“OK,” he said, reaching behind him and grabbing a stack of papers from the corner of the desk. “It’s quiz time. Books on the floor.”
A collective groan rang throughout the room as the students closed their books and placed them beneath their chairs.
“I know,” Jawan said, walking around the room and placing the pop quizzes face down on their desks. “I’m losing cool points for doing this to you.”
“You’re losing mad cool points,” Eduardo said as his teacher walked by him.
Jawan let out an exaggerated breath. “I’ll have to find a way to deal with that,” he said. “But even if I can’t, at least you’ll all have one hundred percents to show for it, because I know that everyone has been paying attention in class and studying extra hard at home at night. Right, DeSean?”
DeSean looked up at him as he paused by his desk. “Right, Mr. White,” he said with little enthusiasm.
Jawan gave him a nod, then finished passing out the rest of the papers, and went back to his desk. He sat down, folded his arms across his chest, and said, “I want all papers on my desk in fifteen minutes, ladies and gentlemen.”
Another collective groan rippled through, and then there was nothing but silence and the sound of papers rustling.
Ten minutes into the allotted quiz time, one of his best students approached the desk and laid down his quiz.
Jawan looked up from a crossword puzzle he was working on. “Done already, Brian?”
Brian Moore said, “Yeah.”
Jawan nodded and then caught a glimpse of some bruises on Brian’s knuckles. Quietly, he said, “Stick around after class, OK?”
Brian gave a nod and walked back to his desk.
Jawan watched Brian walk away, and shook his head. His story was similar to many of the kids in the high school, but unlike many of the knuckleheads who had brains and the ability to succeed but didn’t use them, Brian did use his. He, along with LaKeisha, was an A student in the class. Although he never said much during class, Brian paid attention and put the time in at home. Acing tests, surprise or otherwise, was never a problem for him.
Staying out of trouble was.
Jawan had always seen something different in Brian’s eyes. A seriousness and maturity level that many of the other kids didn’t seem to possess. In a lot of ways, Brian reminded Jawan of the nephew he’d lost. Without being too overbearing, he’d made it his personal mission to guide, or at least try to guide, Brian.
Twenty minutes later, after all papers were turned in, the students rushed out of the class to enjoy their weekends. As had been requested of him, Brian remained behind in his seat.
Jawan finished running red marker over one of the quizzes, and then neatened the stack of papers and placed them in his briefcase. He stood up and walked over to where Brian sat. “You got an A on the quiz,” he said, looking down at his student, who was fiddling with his pencil.
Brian shrugged. “Yeah, I know.”
Jawan smiled. Brian wasn’t being smug. A’s were just what he’d expected. “So what’s up with the bruised knuckles?” he asked.
Brian looked down at his right hand, flexed it a couple of times, and then shrugged his top lip. “Just got into a li’l somethin’ last night.”
Jawan looked at him disapprovingly. “A li’l somethin’, huh?”
“Yeah,” Brian said. “Just a li’l.”
Jawan frowned. “Your mom know about this li’l somethin’?”
Brian shook his head. “Nah. Wasn’t nothin’ for her to really know.”
Jawan nodded. “Brian, you know, you’re too smart to keep getting into these li’l somethin’s all the time.”
“I was just defending myself.”
“Isn’t that what you said last time?”
Brian shrugged with his upper lip again, but didn’t say anything.
“You know, if you stop hanging out with the wrong crowd, you wouldn’t have to defend yourself all the time.”
Brian exhaled. “It’s not that easy, Mr. White.”
“Of course it is, Brian. You’re a straight-A student with a very bright path ahead of you. Remember what I said earlier? See. Believe. And attain.”
Brian shook his head. “That sounds good, but, unfortunately for me, I don’t see anything.”
“Well, if you stop hanging with people who do nothing but waste your time, maybe you would see something.”
“Those are my boys, Mr. White. I’ve known them since kindergarten.”
“Well, you know what, Brian? For them being your boys, you sure as hell don’t have a lot in common with them. Because as far as I know, you’re the only one who gives a damn about being in school.”
Brian slumped back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “They don’t have ideal situations at home.”
“I guess you do, huh?”
