by Paula Chase
The whole thing ran Simp hot at their mother. She acted like just because she went to work every day to pay rent and buy groceries, that her job was done. Like he wasn’t out there making scrilla and bringing it home, too. But he ain’t never get to escape. Why should she?
He couldn’t say all that, though. Dre was upset, but he was also a momma’s boy. Their mother could find out any and everything they’d all said while she was gone by sweet-talking him.
“You know how moms is,” was all Simp would say.
It wasn’t a defense. It wasn’t even no excuse. It was just the truth. He didn’t have no promises to make to Dre. Except . . .
“Look, you keeping your grades up right?” he asked.
Dre’s mouth pooched like he had no idea what that had to do with anything, but he answered, “Yeah.”
“All right, that mean you can try out for ’Rauders in the spring. Coach said I can bring you to a practice. Let you work out with the team. All right?”
Later, all Simp could think about was how Dre’s eyes had lit up. He hadn’t thanked Simp or even responded to him. But he’d gotten up, grabbed a game controller, and invited Derek to play Crown Battle. A fighting game their mother hated. She said it was too violent. But she wasn’t there, was she?
That’s what it was.
They was all just trying to get by.
Rollie
The hits kept coming.
A kick. A punch.
Rollie weaved as flames flew over his head. He charged and stunned his opponent with a blue streak of power. With a few seconds to spare, he reached in for the kill. His impossibly huge muscles rippled with the effort.
He kept up the pressure—kick, kick, jab.
“Son, you got him. You got him,” Simp said. He paced beside the couch. “Finish him.”
Rollie blocked out the sounds of real life and became the hulking character on the screen. He slid across the arena, fury in his eyes and his limbs, pummeling his opponent until two huge letters floated on the screen: KO.
“Ahhhh man,” Chris yelled. His character, a burly green-faced giant with a lion’s mane, fell to the ground defeated.
“Yessssss,” Simp howled. “You merked him.” He dapped Rollie up. “Get those weak moves outta here, yo. Rollie whipped that ass.”
Rollie and Chris slid their hands and gripped at the end. “Good game. You almost had me, though,” Rollie said. He brought his voice down, trying to signal to Simp to chill. Chris’s mom wasn’t home but Chrissy was. She probably thought they were down here fighting for real the way Simp was going off.
Simp stabbed at the television, voice still bassing. “He ain’t almost have nothing. You owned him.”
The game controller hung lazily in Chris’s hand as he dangled it in Simp’s general direction. “Show and prove, then.”
Simp snatched it and kept jawing. “You ain’t said nothing, partner.”
Rollie stood up and stretched. “I need a break. Here.” He handed his controller to Chris. “Y’all two get at it.”
He met Simp’s confused gaze with a shrug as he took a seat off to the side of the sofa. He knew Simp probably didn’t want to play Chris again. They’d been having a good time, chilling and playing the game, until Chris had beat Simp. Ever since, Simp had poured all his energy into being Rollie’s personal cheerleader. Rollie had only beaten Chris by concentrating like his life depended on winning. The whole thing gave him a headache. Now he regretted not asking Simp why he had wanted to come along.
Chris was cool peoples. Simp’s determination not to get along with him made Rollie feel like a referee. It was played out. He was glad when Chrissy came down the stairs. She was tall and thin and kept her hair in a fat, high bun that made her look taller. She was the total opposite of her brother, who was built thick like he had recently lost weight and was about Rollie’s height. For being twins they barely looked alike except their almond brown skin and large, round brown eyes.
He liked Chrissy. She wasn’t loud like Metai or ready for every fight like Mo, but he’d seen her carry Tai with a simple comeback without ever raising her voice. That was another way her and her twin were alike. But if Rollie was honest, he liked her because Mila liked her. And he trusted Mila. Plain and simple.
In the Cove trust was everything.
“What’s up, Christol,” he said, happy for the distraction.
“Hey,” she said, with a polite smile that brightened when she looked at Simp. “Hey, Deontae. You know you owe me one more Pong lesson, right?”
“We need hurry up and get this stupid bet over with,” Simp said, practically growling. He gave Rollie an exasperated look. “We gonna be having practice every day till the ’Peake. It’s gonna be hard for me keep doing this.”
“So, you talking to me or Chrissy?” Rollie asked, annoyed.
“Just saying,” Simp said.
“Dang, you called the bet stupid,” Chrissy said, hands on her hips. “Boy, this for bragging rights up in here. This bet is for real, for real.”
Rollie was glad Simp had the good sense to look embarrassed. His respect for Chrissy went up another notch.
“The bet is stupid,” Chris said with an eye roll. “But I’m just waiting on y’all. We can do it whenever.”
Simp stood up and dropped the controller on the couch. Rollie reluctantly readied himself to roll out with him.
“Ay, Chrissy, let’s head to the rec to practice then,” Simp said. “Ain’t no difference in me whipping up on him on this game or teaching you to do it in Ping-Pong.”
“Now?” Chrissy asked. A tiny smile dimpled her cheeks.
Simp nodded. “Might as well.”
