After about a fifteen-minute chat session, Wicked jumped into his car and drove off. The guy remained on the courts looking around. Then he sat down, leaned back on the bench, and seemed to be having a peaceful night. Franky pointed his gun up in the air and squeezed the trigger. There was a loud boom, and out of nowhere he was hit and forced to the ground. That old stink man who was marching the kids around was lying on top of him. He tried to get up, but the old bum was too strong.
The guy on the bench walked over and stood over the two of them.
“Are you shooting at me?” he said. “Let him up, General Mack.”
The old man stood up, and Franky jumped to his feet. General Mack held his arm so he couldn’t go anywhere.
“I asked you a question,” the guy said calmly.
General Mack hauled off and slapped Franky on the back of the head. “He’s talking to you, dummy.”
“Man,” Franky said. “If you put your nasty, crusty hands on me again, I will—”
“Franky!” Kelli screamed. “What in the world are you doing out here?”
Franky looked at his aunt and wanted to run, but instead he just dropped his head in defeat. Nothing was working out for him.
“I’m sick of you already, boy. I hear gunshots—then I look in your room and you’re gone. Tell me that wasn’t you out here shooting.”
“That was him,” General Mack said. “Sure as a dog got a tail. It was him.”
“Kelli,” the guy who had dissed Franky said.
“Kwame?”
“Yeah. How are ya?”
“I was doing okay until my nephew decided he was going to sneak out and try his best to go back to jail,” she said, reaching out and slapping Franky hard across the face.
“I shot up in the air,” he said in protest.
“Where did you get a gun?”
Franky looked away, holding his face.
General Mack picked up the gun and marched away in his communist trot.
“Get your lil narrow butt in that apartment,” Kelli said.
Franky walked back to the apartment. His plan had unraveled, because now she was really going to keep a close eye on him. He was stuck. He walked inside and sat on his bed. Five minutes later, Kelli walked in, and made a beeline for his room.
“You listen to me and you listen good. Your birth certificate came in the mail today. You will start school tomorrow, and you better get your act together. You will not be a bum, Franky. It’s just not going to happen,” she said, shaking her head. “This little superthug act—the tattoos and outlaw attitude—is not you. You weren’t raised like that, and I’m not going to let you become that.
“Now, I don’t know what Nigel and Rico have been teaching you over there, but it’s not going to fly here. You will be somebody. So here’s my proposal. You will either do what you’re supposed to do and live a peaceful life, or do what you’re supposed to do and I make it hard. But either way you will do what you’re supposed to do. Your father asked me to take care of you, and that’s what I’m gonna do, but it’s up to you how you want it.”
Franky sighed. This thug life was for the birds. His gangster days were over. He took off his clothes and got in bed.
29
Jimrose Christian Academy was one of the largest private schools in the state of Georgia. Kelli drove Franky through the gates, and they were met by an old white man who stopped cars that didn’t have a sticker on the windshield.
“Here for registration,” Kelli said.
“Name,” he said with a pleasant smile.
“Bourgeois,” she said.
“Building six,” the guard said. “He’s all set. His welcome package and schedule will be waiting for him on the second floor. There will always be a parking sticker in there for you, ma’am.”
“Thank you,” Kelli said, and pulled into one of the most prestigious schools in the country.
Franky looked around and took in the campus. This place was huge. He saw the football field and smiled. The school reminded him of the one he had attended back in Jefferson Parish. They arrived between classes, and hundreds of kids were going about their business. The schoolwas mostly white kids, but he saw his share of blacks and Hispanics, too.
JCA taught kids between the ages of four and eighteen years. Franky couldn’t help but feel like he had died and gone to heaven. He looked at Kelli and for the first time in a long time smiled.
“What are you smiling about? I didn’t even know you could smile,” she said, smiling herself.
“Please tell me this is my school.”
“Yep,” she said. “This is your school.”
Franky couldn’t believe his luck. He reached over and gave his auntie a big hug. “I’m sorry, Aunt Kelli. I didn’t mean to act so stupid. It just seems things have been going from bad to worse since my mother died.”
“I understand, but your father is with you. Trust me—sometimes I feel like he’s right in the room talking to me.”
“Yeah,” Franky said. “Me too.”
“It’s the weirdest thing because he seems so real,” Kelli said as they walked into a large building and over to the elevators. They got on one and went up a floor.
“Why didn’t I come here when I first moved here?” Franky said. “I’ve always liked school.”
“School is a good thing,” Kelli said. “This place costs fifteen thousand dollars a year. They don’t let any riffraff in here, so make me proud.”
“Well, my riffraff days are done,” Franky said.
They walked into a room, and Kelli picked up an envelope and signed her name.
“You’re all set,” she said, handing him the envelope. “This is your schedule. I’ll be here to pick you up at four. Meet me outside.”
Franky reached out and hugged his aunt again.
“Okay,” Kelli said before walking away. “Make me proud.”
