Miseducated

by Brandon P. Fleming

  We caught the REX bus across town. Stepping out this time, I was Adonis Creed with Barry at my side like Rocky. I had all the entourage I needed. Marquel was in the middle of a game when we arrived and it was impossible to watch anyone else. The way he handled the ball was like a wizard, and his jukes looked like he danced with feet as light as feathers. It was artful. But I was ready to topple him from his throne. I called next.

  As soon as I touched the court, I could hear Barry yelling from the sideline, “Fuck that nigga up!” Marquel and I glared at each other, but we did not speak a word. No greeting. No handshake. No sportsmanship.

  The game began and we went after each other like pit bulls in a ring. Our intensity drove our teammates to pass us the ball on every play. It was as if they cleared the court as the entire gym watched us at each other’s throats. I scored, then he scored. He blocked my shot, then I crossed him over. We went back and forth and back and forth as chants and cheers rose to a deafening level. Then it came down to one final moment. It was game point. Marquel was up, and he had the ball. I crouched low on my toes in defensive stance with my arms outstretched, and our eyes locked. I knew that he wanted to slash toward the basket, so I pivoted one foot in anticipation of his next move. He sprung into a rapid combination of jukes and ball fakes. He started slashing toward the hoop, then suddenly yanked back midway from the basket, creating enough distance between us. He pulled up for a mid-range jump shot. It was nothing but net.

  His friends jumped and ran around the gym yelling, “I told you! I told you!” I stood there, gassed and wallowed in defeat. I felt bad, mostly because I had let Barry down. But before I could approach my brother, Marquel approached me with his hand out. “Much respect, bro,” he said as we dapped each other and hugged. Then he dapped Barry, and we laughed at how serious we took it all. We spent the rest of that day—and most of our high school years—playing together as teammates. Barry, Marquel, and I—along with many of the other guys on the court that day—went on to win championships together. Marquel and I became our own version of Michael Jordan and Scottie Pippen from middle school to high school. The difference between Marquel and me was discipline. Basketball was his lifestyle; it was only my hobby. I was a real nigga first, and a basketball player second. I played the game and played it well. But at the time, basketball was not enough to pull me off of the streets. And it couldn’t keep me from getting in trouble in school. Especially when I turned thirteen and entered the eighth grade.

  “I want him out of this school.”

  The principal didn’t care that his door was open and I could hear the fiery words he shot at Mrs. Pearson, the middle school’s overworked guidance counselor. I’d been thrown out of class for the second time that day and now sat, frowning with arms folded defiantly across my chest, in an all-too-familiar seat in Mr. Johnson’s outer office.

  Mr. Johnson wasn’t the only one who was fed up. Teachers had no idea what to do with me, the menace of junior high. The school resource officers knew my name and kept a wary eye on me, and when I was ejected from class or busted in the hallways, I was passed like a hot potato between the principal, the in-school suspension lady, and Mrs. Pearson.

  There were only a few things that I did not hate about school. Like passing notes to girls in class. I enjoyed watching and waiting as they opened them. A slight smile let me know that I had the green light. I enjoyed treating our five-minute trips from class to class, racing against the tardy bell, like they were adventurous excursions or destination dates. I enjoyed treating the aisle like a runway when I took trips to the pencil sharpener just to flex my new outfit as I looked upon the class with a smirk, thinking, Yeah, y’all see it, don’t you? But there was nothing I enjoyed more than the provocative power I had over the teachers I despised.