“Let me get my shoes on,” Chrissy said.
Simp walked over and knocked fists lightly with Rollie. “All right. I holler later.” He camped out by the door. His head was too deep in his hoodie for Rollie to see his face, but he knew Simp was mad. Lately, he always was.
For the last week, Rollie had worked harder to make practices. On time. On top of that, he had even stayed thirty minutes longer last time they worked the front. It had made him late for choir rehearsal and he’d heard it from his grandmother that whole night. All so Simp could stop checking on him and his “loyalty.” And none of it mattered.
If anything, Simp had been even more intense at practice, calling extra drills and correcting people’s form like he was the coach. Dude was turning into Tiny Tez. It took everything for Rollie not to call him out. But once practice was over he’d go home, pull up a clip of his audition piece, and air drum until his limbs ached from the effort. Basketball was basketball. Music was music. He wasn’t letting one interfere with the other anymore. Keeping them apart was his new hustle.
His jaw gripped as Chris kept things going.
“Don’t forget this y’all last practice,” he said.
“Man, I know,” Simp said, yelling.
At some point, Rollie would have to jump in to chill it out even though this wasn’t his fight. And jumping in would only start a new beef or worse.
Simp had a good three or four inches on Chris. But Chris had at least twenty pounds on Simp. Simp could throw hands, for sure. But, Rollie had a feeling if it got physical, it would be a draw. He wished Chrissy would hurry up. He pretended to be checking messages on his phone as Chris baited Simp.
“Just making sure you know.” Chris smirked. “I mean, I’m up for it if you want us just get the game over with now. But if you think one more practice gonna do something—”
“Son, you not that good. Trust, I got this. She gonna beat you,” Simp said. His hands were sunk so deep in his hoodie pocket that Rollie could see the imprint of his fists.
Thankfully, Chrissy came stomping down the stairs. She joined the conversation like it had hung in the air paused. “And for your information, Chris, I am getting better.” She looked at Simp for confirmation.
“I already told him you got this,” Simp said.
“Then what you need one more practi
ce for?” Chris asked. He turned his face back to the TV and scrolled through the characters.
“’Cause you gave us three pun . . . ” For a beat Simp was silent. When he started talking again, his body was more relaxed like he’d clicked some button. “The bet was I could get her to beat you with only three practices. So, what? You want change the rules or back out now?”
Chris laughed. “It ain’t even that serious. Be home before Momma, Chrissy.”
She waved, unfazed, and grabbed Simp by the wrist. A cold draft rushed in as they opened the door on the darkening day. It lingered around Rollie’s feet long after the door was shut.
“Man, your boy gots no chill,” Chris said. He nodded to the controller Simp had left. “We still playing?”
Rollie eased over to the sofa and picked up the chunk of plastic. It was warm in his hands. His fingers rolled over the raised buttons. Chris hadn’t asked him a question, but he had just dissed Simp. It felt wrong leaving it out there.
“Nah, he got chill. He just don’t like you, son,” he said.
Chris’s loud laughter infected him. They scrolled through the screen, setting up the next game, their laughter melting away the weight that had pushed Rollie into the floor.
“I ain’t even tripping over it,” Chris said. “But since we talking real, I need ask you something.” He locked eyes with Rollie. “Is your boy in the dope game?”
Rollie’s face went hot. He cupped at his chin like he was pulling at a thatch of hair and forced himself to frown. “Why you asking?”
Chris held his gaze one more second then talked at the television. “’Cause I ain’t stupid and it seem like my sister like that knucklehead.” He shook his head. “I don’t know why, but she do. She always saying how nice he is and how he funny.”
Rollie happily let Chris talk on until his words could catch up with his thoughts.
“I ain’t trying have my sister caught up with no dude who trappin’.” Chris sighed. “Look, yo, I ain’t trying preach on you or whatever. He your buddy and what he do—that’s his business. But once this bet over, my sister don’t need be spending time with him. I don’t want nothing pop off and she caught in the middle.”
“I know you and him don’t get along, but for real, Simp the most loyal dude I know,” Rollie said. The truth in that made him feel bad for how desperately he’d wanted to shove Simp out the door to prevent him and Chris from getting into it. Because he knew that if he had to choose, right then and there, he would have been on Chris’s side. He would have sided against his best friend.
The thought made him sick.
He sat up until he was on the edge of the couch. He couldn’t make Chris like Simp. He didn’t even care about that anymore. But he couldn’t let Chris think Simp was dangerous. “Keeping it one hundred, I think he don’t like you ’cause he not sure he can trust you, yet. It’s just how he is.”
Rollie saw Chris thinking it over. “When he gets to know you, he has your back. Chrissy be all right with him.”
“Cool. But you still ain’t say if he trappin or not.” When Rollie went silent, Chris let him off the hook a little. “We only known each other a minute and Simp been your boy. So, I’m probably out of pocket. But that’s my sister. Know what I’m saying?”
Once again, his wide brown eyes fixed on Rollie, waiting for an answer. An answer Rollie couldn’t give him. He had never admitted to anybody that he was one of Tez’s dough boys. Never. He’d come close with Tai once, only because she brought it up every other conversation. She was fascinated with it and made it clear it was cool with her if he was. But Tez had been a good teacher. He didn’t talk about the hustle with anybody not in the game.