“I will,” Franky said as he watched her leave. He stayed on the second-floor looking down at the sea of red polo shirts and khaki pants. The kids were changing classes, and his eyes found a little brown-skinned boy who looked to be around six or seven years old. The little boy reminded Franky of himself when he was his age, and he couldn’t help but smile at the memory. Just as he was taking his walk down memory lane, his thoughts were interrupted by two white guys.
“Who are you?” a freckled-face boy with orange hair asked.
“Who’s asking?” Franky shot back.
“What’s with the tattoo? Are you like some kind of thug?” the other boy said.
“Nope,” Franky said, sensing that these guys weren’t a part of the Jimrose Christian Academy’s welcoming committee.
“Well,” Freckles said, leaning in close to Franky’s face, “we have a good school here and we don’t want any of your kind coming in here messing it up.”
“What’s my kind?” Franky asked with a smirk.
Freckles looked him up and down, then turned away and spat on the walkway.
“Before you know it, we’ll have people riding around here with old cars painted the color of a Snickers bar with big rims on it. They have schools for your kind. Why don’t you go back to the hood?” the other boy added.
“Yeah,” Freckles said as he poked Franky in his chest. “So if you think for one second you’re going to come around here with that ghetto crap, you have another think coming. Comprende?”
“If you ever touch me again, I will break my foot off in your …” Franky started to say, but was cut off when somebody grabbed his hand. He snatched it away and looked at the culprit. His eyes grew wide, then he had to do a double take. All of a sudden, the two clowns were no longer of any interest to him.
“Khadija,” he said, as he had to make sure it was really her. She had cut her hair short like Rihanna and wore two small diamond earrings in her ears instead of the big loops that she used to wear when she was at M&M High.
“Franky,” she said with a blank look on her face. “What are you doing here?”
/> “This is my school now. Today is my first day. I moved in with my aunt.”
“Remember what we said, homeboy,” Freckles said as he and his friend walked away.
“Trouble seems to find you, huh?” Khadija said.
“I guess so. They came up calling me a thug, but I’m not concerned with those idiots,” Franky said, smiling from ear to ear.
Khadija noticed his tattoo. “Why did you do that to your arm?”
Franky pulled his sleeve up above his shoulder and exposed a big red heart with her name in the center of it.
Khadija opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. She placed a hand over her chest and stared into his eyes.
“I did that because I never wanted to be without you,” he said. “I thought I’d never see you again. But last night, I said a prayer and I asked God not to take you out of my life. And here you are.”
Khadija stepped closer to him and slid her arms aroundhis waist. Franky hugged her to him, and they embraced for a long time.
“We are going to be late for class,” he said, finally pulling away. “Are you trying to get me in trouble on my first day of school?”
Khadija had tears in her eyes when she looked up at Franky. “I missed you, shawty.”
Franky smiled and couldn’t think of a sweeter name to be called.
“I missed you, too. Now let’s get to class.”
A READING GROUP GUIDE
AT THE CROSSROADS
Travis Hunter
ABOUT THIS GUIDE
The following questions are intended to enhance your group’s reading of AT THE CROSSROADS.
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
Franky was a fish out of water living in the ghetto. Do you think living in the hood makes you bad?
Franky and his cousins had the best clothes but didn’t put any value on education. Why do you think that was the case for them?
Franky’s relationship with Khadija brought him a great deal of joy, but after one incident, her parents shut that down. Were they already suspicious of him?
Rico called down to the swamps to help his cousin out. Do you believe in voodoo?
Nigel seemed to be a really good guy. Do you think his life would’ve been different if he had had some real guidance?
Why do you think being ghetto is a badge of honor for some in the black community?
Once Franky was in a different situation and realized that he was going to be held accountable, he changed. Do teens crave discipline?
Why do you think Franky wanted to go back with his cousin so bad?
STAY TUNED FOR MORE GREAT NOVELS BY TRAVIS HUNTER
Two the Hard Way
Coming up in the inner city, Kwame and Romeo Braxton never had anyone except their nana and each other. So when big brother Kwame caught two years for doing nothing but keeping the wrong kind of friends, their lives were turned upside down. And things are about to get shaken up one more time….
Available now wherever books are sold!
On the Come Up
DeMarco and Kyle couldn’t be more different, but each seems to have what the other wants. And on a rough night in the hood, it’s suddenly unclear whether there’s enough room on the streets for both of them….
In stores April 2011.
Turn the page for an excerpt from Two the Hard Way….
PROLOGUE
ROMEO
I paced the rooftop of my apartment complex with a.40-caliber Glock pistol in the palm of my hand, sweat pouring off of my closely cropped head. Fear had a stranglehold on me, and my heart threatened to beat its way out of my chest. I struggled to control my breathing as I eased over to the edge of the building and took in the sight of the only place I had ever called home. That’s when I realized that life as I knew it was over.
A nervous chuckle escaped my lips. How dare I ever allow myself to dream of a life outside of this box I was placed in since the day I was born? First my brother’s dreams were snatched away, then mine. The more I thought about it, the more I realized my life was doomed from the start.