  My list of disciplinary infractions was nearly ten pages long and the offenses varied. I touched a teacher in an inappropriate, sexual way. Ordered to leave class and stand in the hallway, I repeatedly jerked open the classroom door and slammed it with demonic force while the teacher was trying to teach. Between classes, I broke the rules in quieter fashion by selling T-shirts and mixtapes out of my locker. More kids were catching on to the knee-length white T-shirt look that Barry and I had brought from New York. When Barry and I made weekend visits to family in the Bronx, we caught the 2 train to Dr. Jays on 125th Street and purchased them in bulk. Back then, they were five dollars each. We brought them to the DMV and sold them like hotcakes for ten dollars a pop. I also sold the mixtapes I recorded at a friend’s house in his makeshift garage studio. He made rap beats on FruityLoops as we ripped off verses about real nigga shit. I was Killa B, and our group name was Royal Fam. We were ready any time another rap group at school wanted to challenge us to a freestyle battle. “Kick the beat,” we’d say to any bystander who could beatbox and drum two pencils on the cafeteria table or hallway locker. Our performances drew crowds of rowdy kids who ignored the bell commanding us to class. We kept rapping until one of my friends ripped a verse about fucking somebody’s mom and a fight broke out, which turned into yet another trip to the principal’s office.

  “I’ve had enough.” I could hear the fury in Mr. Johnson’s voice. “He belongs at Bryant.” This was not good: Bryant was an alternative school, essentially purgatory for teens who seemed to be heading for GEDs at best, or jail at worst.

  “You can’t kick him out,” Mrs. Pearson insisted. “Give me time to figure out what’s going on with him.” She was the only person who cared about what made me this way. Mrs. Pearson talked him down, my sentence was reduced to a suspension, and my mother was once again summoned to retrieve me. Her boss was intolerant because she left work so often for drama that I created. She was livid and embarrassed by it all. Before Mom could yank me away by the ear, Mrs. Pearson asked to have a word.

  They stepped into the counselor’s office, but I could hear their exchange.

  “I’m concerned about Brandon’s mental health,” Mrs. Pearson said. “He’s exhibiting behaviors that just don’t seem right.” Her instincts as a counselor and a mother told her that there was a deeper issue. My apathy was unusual to her. It told her I had nothing to lose, and that I inflicted pain on others because there was a deep-seated pain in my own heart. Mrs. Pearson kept after my mother: “Is something going on at home?”

  Mom was in no mood for psychologizing. “Brandon is just being rebellious,” she said. “He needs to learn how to follow the rules.”

  Mrs. Pearson pressed on. “Well, you know basketball means the world to him. I think it might help if you could attend some of his games.”

  Mom snapped brusquely, “Listen, Mrs. Pearson, I’m a working mother with four kids that I am raising by myself. I appreciate your concern, but Brandon will be fine.”

  “Well, what about his dad? Where is he? Can I talk to him?” Mrs. Pearson asked, still seeking a solution.

  “No,” my mother said, turning on her heel.

  Despite all the drama, I managed to complete the eighth grade and move on to high school. I earned a spot on the summer league varsity team as a freshman, and I became part of a legendary team that drew massive crowds. Our gym was one of the newest and largest gymnasiums in the DC metro area. The ceilings were as high as a cathedral’s. Championship banners adorned the walls. The lofty stands looked too big to fill, yet they were always packed.

  When we played T.C. Williams, Wakefield, West Potomac, and other rivals, the gym overflowed and hundreds of people stood to watch. Most came for the high-level competition, but some were doubtless hoping for a brawl. No matter how crowded the stands were, they always seemed empty to me. None of the parents there were mine. Mom was always out of town for work or at home too exhausted for a weekday game. I envied DeMarkus for having a dad who heckled the refs. When Marquel rolled an ankle, he was mortified because his mother swooped to the rescue like Wonder Woman. I was jealous. I yearned for that paternal passion and motherly concern—but I had neither. The stands were full—but to me, the
y were empty.

  That changed one night when I looked up from my spot on the bench and saw Mrs. Pearson enter the gym. She was the one person who would not let me down. I had left middle school, but she had not left me. The year before, she’d traveled hours to follow my AAU travel team no matter where we played. My heart filled at the sight of her and she was no longer my counselor; she was the living embodiment of someone who loved me. My eyes followed her from the door to the front-row seat she chose, so I’d know exactly where to look. Adrenaline coursed through my veins and I could not wait for Coach to put me in the game so I could make her proud.

  “Brandon!” Coach yelled. “Pay attention or you gon’ stay on that bench. I said go get Shameek.” My time had come. I threw off my warm-ups and dashed to the score table, eager to enter the game. To me, Mrs. Pearson was the only person in the gymnasium, and I could hear her croaky voice rise above the masses.

