by K'wan
“Same old Neighborhood.” Face laughed, while peeling him off two twenties.
“Ain’t nothing changed with me, baby. For as long as the neighborhood stays the same, so will Neighborhood.” He capped before vanishing into the hustle and bustle of the Avenue.
Face took his time walking down the block, as he had a lot to process before he saw Monk. He was trying his best not to digest what Neighborhood was telling him, but it made sense as he thought about it. A week or so prior when Face had been in the Heights, Flaco had offhandedly asked about Monk. Face hadn’t paid it any mind when it happened, but in light of recent information he was forced to reevaluate everything. Though Face hadn’t taken anything from Flaco, Monk was his partner so it looked bad on both of them.
Face and Monk and had been making money hand over fist over the last few years from selling cocaine and crack. Face was hustling under Neighborhood; it was strictly coke. Neighborhood and some of the other cats didn’t want to bother with crack because they looked at it as a poor man’s drug. To them, smoking lacked the elegance of snorting, but Face saw it differently. He predicted that crack would spread like wild fire and he was right. It started in the hood, decimating households and breaking up families, but it eventually spread. Dudes who were once on top of their game were now walking around like zombies, selling their jewelry or whatever they could get their hands on for a hit of crack. Nobody was exempt, including the white kids who were once buying grams of cocaine in clubs bathrooms. They were now buying boulders of crack for half the price and double the blast. It soon got to a point where people from all walks of life now flocked to urban ghettos to pay homage to the new king of the slums . . . the crack man.
Face heard his friend before he spotted him. Monk’s voice boomed from the basketball court, shouting profanities to get his point across. It was chilly out, but he still had his shirt off wearing nothing but sweatpants, Nikes, and a white du-rag. Steam came off his coal-black chest as his hot sweat met with the cold air. His every movement was primal, dribbling the ball awkwardly between his legs, glaring at the other young men on the court, challenging one of them to guard him. All ignored the challenge, except for one young man by the name of Rafik.
Rafik was a schoolboy and only came outside to go to the store for his mother or play basketball. He occasionally sat out on nice nights to sip a few beers or smoke weed, but other than that he didn’t normally play the block.
Monk dribbled hard to the hoop and as he passed Rafik, he slammed his elbow into the man’s gut hard enough to drop him. “Shaq style, nigga,” Monk snarled, bouncing the ball hard on the ground for emphasis.
“Damn, you a butch,” Rafik said, picking himself up off the ground.
Monk stopped his dribbling and turned toward the kid. “What you just call me?”
“Chill, Monk, he didn’t mean nothing by it,” Scooter intervened. He was one of the young boys who hustled and did dirt with Monk.
“Nah, let the nigga speak his mind.” Monk pushed Scooter to the side and confronted Rafik. “What did you say?”
Rafik was clearly nervous, but he didn’t want to seem like a punk in front of everyone who had been watching the pickup game. “All I’m saying is, you be out here abusing niggas on the court. I didn’t mean nothing by it; learn how to take a joke.”
“You know what, you’re right. I do take things too seriously sometimes and I need to learn how to laugh more,” Monk said before hitting Rafik in the face with the ball and busting his nose. “See, now that shit was funny!”
The whole park erupted in laughter as Rafik stood there with his nose leaking like a broken pipe. Face had seen enough, so he stepped in. “Monk, you bugging.” He got between his friend and Rafik. “You good?” he asked Rafik. He simply nodded and walked off in shame. Before he left the park he glared behind him at Monk who was still laughing. If looks could kill, Monk would’ve dropped dead.
“Pussy!” Monk called after him.
“Cut that shit out, man. You supposed to be a boss and you acting like the schoolyard bully.” Face slapped his friend’s palm in greeting.
“I don’t know how they do it on your side of Seventh Avenue, but on this side the strong survive. I keep the fear of God in these nigga to squash any big ideas,” Monk told him. “What you doing up this way? I thought you’d be out in Bellport at the Country Club or something,” he joked.
