by Paula Chase
“I be back,” Simp said.
A few heads turned as he walked across the room. Mostly dudes from the basketball team, probably wondering what was up. Simp wondered, too. His brain jumped from one thought to another, hoping he hadn’t forgotten to do something, or worse, missed a call. His hand went to his belt loop and palmed the phone. He prayed to himself it hadn’t buzzed while he was sitting there BSing with the squad.
He gave Coach Tez a pound and forced himself to be casual. “What’s up? You want me?”
Coach Tez put his arm around him. “Need talk to you for a taste.” They walked slow, side by side as Coach Tez talked low. Simp lowered his head to hear better. “We got a little unfinished business.”
Simp pulled his phone off his belt. “Did you call me?”
Coach Tez laughed. “Naw, little soldier. You good. I figured you would be here.” His head turned as he watched a girl with leggings gripping her butt walk by. “Back in the day, this was the place to be on Tuesdays. Still is, I see. I see why with shorties walking around with everything out like that.” He clapped his hand once. “But, naw, I got a little business. Let’s hit the shed.”
In a heartbeat his steps were long and fast. Simp kept up, but let Coach Tez lead. He automatically took a seat when they got inside. Coach Tez pulled up the other folding chair. Turning it backward, he straddled it and rested his arms on the chair’s back. “You good?”
Confused, Simp answered cautiously. “Yeah?”
Coach Tez’s laugh was loud in the cold, quiet shed. “That sounded like you asking me. You good?”
“Yeah,” Simp said, confident but still confused. He jumped when the shed door opened with a creaky pop. His head swiveled around in time to see Angel, Coach Tez’s nephew, walk in. Relief flooded his heart. For a second he thought they were being ambushed. The image of him and Coach Tez getting shot up wavered in front of his eyes like a hazy illusion.
Angel sat on the edge of the desk, between their chairs. “My bad, Unc. I got held up. What up, Simp?” He put his fist out for a pound. Simp knocked it gently, then stuffed his hand into the pocket of his hoodie to hide the trembling.
“It’s all right. We just got here,” Coach Tez said. “I was telling Angel about your potential. You think you ready for a little more work?”
Simp looked from uncle to nephew. With their matching light skin and black wavy hair, they could have been brothers. Angel’s swag was on low, but it seemed like that only made people like him more—girls and dudes. He’d always been cool with Simp. Now it seemed like he had Angel’s approval. He processed it all as he nodded, wide-eyed. “Yeah, man. Whatever you need me do.”
Coach Tez grinned. The diamonds in his T flashed at Simp. “Good. I still want you out there working the front for me.” He raised an eyebrow then nodded when Simp indicated he understood. “But I want you do a few things with Angel on the outside.”
Simp’s heart raced. On the outside. Only trusted soldiers got to do anything outside of the Cove. And as far as Simp knew, Angel worked alone. He blinked hard to focus on Coach Tez’s words. “We gon’ see how it work out. If it does, then we can look at letting somebody else take your place out front.”
Simp frowned. “What about Rollie?”
“What about him?” Coach Tez shrugged.
“I mean, I’mma still work the front with him, for now, right?” Simp knew it probably sounded like he was saying he couldn’t do it without Rollie. He held his breath, waiting on Coach Tez to light into him.
Coach Tez flicked his head Simp’s way. “Told you he was loyal. Not trying leave the buddy he got put on with. That’s what’s up.” He gave Simp a long look. “That’s why I know I’m right about you.” He scratched at his eyebrow like he was thinking.
Simp felt like kicking himself for questioning. Backtracking would only make it worse. He quietly sweated it out, not ready for Coach Tez’s proposal.
“Naw, I ain’t trying break y’all up.” He stroked his chin and cocked his head to the right. “But ay, little shorty that was balling with y’all a few days ago. That’s your brother, right?”
“Yeah, Coach,” Simp said. His throat closed in on him so it came out a croak.
They weren’t talking about ’Rauders anymore. Why was Coach asking about Dre?
He leaned back in the chair, not liking the glint in Coach Tez’s eyes.