Brian clenched his jaw.
Jawan frowned. “Look, Brian, I’m all for maintaining friendships, but whether you want to admit it or not, you’re not like your boys. You may not know what it is that you want out of life, but I think you’re destined for something that will take you far away from Jamaica Avenue, and I think you know it too. Kids like you and LaKeisha are special. You don’t have to know what you want to do just yet, but if you just give yourself a chance, your path will reveal itself, and then you’ll be on your way to believing and attaining.
“But if you continue to hang with your boys just because you’ve known them since kindergarten . . .” Jawan paused, turned his palms up toward the ceiling, and shrugged. “You have a hard or easy decision to make, Brian. You can do the easy thing and continue hanging with your boys and getting into li’l somethin’s while life and opportunities pass you by, or you can make the hard decision by letting them drift to the side, while you make the most out of all life has to offer. Personally, I think that’s the easy decision to make.”
Jawan raised his eyebrows and shrugged again. “Anyway . . .” He moved away and went back to his desk. He wanted to get his message across, but he didn’t want to over-do it. He had a good relationship with Brian and he wanted it to remain that way. He grabbed his briefcase. “Are you going to the dance tomorrow night?”
Brian rose from his desk and slung his book bag over his shoulder. “Yeah, probably.”
“Are you going with Carla?”
Brian shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Well, I’ll see you there.”
Brian’s eyes widened. “You’re goin’?”
“Yeah. Principal Myers twisted my arm into being a chaperone. I kind of had no choice.”
Brian laughed. “Unfortunately, my mom will be there too.”
“Oh yeah? She’s chaperoning?”
“Yeah.”
Jawan nodded. “It’ll be nice to see your mother again.”
Brian looked at him and raised an eyebrow. “OK,” he said slowly. “Just don’t be talkin’ to her too long. It’s bad enough she’ll be there. The last thing I want is for people to see you talkin’ to her like there’s some conference goin’ on about me.”
Jawan laughed. “OK. I promise to just make it a hi-bye kind of thing.”
Brian nodded. “That’s cool.”
“All right, so I’ll see you tomorrow. Just do me a favor, Brian. Try not getting into any li’l something’s tonight, OK?”
Brian said, “Sure,” and then walked out of the classroom.
Jawan frowned.
Too much potential, he thought.
He hoisted his briefcase off of his desk and walked out of the room. Tomorrow, at the dance, he’d make sure to have a talk with Brian’s mother about the li’l somethin’s he’d been getting into. He couldn’t save his nephew, but he was damn sure going to try to save Brian Moore, whether he wanted him to or not.
3
“Yo, Tyrel. Wait up, son!”
Tyrel Gardner stopped walking and turned around. He nodded to Brian and continued his conversation into his cell phone. “Yeah, a’igh
t, nigga, we’ll be there. But don’t be fuckin’ late like last time. Y’all almost got a nigga thrown in jail for that shit. A’ight, holla.” He hung up the phone and then extended his hand to meet Brian’s for a pound. “What up, son. I didn’t think you were comin’.”
“My bad, yo. I had to hang back after class to talk to Mr. White about some shit.”
“A’ight. I don’t like a lot of the teachers, but he’s a cool-ass dude.”
“Yeah, he’s a’ight,” Brian replied with a nod, downplaying the level of respect he actually had for his teacher. Other than his boys, his teacher was one of the realest people he knew, and although Brian didn’t say or show it, he appreciated the fact that his teacher tried diligently to keep his head twisted on straight.
“He’s one of the only ma’fuckas in Lane who actually gives a fuck about us.”
“Us?” Brian said with a smirk. “Since when did your ass become a student?”
“Nigga, please. My name be on the roster.”
Brian laughed. “Nigga, you hardly go to school. I’m surprised they didn’t take your name off that shit.”
“They keep my name there for the celebrity status.”
“Whateva, nigga.”
Tyrel gave Brian a friendly, but rough, shove. “My boy, Mike, said he be seeing Mr. White down at the gym, hittin’ the punching bag and sparrin’ and shit. He said he’s not a nigga to be slept on.”