1
ROMEO
“You ever cheated on Ngiai?” my best friend, Amir, asked me as we walked home from school on a wooded path toward our home in the busted-in and burned-out subsidized projects. Atlanta’s Village Apartments had been my home for the last ten years of my life, and although it was a pretty rough spot, I liked it.
“Who is that?” I smiled.
“Whatever. You a player but you ain’t stupid.”
“I don’t cheat. I’m a good boy,” I said.
“Man,” Amir said, shaking his head. “How you function with all those girls up in your face all the time?”
“The same way you function with none in your face. I just keep it moving.”
“What? You crazy. I got more than my share of the honeys, player. I just keep my business to myself,” Amir said.
“Yeah, that’s not all you keep to yourself. But you should embrace your virginity and stop being ashamed of it.”
“You crazy. I lost my virginity a long time ago, lil buddy,” Amir bragged his lie.
“Yeah, but Fancy and her four sisters don’t count,” I said, wiggling my fingers in his face.
“Whatever, homie,” he said, smacking my hand down. “Like I said, I keep mine’s to myself. I’m respectful of the woman I spend my private time with. Don’t need to run around here telling you low-self-esteem-having clowns ‘bout my business.”
“Yeah, okay,” I said.
“What the …,” Amir said, stopping in his tracks as we noticed the path to our apartments was cut off by a six-foot-high wrought-iron fence.
“I guess we’re moving on up, Amir,” I said, running my fingers along the black iron. “I always wanted to live in a gated community.”
Amir folded his arms. His face wore a disgusted scowl. He was quiet and his breathing was measured. He seemed to be analyzing the situation we had before us. One of the men working on the gate nodded at me and I nodded back.
“Don’t be speaking to no Mexicans, Romeo,” Amir snapped. He huffed a frustrated breath, then found his stride along the fence line. “Those people are the worst of the worst. The white man tells them to put up a fence locking black folks in and they jump on the job. No standards. Anything for a buck,” Amir said. “You don’t see what’s going on?”
Amir kept me laughing. He was a walking worrywart who believed the government was secretly conspiring to eliminate the black man from the face of the earth. Maybe that was the reason his hair was turning gray at the tenderage of seventeen. He claimed his dad was a political prisoner, but in reality he was just a prisoner who got caught selling drugs.
“Nah, why don’t you tell me what’s going on, Reverend Al Sharpton Jr.?” I said.
“This is nothing more than the government’s way of preparing us for incarceration. My daddy sent me a book, and he said the only reason they call where we live the ‘projects’ is because the powers that be are doing a project on how to eliminate our black butts.”
“Your daddy’s a genius, dude. You are so lucky that he imparts such deep wisdom on the world,” I said sarcastically. “That’s why they keep him locked up, man. He’s too smart to unleash on the world.”
“Okay, see, you think this is a game. You’re one of those dum-dums who can’t call a spade a spade. I can’t believe you can’t see what’s going on, Romeo. They tryna condition us to being surrounded by fences. And what does a prison have? A bunch of doggone gates.” He looked at me like I was the dumbest person ever to take a breath. “That’s what’s wrong with black people. We don’t think.”
“So now you got a problem with black people too?”
His eyes almost popped out of his head. “My biggest problem is with black people. We the worst of the worst.”
“I thought you just said Mexicans were the worst of the worst.”
“Hell … neither one of us are worth a red cent. But I’ll tell you what—black people are the only group of peo
ple on this earth who just don’t care how we look on TV. We’re just happy to be on TV. Master want me to play a pimp and degrade my sisters … Okay.” He mocked a wide-eyed minstrel character. “They be like, ‘You ain’t even gotta pay methat much—just put me on TV so people can think I’m somebody and I’ll beat that ho to death.'”
I laughed as I always did when Amir went off on one of his race tangents.
“Now, I will say one thing about Mexicans,” he said. “They will work.”
“Black people work too,” I defended. “This country was built on the backs of black people.”
“Man, that was three hundred years ago. And we ain’t done jack since. I guess we’re resting.”
“What about Barack Obama?”
“Man, whatever. One man out of two million and you want me to jump up and clap.”
“Shut up, Amir,” I said.
“I’m just saying,” Amir said, sticking his middle finger up at a big poster of a fancy-dressed real estate mogul whose face was plastered on the side of a MARTA bus station. “We done lost all of our pride, man. There’s nothing sacred in the black community anymore.”
“Why do you stick your finger up at that picture every day?” I asked.
“Do you know who that is?”
“Nope,” I said.
“Damn, Rome. You gotta get a little more involved in something other than rap videos and SportsCenter. That’s the fool who owns all of these apartment complexes around here. Mr. Slumlord himself. He’s riding around in Bentleys and we living in the hood. I don’t have a problem with him getting paid, but I do have a problem if he’s getting paid from keeping us poor.”
“Now, in all of your extensive research, how did you find out that keeping us in the hood makes him rich?”
At the Crossroads Page 17