“Knock it off, acting like the hood don’t still pump through my veins. I just like to keep a little lower profile, unlike yourself. I hear you been pretty busy lately.”
“Where you hear that?” Monk asked.
Face shrugged. “Streets are talking.”
“That ain’t new. Streets been talking since the beginning of time, which is why snitching is at an all-time high,” Monk shot back.
About then Persia, Li’l Monk, and their crew came into the park with the bags full of candy they’d brought from the store. Monk kissed Persia on the top of her head and greeted his son with a jab to the chest, staggering him.
“You know the rules, protect yourself at all times,” Monk reminded him and threw another jab. This one Li’l Monk blocked and came back with a combination. “That’s my li’l soldier.” Monk rubbed the top of his head. “Go grab Daddy’s hoodie off the bench; it’s getting chilly out here.”
“Okay,” Li’l Monk said and skipped off to retrieve Monk’s hoodie. When he picked it up off the bench, a small handgun fell out of the pocket. The other kids wisely backed up, but Li’l Monk scooped the gun up and wrapped it in the hoodie as if it were normal.
“Boy, what the hell is wrong with you?” Face snatched the hoodie and gun from Li’l Monk and shoved it in Big Monk’s chest. “Don’t you know that loaded guns are not toys? They’re dangerous.”
“Uncle Face, why you bugging? My daddy showed me how to handle a gun. I even help him clean them sometimes,” Li’l Monk said innocently.
Face looked to Monk for an explanation, but he just shrugged. All Face could do was shake his head. “Y’all go play over there so the grownups can finish talking.” He shooed them away. When they were out of earshot he turned his attention back to Monk. “Is everything good between you and Flaco?” He was frustrated now and wanted to get right to the point.
“That wetback muthafucka been talking about me? Flaco out here kicking dirt on my name?” Monk immediately got defensive.
“Monk, you need to chill. Flaco ain’t said nothing about you to me, I’m just asking if everything is all good between y’all?” Face explained.
Monk searched his face for signs of deception. When he saw none he managed to relax a bit. “Ya man Flaco had fronted me something and I got burned for it on the street, so I owe him a little change.”
“Monk, you know the rules. We pay for what we get. We don’t play consignment,” Face said disappointedly.
“Some of us play differently than others, Face. I’m in the streets with it, B, sometimes shit happens and we have to move accordingly. That’s how it works when you’re on the ground floor and not watching from the sidelines.”
Face didn’t miss Monk’s slick tone when he said it, but he let the slight go. “Monk. You been my ace since we was kids and you always gonna be my ace, whether you’re right or wrong. All I’m really trying to break down to you is that it’s important for all of us to keep business relationships good so that everybody keeps eating.”
Monk didn’t want to admit it, but Face had a point. He knew if things went sour between him and Flaco it’d be fucking both their pockets up and that wasn’t honorable. “You right, Face. I’m gonna make it right with Flaco this week.” He gave Face a pound and hug to seal the deal. “Yo, walk with me to the store. Playing ball with these young boys got my mouth dry as hell.”
The two men started toward the park exit, talking among themselves. When they got the mouth of the park, Persia called Face back. Monk kept walking while he met Persia near the fence.
“Daddy, if you’re going to the store can you br
ing me something back?” Persia asked.
“Girl, didn’t you just come from the store?”
“Yeah, but I forgot to get something to drink. Can you bring me a soda?” she asked in her sweetest voice.
“No, you can have a juice,” Face countered. He and Persia stood near the fence haggling about soda versus juice when Face heard the rapid slapping of feet on the sidewalk behind him. He turned around and saw a man rushing toward him with a gun raised. His lips were pulled back into a sneer, showing the space in the front of his mouth where his teeth used to be. The man shouted something, but it was distorted, as if the world had slowed down. Face looked over his shoulder at Persia, whose eyes were locked on the gunman. Not in front of my baby girl, was all Face could remember thinking before everything went black.