Brian nodded and lit up a Newport. “Yeah, I heard that too,” he said, taking a drag on the cancer stick and blowing out a long stream. Smoking was a habit he’d picked up in seventh grade. His mother had no clue he smoked, and if she saw him, he had no doubt she’d kill him.
Tyrel took out his own cigarette from his pack—Marlboro—lit one, held it between his thumb and index finger, and took a deep drag. He smoked and held the cigarette the same way he did a joint. “Mike said that nigga got family around here.”
Brian took another puff on his Newport. “Yeah. He grew up on Grant somewhere.”
“Word?”
“Yeah. He graduated from Lane back in ’96,” Brian said, repeating the details his teacher had shared earlier.
Tyrel took another long drag, held the cancerous air in, and then blew it out slowly. “Shit, I know when my ass graduate I ain’t never stepping back in that ma’fuckin’ school.”
“Yo, son,” Brian said, laughing. “How you gonna graduate when you don’t go to school?”
Tyrel laughed too. “Fuck you, nigga. I be at that school.”
“Detention don’t count, son.”
Both guys laughed.
“Yo, where’s Will at?” Brian asked after another pull on his Newport.
Tyrel blew out a cloud of smoke. “That nigga’s over at Shauntel’s crib.”
“Word?”
“Yeah. He think ’cuz her moms ain’t home, he’s gonna get to hit it. You know he been tryin’ hard for that.”
Brian shook his head. “That nigga ain’t gonna hit a damn thing. Man, Shauntel is tighter than my mom with dough. She don’t be givin’ up shit.”
“Yo, I told him that already. But you know Will—he a hardheaded ma’fucka.”
“Yeah.”
Tyrel and Brian continued down Jamaica Avenue toward Cross Bay Boulevard. A wicked breeze whipped around them, forcing Brian to zip up his New York Giants bomber jacket. Tyrel, always wanting to show how much of a man he was, kept his bomber open.
“Yo, what’s up for tonight?” Brian asked. It was Friday and he was ready to get into something. Preferably Carla, but she had said something to him earlier about maybe having to go to church with her mother. He hoped she wouldn’t have to, because it had been a week since they’d last had sex.
“Yo, it’s on, kid,” Tyrel said, throwing his smoked butt to the ground and lighting another.
“What’s on?”
“Remember what we was talkin’ about the other night by Will’s crib?”
Brian thought hard for a long moment. “Shit, nigga. We were high as fuck. We talked about a lot of shit.”
“Man. We was talkin’ about rippin’ off that Laundromat?”
“Oh yeah,” Brian said, nodding. “You wanna do that shit tonight?” He stopped walking and faced his boy, who he’d known since elementary school, and who his mother couldn’t stand. He remembered the conversation they’d had about pulling off the robbery, but secretly he was hoping Tyrel wasn’t serious about it.
About six months ago, he, Tyrel, and Will had formed a three-man cartel, giving themselves the moniker of The Notorious Three. Late at night or early mornings, they hit corner stores, pizza shops, and other small stores along Jamaica Avenue and on Rockaway Boulevard. Although being part of the cartel was exciting, and had been good for keeping money in his pockets and expensive clothing on his back, Brian had been looking to get out of it. As much as he tried to deny it, his teacher’s words and persistence to make him listen had been having an effect on him. As each day passed, he found himself thinking more and more about his future. He’d told Mr. White that he didn’t know what he wanted to do with his life, but that had been a lie. He knew exactly what he wanted to do. The talk about robbing the Laundromat was just that to him—talk. The Laundromat was a much bigger target than anything they’d hit.
“Yeah,” Tyrel answered. “Tonight is the night. Kid, I got the whole plan organized and ready to go. Will is down, of course. And Big Mike got us a couple of .45s.” Tyrel looked at Brian with hard eyes, who looked back at him with surprise in his. “Don’t tell me you’re not down, son. I know you ain’t backin’ out on your boys.”
