He stepped past Will and walked into the living room, where Tyrel was sitting on the couch next to Will’s little brother, Marcus, playing Madden NFL on the Xbox 360. “What up, son,” he said to Tyrel as he sat down beside Marcus.
“Sup,” Tyrel said, his jaw hard, his eyes focused intensely on the flat screen. His body was rigid as his fingers furiously worked the buttons and control stick on the game’s controller. By the look in his eyes, the baring of his teeth, and the smile plastered on Marcus’s face, it was obvious that Tyrel wasn’t having a good game.
“Come on, nigga!” Tyrel said, shoving Marcus with his elbow. “Stop fuckin’ cheatin’.”
“Man, I ain’t cheatin’,” Marcus said, his voice giddy.
“Whatever, nigga. There ain’t no way you could run that bullshit-ass play three times in a row and keep getting twenty yards every ma’fuckin’ time without cheatin’.”
Marcus laughed. “Maybe you just need to practice.”
Tyrel shoved Marcus again. “Whatever, nigga.”
Brian exhaled as his thoughts went to Carla. He really was trying to spend more time with her. “Yo, son, put that shit on pause. Let’s talk and get it over with.”
“Nigga, don’t you see I’m tryin’ to keep from getting embarrassed?”
“I’m just sayin’,” Brian countered. “Carla’s mom ain’t home.”
“Nigga, just chill. Carla’s pussy ain’t runnin’ nowhere.”
“Yo,” Will said from a chair beside Brian. “Watch the language, son.”
Tyrel looked over at him. He said, “Nigga, please,” and then focused back on the game.
Brian shook his head and folded his arms across his chest. He wanted to protest again, but knew there was no point to it. He looked over at Will, who looked at him and shrugged again.
Brian looked at the television screen. Tyrel was playing as the Eagles, using Michael Vick as quarterback, while Marcus played as the New York Giants. Marcus had a two-touchdown lead and had the ball on Tyrel’s twenty-yard line. He hiked the ball, faked a run to the right, rolled out of the pocket to the left, avoided a rush from the defense, and threw a bullet toward the back of the end zone for another touchdown.
“Goddamn!” Tyrel yelled, slamming the controller down to the carpeted floor. “Don’t tell me your ass ain’t cheatin’, nigga.”
Marcus laughed. “I told you, you need to practice, nigga.”
“Man, fuck you!” Tyrel stood up and looked at Will. “Your li’l brother’s a fuckin’ cheater, son.”
Will raised his eyebrows. “Yo, he lives and breathes Madden.”
“Whatever, nigga.” He looked down at Marcus. “I’ma get your sister to come and beat your ass like she did in boxing.”
“Nah, nigga,” Tyrel said, laughing. “You just need to practice.”
Brian and Will both laughed as Marcus pouted. Tyrel slapped Marcus heavily in the back of his head, prompting an “ow” from the twelve-year-old.
Tyrel looked at Brian. “You ready now, son.”
“Been,” Brian said, standing up.
Tyrel walked off to Will’s room with Brian and Will in tow. When they got to the room, Will closed the door behind them, while Tyrel sat down on his bed. “Fuckin’ cheatin’-ass nigga,” he said, still fuming.
“Yo, man, it’s just a game,” Will said.
“Fuck that game and fuck you and your brother,” Tyrel said.
Brian laughed.
“Shit ain’t funny,” Tyrel said, glaring at him.
Brian put his hand on his stomach. “Yeah, it is,” he said, laughing harder.
Tyrel gave him a hard look, and then, seconds later, joined him in laughter. “Fuckin’ kids,” he said. “All they do is play that shit. I ain’t playin’ wit’ his ass no more.”
The three of them laughed hard for a few more seconds, until Tyrel said, “A’ight, we got business to talk about.”
Brian and Will stopped laughing immediately.
“What’s up?” Brian asked, taking a seat in a chair.
“We about to be paid,” Tyrel said.
“Didn’t you say that about the Laundromat?” Will asked.
Tyrel gave him a deathly stare that gave Brian the chills. “Nigga,” he said, his voice low and taut, “do yourself a favor and don’t bring that shit up again.”