Coach Tez nodded at Angel. “When I tell you little man is bad, there ain’t no lies in it.” Simp robotically tapped Coach’s outstretched fist. “Shoot, I think he as good as you already, Simp.”
Simp eased at the basketball talk, too fast. No sooner had he answered, “Yeah. He want try out in April if he pass fifth grade,” Coach was back to business.
“He look like he can take care of his self. These runs work out, he might could take your place on the fence.” Mistaking Simp’s openmouthed silence for confusion, he assured him. “Like I said, though, it’s only a few special runs. Nothing permanent. You and Rollie can still hold it down, together, for now. All right?”
It was a question that didn’t need an answer. He got up from the chair and walked back behind the desk, dismissing Simp.
Simp mumbled good-bye and stood out in the cold trying to piece it together. Coach Tez wanted to put Dre on.
Dre had been asking about balling for the Marauders for a minute now. Simp had always told him not to worry about it till he passed fifth grade. Now it was almost here. But the last thing he wanted was to have his brothers in the game. At least not till he had his own crew and could watch out for ’em. And maybe not then.
He tried imagining Dre working a shift. Sitting out near the entrance fence. Whooping out a call if the cops rolled through. Nodding through people in cars that crept into the neighborhood who knew they had no business there but doing business there just the same. That was the game.
He wasn’t ready to think about Dre doing all that. But Coach hadn’t given him a choice.
By the time he got home, the weight of the game was heavy on his shouders. He decided Dre wasn’t ready. He would have to prove to Coach Tez that he could handle the hustle on his own. Once Coach saw that, he wouldn’t need Dre.
Naw, not yet, he thought.
Rollie
Rollie played the song over in his head. He kept getting stuck on the same part. The bridge was a complicated series of rolls that sounded like rain hitting a bunch of tin cans. Pa pat a pat pa pat pa pat. It was the best part of the song because the beat would drop and only the drums held it down. It had to flow just right. But every time he hit that part, his rhythm was off.
Was it pa pat pa pat or pat pat pat pa pat?
He cursed under his breath as he stomped down the hall. He ripped his locker door open. He knew he shouldn’t have hung out with the squad at the rec the other day. That was two hours he could have been listening to the audition song. Two hours that he could have been tapping the beat out, teaching his feet and hands what to do. It was called muscle memory and that only came with practice.
It was too many distractions right now. School, basketball, church choir, the hustle, the squad. Everything bled together.
He stared into his locker, a dim hole with books stacked neatly on a shelf and a black cinch bag with his musty gym uniform on the bottom, and summoned the beat. But it wouldn’t obey.
He clinched his teeth and closed his eyes, willing the beat to infect him like a sneaky virus. Lockers banged shut beside him and rattled open a few feet down. He listened to it until the noises became a song. Then his lids relaxed. He rode the hallway’s sounds. Seconds later, it merged from banging lockers to the pat of the drumline from the audition song, playing clear as a radio.
Mr. B was teaching him how to read and write music so he could capture sounds instead of having to memorize them. Until then, he only had the beat playing faintly in his head.
His hand drummed the locker beside him while his foot tapped an invisible pedal. He kept time to the beat, working to lock it in. He di
dn’t feel the people brushing by him as they moved on to class. It was all about the beat.
Pa pat pa pat. Pa pat pat pat. Pa pat pa pat.
Pa pat pa . . . The beat scattered as a voice beside him called out, “What up, Rollie?”
He cursed to himself, gritted his teeth, hoping against hope whoever it was would just keep it moving. Instead, he heard the clunk as the beat killer leaned against the neighboring locker.
“Ay, yo, what’s good?” it asked again.
The beat retreated like a girl jealous that he’d cut his eyes to watch another female pass by. He shut the locker door, defeated.
Zahveay Jenkins’s face grinned up at him. “What you got in there, son?” He pretended to peer into the slits of Rollie’s locker. “You ain’t even hear me hollering at you. Must be some good stuff.”
Nobody, except maybe Chris, really understood it when he started zoning. Getting mad at them for disrupting was pointless. He let it go and became a reluctant participant in the conversation. “Nah, I couldn’t remember if today was a A or B day. Trying figure out which books to snatch up.”