When Face got his wits back about him, he was being thrown roughly on the ground and having his arms forced behind his back. For a few seconds he was confused about what was happening until he saw the cold, dead eyes of the gunman, staring at him from a few feet away where his body lay. When the police yanked him to his feet he was able to really take in the scene.
The shooter was stretched out with two holes in his chest. Face would find out later that the man he’d shot was the boy he’d made Monk spare five years prior. Tim had come back seeking revenge for Sonny. The officers kneeling around Tim’s body were holding two guns, one a .32 and the other was the .44 Bulldog Face carried with him religiously. He didn’t need the police to tell him what had happened, and he didn’t need a trial to know that he was fucked. A few feet away Persia screamed frantically, while Monk tried to keep her from the crime scene. Face’s heart broke into a million pieces when he saw his daughter hysterical. Knowing he was going to prison for a very long time didn’t hurt him half as much as the thought of him letting her down.
“It’s gonna be okay, Persia!” he called to her, as the officers shoved him toward the car. “You hear Daddy talking to you? It’s gonna be okay! Persia! Persia . . . Persia!”
PART 2
THE PRINCESS AND THE PAUPER
CHAPTER 4
2007
“Persia . . . Persia!”
Persia woke from her sleep with a start. Her heart beat so hard in her chest that she felt a mild headache coming on from the overflow of blood to her brain. Her fingers gripped the sweat-soaked sheets so tightly that she had broken a nail. The haze was slow to roll back from Persia’s brain, as she looked around expecting to see a Harlem street corner, but instead found floral-papered walls lined with pictures and awards from school. Standing in the doorway with a worried expression on her face was her mother, Michelle.
“Are you okay, Persia? I was coming to wake you up for school when I heard you screaming,” Michelle asked in a concerned tone.
“I’m fine, Mom,” Persia said, pushing her sweat-dampened black hair out of her brown face.
“Are you sure? You look kind of pale.” Michelle sat on the edge of the bed and placed her hand on Persia’s forehead.
Persia pulled away. “Yeah, it was just a bad dream.”
“The nightmares back?” Michelle recalled the horrible nightmares Persia had suffered from for years after what had happened that day. “How long?”
“Not like before when I was having them almost every night, maybe for a week or two, off and on,” Persia told her.
“When you used to get them the doctors said it was stress that was likely causing them; maybe the adjustment of transferring to a new school is what’s causing them. I’m sure if we spoke to Father Michael at St. Mary’s he’d let us transfer you back.”
“No, mom. I’ve been in Catholic school all my life and its driving me crazy. This is my last year of high school and I want to enjoy it wearing my own clothes instead of a uniform, and hanging out with my friends instead of a bunch of white girls,” Persia fumed.
“Persia, you know we don’t see color in this house,” Michelle reminded her. “Besides, you’ve got plenty of friends at St. Mary’s. Sarah and Marty go there too and for as much time as you spend together I thought you guys were close.”
“We are close, Mom, but that’s because we’ve lived a block away from each other since forever. I mean my other friends.”
Michelle twisted her lips. “You mean them little fast girls from Seventh Avenue.”
“Mommy, don’t act like that. We’re from Seventh Avenue too, we just don’t live there anymore,” Persia shot back.
“Yes, but even when we did live over that way we always carried ourselves to a certain standard and made sure that you grew up with principles, which is more than I can say for your little friends.”
“Mom, I know some of the girls from the neighborhood are a little wild, which is why I only really hang out with Karen and Meeka.”
Michelle sucked her teeth. “Chile, please! Karen has been a fast ass since she came into the world and don’t even get me started on that Meeka. Didn’t I hear recently that she was tied up in some kind of murder?”
“That is not true. Meeka didn’t do anything, but she knew the dude who did, which is why they questioned her,” Persia defended.
“Still, I don’t know if those are the type of girls I want you hanging around. They’re a bad influence.”