Even though he’d moved on since that night, it was obvious that Will’s actions still left a bitter taste in his mouth. Will gave a nod and didn’t say anything else.
“Anyway,” Tyrel continued, “the Laundromat wasn’t what it was supposed to be, but we still got some cheddar for the night. But now I’m talking about coming off with some real money.”
“How?” Will asked.
Brian frowned. He had no interest in how.
“Check cashing,” Tyrel said with a sinister smile.
“Check cashing?” Will asked. “You talking about hittin’ Old Man Blackwell’s joint?”
“Hell yeah, nigga,” Tyrel said.
Brian sat forward in his seat. “Yo, Blackwell is like everyone’s grandfather around here. We can’t fuck with his spot. He looks out for all of us around here.”
“Fuck that shit, son,” Tyrel said. “He got mad dough in there. We could roll outta there wit’ at least sixty thousand easily.”
“No shit,” Will said with a gleam in his eyes.
Brian shook his head. “Yo, son, I don’t care how much money we could pull in, we ain’t hittin’ Blackwell’s spot.”
Tyrel looked at Brian with a tight jaw. “What you mean we ain’t hittin’ his spot? What, you the leader now, nigga? You the coach calling all the plays now?”
“It’s not about me tryin’ to be the leader, Ty. All I’m sayin’ is Old Man Blackwell’s always looked out for us ever since we were kids. He’s always been fair and he’s always shown us respect. He don’t deserve to be disrespected like that. At least, not by us.”
Tyrel sucked his teeth and raised the corner of his mouth while cocking an eyebrow. “Fuck that shit, nigga. Is Blackwell puttin’ money in your pocket?” He looked at Will. “Is that nigga payin’ your bills, son?”
Will shook his head.
“Shit.” He pounded his right fist into his left palm. “This is about survival, son. Old Man Blackwell ain’t starvin’ and he sure ain’t gonna fuckin’ die.”
“Yo,” Brian said, his fists clenched. “I hear what you’re sayin’, but we can’t hit his spot.”
“Fuck that, nigga. For thirtysome Gs or more, I’ll hit any ma’fuckin’ body.”
“Yo,” Will cut in. “You really think we could pull that much?”
Tyrel turned to him. “Nigga, everyone be cashin’ their shit over there.”
“What about security though?”
“Big Mike already checked the shit out. Blackwell ain’t got but one security camera, and that reformed cokehead, Rich, workin’ wit’ him. There ain’t no security to worry about. All we gotta do is roll in, keep our fuckin’ mouths closed,” he said, staring hard at Will, “and do what the fuck we need to do and then roll out.”
Brian shook his head emphatically. “Nah, man, we can’t do it. Blackwell don’t deserve that. Not from us.”
“Nigga, what the fuck is your problem?” Tyrel snapped. “Did you not hear me say how much we can pull? What, you suddenly get rich and don’t need the money?”
“Yo, Brian,” Will said, looking at him. “I hear what you’re saying. I respect and like Old Man Blackwell too, but . . . shit is rough out here. I can bust my ass all I want at work, but I won’t ever see that kind of cash. And I need it, son. I got Marcus and Charmaine to think about.”
“I feel you, Will,” Brian said, understanding his dilemma. “But that shit ain’t right.”
Tyrel stood up. “Nigga, what ain’t right is you willin’ to pass up on some real cheese.”
“You gotta draw the line somewhere, son.”
“So, what, you sayin’ that you bailin’ out on your niggas?”
&
nbsp; Brian shook his head. “Nah, I ain’t sayin’ that.”
“So then you in.”
Brian gritted his teeth and exhaled a heavy breath. “I . . . I can’t do it, son.”
“So then you bailin’ out on your niggas.”
Brian frowned. “Man—”
“Yo, which is it, son?” Tyrel cut in. “You either in or out. If you in, cool. But if you out, then you bailin’ on us.”
Brian rose from the bed. “Why it gotta be me bailin’ on you, Ty?”
“Because that’s what it is. We a three-man cartel, son.”
“I know. Shit,” Brian said, frustrated at the predicament he was in.
“So are you in or not?” Tyrel asked.
