doggone cowards,” Shorty said, frowning up. “I shoulda shot ‘em all. In my day, a man fought another man straight up. If you lost, you just lost. So what. You kept it moving, but not now. Nowadays you got cowards who are too scared to take a whipping. They run and get a gun or come in packs. Three fools on one man and then they had the nerve to hit a girl. I don’t know what this world is coming to.”
Franky wasn’t listening to Shorty’s rant. He was holding on to his girlfriend’s hand and praying that she would be okay. With his free hand, he scrolled through Khadija’s phone until he came to MOM. He pressed the CALL button, and Mrs. Davis answered.
“Mrs. Davis,” he said through his tears. “This is Franky. Khadija’s hurt. Somebody jumped us when we got off the bus.”
“Hurt,” Mrs. Davis said. “Where is she? What kind of hurt? What do you mean she’s hurt? Put her on the phone.”
“She’s not moving,” Franky said, and the mere fact that he said that sent a shock through his entire body. “She’s just lying here.”
“Noooooooooo!” Mrs. Davis screamed.
“We called the ambulance already. They are on their way.”
“Where are you?”
Franky told the distraught woman their location.
“I’m on my way,” she said, and hung up.
Franky rubbed his girl’s hand to comfort her while they waited for the paramedics to arrive. His mind was calming down and his pain no longer mattered. The only thing that was on his mind was finding out who was responsible for this and making them pay.
19
Franky sat alone staring at the ambulance as the big square truck drove his girl and her mother away. He had refused any medical attention for fear that Children’s Services would come in and start asking questions. He felt like he would be okay anyway. His wounds were all on the surface, and he didn’t think he had any broken bones that would require a doctor’s attention.
After the taillights of the ambulance disappeared out of his view, he walked home.
“Where ya been, whoadie?” Nigel asked while lying on the sofa reading a magazine. “Hanging out with that gurl, huh? Yeah, she got ya nose open.”
Franky didn’t respond. Anger had a death grip on him and wouldn’t let go. He was so concerned with Khadija that his heart was pounding a million beats per second. She regained consciousness after the paramedics showed up but had complained of a severe headache. There was a large knot on her forehead and a scuff mark on her cheek.
She kept calling his name, but Mrs. Davis made her be quiet.
Nigel lowered the magazine when he didn’t get a response. He stared at his cousin and almost leaped from the sofa.
“What the …,” he said, tossing the magazine aside. “What happened to you?”
Franky looked at his cousin and his only response was a blank stare. He had never felt this way—violated, used, and mistreated. As he stared at Nigel, he thought about how people treated him. They showed him respect because he showed them kindness that was backed by the threat of violence. People were flat out afraid of Rico simply because of the level of violence that he was willing to bring their way. But what about him? Why was he feeling the disrespect of his peers? Why did he have to act like an uncivilized beast just to have some peace? He never did anything to anyone. As a matter of fact, the only thing he ever tried to do was help people; yet here he stood beaten like a runaway slave. But even worse than that was the disrespect they showed him by attacking his girlfriend. Things had to change, and he knew exactly how he was going to change them. On his walk home, he had plenty of time to think about his revenge, and he planned on serving it hotter than a New Orleans summer.
“I’m talking to you, whoadie,” Nigel said, walking closer to his cousin. “What happened?”
“It’s nothing,” Franky said, and walked to his bedroom.
“Where ya shoes at, man?” Nigel asked with a pained expression on his face as if h
e could feel Franky’s wounds.
Franky didn’t respond. He walked into his room and sat on the side of the bed. He wanted to cry, but what goodwould that do? Would crying make Khadija okay? Would it heal his scars? Would it take that disdainful look off of Mrs. Davis’s face when she stood on the back of the ambulance and barked, “I think it’s time that you kept your distance from my daughter.”
“Franky,” Nigel said from the doorway. “I need to know what happened to you, man. Were you jumped, robbed? Come on, whoadie. Talk to me.”
“I’m a’ight,” Franky said as he lay down on his bed. “I just fell.”
“Fell down and lost your shoes, too?” Nigel said. “Come on, whoadie. I was born at night but not last night. Tell me what happened. You know I’ma find out anyway.”
“I’m okay,” Franky said, refusing to give up any information. He was tired of his cousins handling things for him while he played the good suburban kid. The days in Jefferson Parish were gone. He didn’t have a country club membership, or a pool out back. He was no longer that person. He was in the hood where only the strong survived. He had held on to the person he once was for as long as he could, but times had changed and it was about time that he changed with them.
Nigel stood there staring at his cousin. He must’ve read Franky’s mind, because all he did was nod and step away from the bedroom door.
“I’ll get you some ice for that eye,” Nigel said from the hallway.
Franky felt something in his back pocket. He reached back and felt Khadija’s cell phone.
“Dag it,” he snapped at himself. “Now how am I gonna call her?”
He sat up and pressed a button, and the device came tolife. A picture of the two of them flashed on the screen. He flipped his fingers around the touch screen, and different pictures popped up. She had lots of photos of him that he never even knew she had. She had taken all kinds of random shots. There were pictures of him studying, walking down the hallway, and talking to his teachers. She even had one of him sleeping with his mouth open.
At the Crossroads Page 11