  “UConn! Run UConn!” Coach shouted. But the minute I touched the ball, everything I knew about the play evaporated. I launched a shot from wherever I stood. And I missed. Then a second, third, and a fourth shot—all missed. I looked in Mrs. Pearson’s direction, fearing disappointment, but she was still smiling. So I kept shooting, and I kept missing. After a final shot fell short, I spiked the ball to the floor and yelled, “Fuck!”

  This triggered a technical foul, Coach summoned me back to the bench, and I didn’t reenter the game. Overwhelmed with shame, I held my head down and shielded my face with a towel. I couldn’t bear to look at my one-woman cheering section.

  “You did such a good job,” she said to me afterward. Her words of comfort temporarily filled the chasm in my heart.

  By the time I started high school, I was already knee-deep in the drug game. I sold dope at school. I went to basketball practice. Then I went home and sold dope in my neighborhood. Once again, it was my sister’s older friends who put me on. Except this time I wasn’t a twelve-year-old kid; I was fourteen. I had two years of quality real nigga experience. I had put in time and earned my stripes. I loved being a hooper, but I fully embraced the thrill of hustling.

  Real niggas smoke dope, fuck bitches, and get money is what I was taught. I was now checking all the boxes. Before I started selling drugs, my merchandising career began with bootlegging. Barry and I sold everything that we could get our hands on. We came to school with backpacks loaded: pirated albums, underground rap tapes, and mix CDs we burned on LimeWire. Throwback jerseys for boys and jersey dresses for girls were major status symbols, and on our weekend trips to New York, Barry and I snagged pirated Mitchell & Ness jerseys on the streets of Harlem. We brought them back home to the DMV and sold them at school for $150 a pop. We advertised by wearing our supply to school and would literally sell shirts off our backs. “Oh, you like this?” I asked when given compliments. “Hundred fifty bucks and it’s yours.” A friend robbed us one time, but he paid his debt after we threatened to kill him. It didn’t take long for us to realize that high schoolers are not the most affluent consumers, so we moved away from selling high-end items to shallow-pocketed teens. We needed to sell something more accessible. Something that everyone wanted and could reasonably purchase. That’s when we entered the drug game.

  Marquel and I had been playing together since seventh grade, so I was furious when Coach tapped him to play regular-season varsity but left me behind on the JV team. I thought it was an insult to my ability. But Coach wanted to prove a point, demanding that I get my act together. Coach had low tolerance for players that seemed too hood. He thought they were trouble and lacked discipline. Some of the best hoopers in our school were denied positions on the team for this reason. Coach favored the student athletes: ones who were college-bound like Marquel and others. Marquel and I were better than most of the guards on the varsity team, and if he deserved to be there, so did I. My AAU coach had even moved me up to the highest level of elite summer travel ball when I was only thirteen years old. But my regular-season coach held me back because my behavior did not match my potential. Even when I played backup point guard for one game on varsity and outscored every player on the team, Coach still sat me back on the bench.

  I was barely academically eligible and Coach received frequent misconduct reports from teachers. Once when I was kicked out of class and sent to the main office, Coach barged into the principal’s study pleading, “Let me deal with him, please. This won’t happen again.” I slouched with my flaccid body draped over the hot seat in the principal’s office, incoherent because I always went to school high. The principal reluctantly agreed, and Coach had a firm grip on my arm when we left the office. “Look at me,” he commanded. “Do you want to throw your damn life away?” he asked, staring into my hazy red eyes. “You keep this up and you’ll become another statistic. You hear me?” But I was impervious.

  He tried talking to me, talking to my mom, and he even tried taking me to church as a last recourse. None of it worked. I loved being a hooper, but I was passionate about being a hustler. And it almost cost my mother her job.

  Dishonorable discharge from the military was my mother’s greatest fear. Time and time again, disgrace had come so close that she’d felt its stony breath on the back of her neck. Yet at the last minute, she’d escape dismissal as if some spiritual protector had bent the barrel of a shotgun that was pointed at her.