“Yeah, man,” Will added. “Are you down?”
Brian looked over at him. “It’s that easy, Will?” he asked.
Will shrugged. “I got my li’l brother and sister to look after.”
“And what if something goes wrong, Will? What’re Marcus and Charmaine gonna do if you’re not around?”
“Ain’t nothin’ gonna happen, nigga,” Tyrel said. “Brian, man, why you being such a bitch about this?”
Brian flared his nostrils, took a breath, held it for a second, and then exhaled. He looked from Will’s pleading gaze to Tyrel’s cold one.
His boys or Old Man Blackwell.
A man who’d known him since he was two. A man who used to lend him money for pizza when his mother had none. A man who always used to ask about his grades, who always seemed to be concerned as to what he wanted out of his life, and whether or not he was on the right path.
Old Man Blackwell or his boys.
Boys who knew him better than anyone. Boys who’d been with him through thick and thin. Boys who would do anything for him. Go to war for him. Boys who would never choose or put anyone else above him.
Old Man Blackwell or his boys.
Brian shook his head again. “I . . . I gotta think, son,” he said, his voice low.
“Think?” Tyrel said. By the tone in his voice, it was obvious that he’d expected a different answer. Had it been any other place, as much as he didn’t want to do it, Brian would most likely have given the answer Tyrel wanted to hear. But they were talking about hitting Old Man Blackwell’s place, and, whether they liked it or not, the decision wasn’t an easy one to make. “Are you for real, son?”
“Yeah, man,” Brian said. “I’m for real. I need to think about it.”
Tyrel laughed, though it was hardly one filled with amusement. “Can you believe this nigga, Will? He has to think about sellin’ his boys out. That’s some fucked-up shit, right?”
Will looked at Brian and frowned, but remained silent.
“Yo, fuck you, Ty. I ain’t sellin’ nobody out.”
Tyrel stepped toward Brian. Not stopping until his face was inches away from Brian’s. “No, fuck you, nigga,” he said, his tone acerbic. “You a fuckin’ bitch ass, son,” he spat.
Brian’s heart beat heavily as he closed fists at his sides. Fighting was nothing to him, but he’d never fought his boy. “Yo, Ty, back down, son.”
“Or what, nigga?” Ty challenged, decreasing the inches between them.
“Ty,” Brian said, his heart beating faster, “I ain’t tryin’ to beef with you, a’ight? Just step down.”
“Fuck you, nigga. I step down for nobody.”
Brian ground his teeth together, and flared his nostrils. He’d known only bad things were coming. He should have just stayed with Carla.
He looked at Tyrel. They’d had each other’s backs so many times before in the past, yet now here they were, inches and seconds away from going toe-to-toe. Tyrel was the thicker and more relentless of the two, but Brian was the better fighter.
They stared.
Barely breathed.
Seconds passed.
Brian could feel the point of no return coming. The moment when the first punch would be thrown and nothing would ever be the same again. He felt it in the tips of his fingers, along the hairs on the back of his neck.
He closed his fists tighter, his nails digging into the palm of his hands. He’d hit first. But before he could, Will sprang up and backed them both up with his hands.
“Yo, come on. Y’all niggas need to chill.”
Tyrel glared at Brian over Will’s shoulder. “You want some, nigga?”
“Bring it, son,” Brian answered, trying to rush forward.
“Come on,” Will said, pushing them both back again. He looked at Brian. “Yo, B, go home, son. Go home and think or do whatever, a’ight?”
“Yeah, nigga,” Tyrel said. “Go home before you get hurt.”
Brian tried to rush forward.
Will pushed hard against his chest. “Yo, B, Ty. Come on. Y’all are boys!”
“Boys don’t sell one another out,” Tyrel said.
“Ain’t nobody sellin’ you out, man!”
Brian worked his jaw.
Tyrel flexed his chest.
They were two rams on the verge of butting horns.
“Marcus, get off! Ow! Will!”
Will, Tyrel, and Brian looked toward the door. On the other side, Charmaine was crying and yelling at Marcus, and screaming for Will.