“Son, I did that last Tuesday and had to pay five dollars to rent a gym uniform.” Zahveay’s eyes rolled. He walked alongside Rollie, nearly arm to arm in the crowd’s swell. They kept pace with the rest of the herd. “They be scamming you for real. Five dollars,” he repeated, like the memory still hurt his pocket. “Ay, so you still with the ’Rauders right?” His words flowed right over Rollie’s blank-faced nod like he already knew the answer. “Righ. Righ. I told Marcus you was. He said he thought you quit. I was like, naw, son, Rollie gon’ ball till he make it.” He imitated a jump shot.
Rollie wouldn’t match Zahveay’s smile. He hated rumors. No matter how small, trouble always followed ’em. What got to him was how even keeping to himself didn’t stop people from assuming, guessing, or straight-up making things up. He infused his voice with steely annoyance. “People need step to the source if they want know. What Marcus asking for?” He glanced out of the corner of his eye at Zahveay, sizing him up.
“Ay, yo, don’t take it wrong.” Zahveay held up his hands in surrender. “You know the Pumas always scoping out the competition. No shade, but I ain’t got no piece of it either way. Ioun live in the Cove no more but I ain’t Del Rio Crossings homegrown.” There was bitterness in his laugh. “So, there it is. Guess he asked me ’cause he knew me and you was cool.”
Rollie stopped dead in the middle of the hallway. The flow behind them stuttered, then peeled around. “Yeah, well, let whoever want know, I’m still down with the ’Rauders. Feeling that?”
Zahveay’s face tensed. “It ain’t like that, man.” His shoulders straightened as he spat, “I ain’t no messenger boy.”
Rollie wanted to point out that he kind of was. He left it alone.
Zahveay had always been that dude that buzzed around like a gnat determined to land on you no matter how much you swatted. When he lived in the Cove he’d flitted in and out, never down with any one set. Rollie didn’t see him as a friend, but he didn’t have nothing against him, either. Then he’d moved to Del Rio Crossings back in sixth grade. There wasn’t no way Zah was tight with Marcus and ’nem after only two years in the Crossings. It didn’t work that way around there. Still, his question felt like somebody poking a hive with a big stick to see if bees still lived there.
Rollie didn’t like it, but he played along. “Marcus already know what kind of whupping in store for him at the J. Martins. He just need be ready for the spanking.”
Zahveay laughed, then took a quick look over his shoulder before lowering his voice. “I hear that. Low-key, you know I’m with the ’Rauders from day one.” His eyebrow cocked high. “But you gotta get in where you fit in. I live in the Crossings now. So . . .” He trailed off then quickly added,“I don’t have beef with nobody. It’s swazy.”
Rollie doubted Zah would ever fit in over in the Crossings. People there had an uneasy and fragile relationship with the Cove, made shakier by feuding basketball teams and wannabe hustlers always trying to claim territory. Zah was right—he didn’t really belong anywhere anymore. But that was Zah’s business. He blinked back any sympathy. “Righ. Do what you got to.”
“All day. Later, son,” Zahveay said, his hand out for a pound.
Rollie barely tapped back, then watched as Zah blended into the crowd. Next thing he knew Simp was beside him, snarling, “Was that Zahvee? What he want?” He cupped his hand making a C. “All about that Cove, boy,” he hollered at the dot that had been Zah seconds before.
“Snooping for the Pumas,” Rollie said, not bothering to correct Simp on pronouncing the dude’s name. Simp had never liked Zahveay. Calling him out his name was the level of disrespect he probably wanted to show. He sliced through the crowd to their classroom, Simp on his heels, questioning.
“Zahvee hooping with the Pumas now? That fool can’t ball.” His frown wrinkled deeper at Rollie’s shrug. “What did he think you was gon’ tell him?”
“He asked was I still playing, that’s all,” Rollie said, hoping Simp would pick up on how much he didn’t care.
Simp only got more hyped. His desk skittered several inches as he slammed himself into the seat. “Why he want know? And hell yeah, you still playing.” His eyes shot to the front of the room, checking for the teacher before going on. “Why would anybody wonder if you on the team? What? They questioning if you still down with ’Rauders?”