  Mom’s ex-husband had once been the biggest threat to her job and our family. Now it was turning out to be me. Her own children—and especially me—constantly threatened her sanity and her career. Her hard work, diligence, and sacrifices could be undone in an instant. If news of my misdeeds reached her commanders and she was discharged, she’d have nothing to fall back on—no formal education, no professional network, no extended family support. The military was our only safety net, and it was becoming severely threadbare.

  Most of our friends were out of school. Sierra’s popularity drew crowds of guys from the DC who drove hoopties and slang dope. Our house became the hang-out spot because Mom was always away on temporary duty assignments. Our home became an underground saloon full of loud music, drugs, and drinking. Sierra’s friends—Que, Keem, Ramel, and Deuce—had already graduated high school a few years ago. They were in their early twenties and they took Barry and me under their wing, calling us “the lil niggas” as a term of endearment.

  One night, we were at Que’s house up the street. We were in the garage and the guys were playing spades and swapping stories about real nigga shit. With each sip of cognac, Que became more oblivious to the fact that we were minors. “Try this, lil nigga, it’ll put some hair on that bare chest of yours,” he said, pouring my first cup of Christian Brothers. I took an ambitious gulp and grimaced in disgust, and the men laughed hysterically and said, “Slow down, lil nigga. That’s gon’ make you a man.”

  Que held the 750 milliliter up in the air and looked at it lovingly. Then he took a swig straight from the bottle, looked at it again, and exhaled from the depths of his chest, “Ahhgg, that’s some good shit,” then he poured more into my cup and told me to stop babysitting my drink.

  I hated the taste. But I dared not show it. They would’ve said “Get your young ass outta here” like I was told when I used to be a bitch nigga. Not today. I had come too far to go back now.

  I remembered overhearing that chasers were for bitches, so I drank the liquor straight. Two cups later, I blacked out. Barry towed my deadweight a quarter mile to our house, his right arm wrapped around my waist and my left arm slung around his neck.

  Everything would have been fine, except on this occasion, Mom was home. It was after midnight and Barry dragged my unresponsive body into the house. He peeked around each dark corner to ensure the coast was clear. He laid me on the couch and tiptoed halfway up the stairs, then craned his neck to confirm that Mom’s door was shut. By the time he returned, I was face-planted in a pool of undigested brandy and hamburger meat. Barry grabbed the mop and bucket and cleaned it all before Mom had a chance to see. Then he carried me upstair
s and put me to bed, hoping that Mom would not suddenly emerge.

  Barry was always the more cautious one. I was careless, fully disregarding all potential consequences of my actions and how they might affect the people around me. My decisions became a threat to everyone within proximity.

  Sierra’s boyfriend Peanut was a drug dealer, and he introduced us to “the game.” High school girls had a thing for adult men with cars and money, which Peanut had. It didn’t matter that he worked at Target and drove a Pontiac—to a seventeen-year-old girl, he was the equivalent of a Wall Street banker.

  Peanut wasn’t the best influence for any of us. He was the reason why my sister eventually got kicked out of our house, and the reason I almost ended up in jail. He did not want me to sell drugs for him at first, but not for any noble reason; he was just afraid that Sierra would break up with him if she discovered that he’d appointed her little brother as his corner boy. But I begged and swore I’d be smart about it, and he reluctantly agreed. “Man, I shouldn’t even be lettin’ yo lil ass do this shit,” he said, sucking his teeth with apprehension.

  I promised him that I was good for it. “Trust me,” I said, “I’m gonna move this shit quickly and bring the cash back to you. How much do I get to keep?”

  His response made it clear that I had put the cart before the horse.

  “Keep?” he exclaimed. “Slow yo happy ass down, lil nigga. Just don’t get caught.”

  We were in Peanut’s empty apartment. There was one couch and a television stand with no television. We sliced a pound of weed into nicks, dubs, and dime bags for distribution. I stuffed it all in a black trash bag and took the pound home after I promised to flip it and report back within a week.