“Only weak-minded people are influenced by the actions of others, isn’t that what you’ve always taught me?” Persia reminded her. “C’mon, Mom, you know me better than that. Just because my friends are doing something doesn’t mean I’ll do it. Look at April from down the street. Her parents had to check her into rehab because she was doing hardcore drugs, but me, Sarah, and Marty never tried it and we all hung out together. I have my own mind, Mom, and you’re going to have to learn to trust me to make smart decisions.”
“I know, baby. It’s just hard for me to let you grow up and grow out because of everything we’ve been through,” Michelle admitted.
Persia crawled to her knees on the bed and draped her arms around Michelle’s neck. “I know, Mommy, but I promise I’ll stay focused on school and avoid things I have no business being a part of.” She kissed her on the cheek. “Now get out so I can get dressed. I don’t wanna be late for school.”
“Girl, cut it out. It ain’t like I’ve never seen your goodies before.” Michelle laughed.
“Mother, I am seventeen now, which means that I don’t have goodies anymore, I have woman parts,” Persia said dramatically.
“You’re a riot, Persia. Now hurry and get dressed so you can come down and eat breakfast.” Michelle left her daughter to her privacy.
Persia hopped out of bed and went into her private bathroom get her day started. After brushing her teeth and showering she came out wrapped in towel. She was standing with one foot on the stool to her vanity table, applying lotion to her smooth brown skin when she happened to catch a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She dropped the towel and admired her body. Persia had always had a nice shape, but never much to fill it out until over the past summer when she had suddenly gotten thick in all the right places. It didn’t go unnoticed by the boys in her old neighborhood either. All of her the girls in her crew were pretty, but there was something about Persia that always made her the first choice whenever they met guys. Persia didn’t understand it back then, but later in life she would realize that it was her innocence that made her stand out. Karen and Meeka stunk of the streets, and Persia didn’t have that with her. This quality, coupled with being naturally beautiful, made her loved by some and hated by others.
After rubbing herself down with lotion she slipped on a pair of black fitted jeans and grey Air Max with a grey sweater that showed off her shape. She didn’t really do makeup, but she hit her eyelids with a soft shadow and applied a coat of gloss to her lips. Rolling her hair into a tight bun, she was ready to face the world.
By the time Persia made it downstairs Michelle and Richard were already halfway through breakfast. Richard was Michelle’s husband and Persia’s stepfather. He was an older man, but still handsome and
very fit for his age. Richard spent countless hours at the gym. Richard and Michelle had known each other for years, with him being a friend of one of her uncle’s. They had always flirted with each other, but never took it beyond that because of the age difference between them, and when Michelle did become of age, she was already with Face. They happened to bump into each other one day, two years into Face’s sentence, and exchanged numbers. They had started out as friends but over time their friendship grew into a marriage. Persia was initially resentful of her mother and Richard’s relationship, because she felt like she was being disloyal to her father, but as she got older she began to get a better understanding of their circumstances. Richard was only filling the void in her mother’s soul that her father had left. She couldn’t fault her mother for wanting to live, so she learned to accept Richard. He was a boring square, nothing like kinds of men Persia heard her mother was known to date, but he was good to them. Richard had been in Persia’s life since she was seven and though she wasn’t his biological child he still treated her as if she was, without ever once acting like he was trying to take her real dad’s place.
“Hey, sweetie, how did you sleep?” Richard asked, without looking up from the newspaper he had his nose buried in.
“Like a baby,” Persia lied and busied herself rummaging through the fridge. She came out with an apple and a bottle of water.
“Girl, put that fruit back and stop acting like you don’t see these grits and eggs on the table.” Michelle pointed to the plate she had made for Persia.
“Mom, you know if I eat that stuff it’ll all go to my hips and my butt will end up as big as yours,” Persia teased her.
“Baby girl, I don’t get any complaints about this big ol’ booty.” Michelle slapped herself on the ass.
“I sure don’t have any,” Richard chimed in.
Persia shook her head. “Y’all are so corny. Anyway, I’m about to get out of here so I can catch this bus to the train station.” She grabbed her knapsack from the banister where she’d left it the day before and headed for the door.