Brian leaned back against a building wall, and waited to speak while the J train passed by on the overhead tracks above him. As it rumbled by, he stared back at his friend. They’d met in kindergarten and had been running buddies ever since. Though they were the same age, Tyrel was like an older brother Brian never had. Tyrel was the ringleader of the clique. He was also the biggest of the three. When he wasn’t off somewhere getting into trouble, his spare time was spent working out. Tyrel looked like a miniature Incredible Hulk, with a wide nose, beady eyes, a bald dome, and the most scarred-up hands Brian had ever seen.
Besides being the biggest, Tyrel was also the most violent of the three. His disregard for authority had had him locked up in the juvenile penitentiary more times than Brian could remember. Fortunately, he was still a minor. But that would change by the beginning of the coming spring. Raised by only his grandparents, as his mother had given him up, Tyrel came and went as he pleased. He also attended school whenever he felt the need, which was usually only to collect some money. The teachers never bothered with him because they were simply too scared to say anything.
His crooked mind constantly working, Tyrel was always coming up with some moneymaking scheme, or some small-time heist to pull in fast money. No one had had Brian’s back more than Tyrel had. When an alibi was needed, he was there to provide one. When his funds were short, Tyrel had money to lend. Brian knew that if the time ever came, Tyrel would lay his life on the line for their friendship. Brian had to respect that. You weren’t a man if you didn’t.
When the J train’s loud rumbling faded away, Brian took a long, final pull on the Newport and then threw the butt to the ground. “Yo, kid, you know I ain’t backin’ out on y’all. I’m sayin’ though, the Laundromat’s a big spot.”
“So what? You scared, nigga?”
Brian shook his head. “Nah, I ain’t scared. I’m just sayin’ we been doing fine with what we been doin’.”
“Those other spots are small time, son,” Tyrel said. “It’s time for us to step our game up.”
“Why we gotta have the .45s? We ain’t never needed them before.”
“Chill, son,” Tyrel said. “We ain’t gonna use them.”
“Man, I ain’t tryin’ to be all Scarface and shit,” Brian contested.
His hands in the air, Tyrel said, “Yo, son, you soundin’ like a bitch right about now.”
“Whateva, man. All I’m sayin’ is we never took no guns before. What’s wrong with the blades we been using?”
“Yo, I told you it’s time to raise the stakes, nigga. Stop bitchin’ out on me. Them shits won’t even be loaded. We’re just gonna have them as a scare tactic. You know how smooth shit always goes for us. All we gotta do is like what we talked about. Roll in, flash them shits, grab the money, and then be out. Kid, the whole thing should take about five minutes, tops. Then we’ll roll to Shawn’s joint over on Flatbush. You know all the bitches be at his shit. Plus, I heard Jay-Z might be there too.”
Brian lit another cigarette and took a long pull. Shawn Colbert had graduated the previous year and was now working for Bad Boy Records as a DJ/producer-intraining. Shawn always threw hot parties back in the day, but now that he’d moved up, the level of the jams he threw had too. Normally, Brian would be amped to hit Shawn’s parties, and the thought of missing it didn’t exist. But his mind had been occupied by Carla lately, pushing Shawn’s party, despite Jay-Z’s possible appearance, to the back of his mind. He was supposed to hook up with her until her mom had said something about them having to go to church. As off the hook as the party would be, Brian was hoping that the church plans would be cancelled. He was feeling Carla more than he would ever admit to his boys. He said, “Five minutes, huh?”
“Five minutes, son. In and out and be on our way.”
“How much we talkin’?”
“Nigga, you know how those fuckin’ Indian ma’fuckas be rakin’ in the dough in there. I’d say we roll outta there with at least a G and a half.”
“Split four ways?”
“Nah. Split three.”
“And what about Big Mike?”
“Shit, that nigga owes me for keepin’ my mouth shut when he was locked up and got ass-fucked by some niggas up in Rikers.”
“Word? How you found out about that shit?”
“My uncle was locked up at the same time.”
“Damn. Your uncle swings that way?”
“Yo, son, my uncle ain’t no fuckin’ homo. He was just locked up there. He remembered Big Mike from pictures up in my mom’s crib. Son, Big Mike’ll do whatever the fuck I tell him to do. It’s either that or the word is out. You the only nigga I told about that, because I trust you. I would tell Will, but he got a big-ass mouth sometimes.”
Growing Pains Page 2