With Simp everything was about being with or against somebody. Either you were for the Cove or against it. With the ’Rauders or against them. On Tez’s team or not. Rollie slid into the desk beside Simp and tried to look bored. “Son, it’s Zahveay.” He put his hands up like c’mon. “You know Zah always looking for somebody to be down with.”
Simp’s eyes questioned, wanting more answers than Rollie had time or desire to give. The wrinkle in his brow eased, then appeared again as he thought it over. Finally, he sucked his teeth. “I ain’t never like dude no way. Now he over at Del Rio Crossings probably telling whatever he know about ’Rauders.”
Rollie chuckled. “That ain’t much since he wasn’t on the team.”
“That probably ain’t gon’ stop him from jawing,” Simp said.
“I told him tell Marcus get ready for dat spanking,” Rollie said.
Simp cackled loud. “I know that’s right. Run tell dat,” he hollered out to the air. “Don’t be trusting that punk. Look at him, low-key messenger boy.” He snorted in disgust.
Their tech ed teacher’s demand for quiet forced an end to the conversation. Time to build something.
Rollie let the encounter go and was ready to politely pay attention to Ms. Pumphrey’s take on how to use a T square, until the demo beat slithered into his ear. Pa pat pat. And just like that, it was back spreading into his brain forcing his fingers to tap. Rollie gave into it, schoolwork forgotten.
By the end of the day, the beat was finally ingrained in his head. He had to practice it. The thought of that night’s basketball practice was a breezy whisper. Maybe he could make it. Maybe he couldn’t.
The beat. He had to practice the beat. His legs couldn’t move fast enough to meet Mr. B in the studio.
Rollie stood inches shy of the narrow window cut into the door and listened to the music floating from behind the studio door. He hated when people stuck their faces in it and gawked. He’d definitely peeked into the dance rooms before, but it made sense to watch dance. People didn’t need to peek into the music studios to hear what was going on.
From behind the door, the beat crested, rolled, then hit another peak. Somebody was going H.A.M. on the drums. He shifted so one eye could see through the window. Mr. B’s black power fist bobbed furiously in his thick afro as his head nodded to each drum crash. In contrast, his hands moved smoothly, tapping each beat.
Lost in it, Rollie leaned into the door. It swayed open. He considered running away but the movement had caught Mr. B’s attention. “Come on in,” he said.
/> “My bad. I didn’t mean to interrupt you,” Rollie said. He took a baby step inside. “If you busy, I just see you tomorrow during TAG.”
Mr. B cuffed the drumsticks on his lap. “Nope. You got it. What’s on your mind?”
“My mother gave me permission to audition for TRB.”
“Yes, she did.” Mr. B laughed. “It took me a good hour to read through her whole e-mail of questions.”
Rollie’s face blazed. “Yeah. I mean, it’s more my grandmother than her. She still not sure it’s legit.”
Mr. B nodded, unbothered.
Rollie took a seat in front of the drums. The room was dim except two lights above the drum set. He loved it here. He belonged here. He didn’t want to leave.
“I was hoping I could practice the audition song,” Rollie said. He shrunk and prayed Mr. B said yes. He’d already missed the bus. And still didn’t know how he was getting home.
“Good idea. Your mother know you staying after?” Mr. B asked. He slid effortlessly from behind the drums. “I think question number five was, could I send her the days you’d be rehearsing.”
Rollie rolled his eyes. That was definitely G-ma’s question. Just trying make sure he didn’t miss choir.
“Having protective parents isn’t the worst thing in the world,” Mr. B said. “Not even close to the worst.”
“I guess. But no, they don’t know I’m here. I’m supposed to be at basketball practice, for real,” Rollie said with a sigh. “But I need to get this beat outta my head. I mean, not out of my head because I need it in my head. But I need to practice. I—”
“I understand.” Mr. B flicked his head at the drums. “Go on. Get in a warm-up. Then I’ll tape you and we can go over what needs work.”
Rollie was up and behind the drums in seconds. As soon as he sat down, his phone buzzed hard, four times in a row.
“Why don’t you check that. In case it’s your mom or grandmom,” Mr. B said. “That’ll give me time to set up to record.”