Brian let out the breath he’d been holding. Although he didn’t want it to happen, he knew that nothing could happen between him and Tyrel. At least not there. He turned and looked back to Tyrel, who still had his eyes locked on him. My boy, he thought.
This wasn’t supposed to be happening.
Brian unclenched his fists, let his shoulders drop, and without a word, walked out of the room and headed back to Carla’s. He was stressed, and only she could diffuse the bomb ticking inside of him.
10
Deahnna couldn’t believe she was about to do what she was about to do. It was a big step. One she hadn’t thought she’d ever take. At least, not again. Not since she’d all but shut herself down. She never wanted to hurt again, and although she’d only had two negative experiences, the two that she did have had been more than enough for her to decide that she never wanted to venture down the path of pain and unhappiness again. Therefore, relationships, and even the thought of them, were off-limits.
The decision had left her lonely at times, but looking at the big picture, loneliness was far better than the emotional turmoil she’d had to deal with.
But now her toes were teetering on the edge of a cliff, and in seconds, if she actually went through with it, she was going to freefall to an unknown landing that for so long she’d assumed could only be disastrous.
If she went through with it.
Pressing the last digit on her cell phone that would connect her phone to Jawan White’s.
The palms of her hands were slick with perspiration. She took a breath as her heart thumped beneath her chest. “This is ridiculous,” she said to herself. “It’s just a phone call.” She exhaled and wiped her palms on the sweats she was wearing.
Just a phone call.
“That’s all it is.”
She pressed the last digit and immediately freaked out.
What if the call went well? What if the conversation went as smoothly as it had in the gymnasium? What if the call ended with plans for a date? And what if the date went well and led to a second one? And if the second one led to a third, and that third led to an eventual relationship, what then? He would know things, but he wouldn’t know everything, because he couldn’t. So, really, what was the point to all of this? Why set yourself up for failure, for heartache? Chemistry or not, does this really make any sense at all?
She hit the end button, canceling the call, and put the phone down on the bed beside her. “Stupid,” she said. “Just stupid. You know you can’t do this. You know you couldn’t tell him everything about you. Dammit. What were you thinking?” She felt a tear snake from the corner of her eye, and slammed her hand down on her mattress. “Dammit,” she whispered again. “Dammit, Terrance!”
Had she just never let him t
ouch her, she wouldn’t be going through this right now. Had she just never fallen for his bullshit and just waited like she was supposed to. She was only sixteen, for Christ’s sake! All she had to do was wait for the right guy, the right time. She wouldn’t have to deal with the stress, the anxiety. She wouldn’t be a prisoner, locked away from the freedom of love. The freedom she’d seen so many others experience and treasure. Her decision would be easy. The phone call would simply be . . .
She shook her head and frowned as reality hit her.
Without Terrance and without her naivety, the phone call she’d just disconnected would have been nonexistent. And if the call were nonexistent, so too would be her son, and she just didn’t know life without her baby.
She looked down at her phone. Good, bad, and ugly, all things in life happened for a reason. The emotional scarring was hard to deal with and accept at times, but Brian’s existence made it all worth it. “Just a phone call,” she said. “Dammit, Deahnna, just admit it. You felt it.”
She wiped her teary streak away with the back of her hand, and then reached out to grab her phone, when The Jackson 5’s song, “I’ll Be There” suddenly pierced the silence, causing her heart to skip a beat. She grabbed her phone and looked at the caller ID. Brian wasn’t home, and she anticipated that it would be him.
But it wasn’t.
Deahnna froze as she looked at the screen and the phone number lit up in yellow. She was familiar with the number, but only because she’d just dialed it seconds ago.
She stared at the phone in her hand, listening to Michael Jackson at nine years old outsing most currentday singers she knew. The phone felt hot in her palm. Almost electric.
Chemistry, she thought.
It was there. She knew it.
“Put it down,” she whispered. And then she hit the talk button and put the phone against her ear. “He . . .” She paused, cleared a frog from her throat, and said again, “Hello?”
“Uh, hello. Someone just called me from this number,” Jawan said on the other end, caution in his voice.
“Hi, Jawan, it . . . it’s me, Deahnna Moore. Brian Moore’s mother. We met at the school dance.”
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