It wasn’t that people didn’t suspect. But suspicions were like opinions; everybody had one. It definitely wasn’t something you just asked somebody. Not even about somebody else.
“I hear you. But if you want know something about Simp, you need ask him,” Rollie said, forcing the words out over his drying mouth. He gathered the last ounce of courage he had to meet Chris’s intense gaze. “Know what I’m saying?”
A hardness came over Chris’s face that Rollie had never seen before. He wanted to take his words back. Wanted to go back to the first time they’d met and realized they had music in common. He was lying to Chris, and somehow Chris knew it.
In the next instant, Chris’s face was blank. “You right. That’s on me.”
He looked straight ahead at the screen. His fingers clicked a button on the controller and the television growled, “Fight.”
Rollie woodenly obeyed.
Simp
Chrissy was pushing up against him.
Simp pressed in, wanting to explore. She raised her arm to serve the ball and the roundness of her butt pulled away, just enough to make Simp want to jerk forward and close the gap. Then just as quickly, she hit the ball and was back on him pressing gently but enough to—
His mother’s voice yanked him out of the dream.
“Deontae. Deontae, get up.”
He sat up, half his mind still in the dream, and slammed his back against the headboard to jolt himself into the present. The tension in his groin was so tight no way his mother didn’t see the tent in his sheet. How long had she been standing there? Had he been moaning? A mixture of anger and guilt gave him the courage to yell back, “I’m up, Ma. Dang.”
He just wanted her yapping to stop. Calling his name like it was going out of style or something.
“Don’t you cuss at me, boy,” she said, determined to get the upper hand in an argument he didn’t feel like having. He didn’t hear anger in her voice. He took his chances and lipped back.
“‘Dang’ ain’t cussing. Did you wake me up just to fight with me?”
“No. I need talk to you,” she said.
Simp picked up his phone, staring at the time. “It’s only eight o’clock, Ma. Dang.”
She pursed her lips. “I know that. It’s important, Deontae. Meet me downstairs.” She took a step then paused, eyes narrowed. “You can go back to your little nasty dream later.”
Her laughter rang in the narrow hallway.
Simp threw the sheets off. His mother was wild. He wouldn’t have been able to go back to the dream if he wanted to now. He pulled on a T-shirt and quietly made his way down the stairs.
The smell of bacon pulled him the rest of the way. Every seat at the rickety fake wood table was open, but he sat in his seat—the only chair with its back to the kitchen wall. From there he could see if anyone came through the kitchen’s back door or the living room’s front door. Only suckers sat with their backs to a door.
His mother was at the stove, nudging at the bacon in the frying pan.
“What’s up, Ma?” He fought a yawn and swiped at random locs spilling into his face. Getting him up early was one thing, but his mother was cooking. He wondered how much she wanted this time.
Sure enough, she turned on the sugar and her voice lost its usual sharp edge.
“It’s about your brothers.”
What was he ready to be blamed for now? A bad grade? Did somebody get into a fight at school? He clamped his mouth shut. If he was gonna get blamed for something, she was just gonna have to lay it out.
His mother’s smile became a dissatisfied tight line. She gave him another second but Simp remained quiet. She rolled her eyes, snatching a piece of bacon out of the pan and slapping it onto a paper towel. “Look, Deontae, Dre old enough to start playing for Tez. And Dom is close.”
Again, she stopped, as if waiting on him to magically fill in the blanks. All Simp would offer was, “Yeah.”
“Yeah,” she spit back. “So, you’re the captain this year. The captain holds weight on who might be on the come up.” Her free hand clamped down on her hip. “Are you going to put your little brothers on?”
It smacked him in the face to hear her use the words “put on.” If all she wanted Dre to do was get out the house, he could have been playing for the Cougars years ago. He didn
’t need to be “put on” to nothing just to play ball.
This wasn’t about no basketball.
A few seconds before, the greasy smell of bacon had him thinking of slapping it between two slices of toast. Now it made him want to open a door and let in some air.
“Dom too young. He only nine. Plus, you gotta be in sixth grade,” he said, unable to look at her.
She waved the fork, like a wand. “But Dre not. If his stupid ass get it together, he’ll be in sixth grade next year.”
Simp’s jaw clenched. “Don’t call him stupid, Ma.”
“Boy, that child came out of me. I call him what I want.” She eased the rest of the bacon onto the paper towel, dabbing at them more gently than she ever did anything else. She clicked the stove off, brought the plate of bacon over like it was an offering. “Here. I made you breakfast.”
Simp started to say bacon wasn’t much of a breakfast. But for his mother, it was more than she usually did on a Saturday morning. He muttered, “Thanks,” but couldn’t bring himself to touch it.
She sipped coffee from a black mug with “Number One Mom” in big white letters on it. Derek had bought it from the dollar store last Mother’s Day. The words made Simp’s head hurt. At least Derek was only seven. He had a minute before he had to worry about this.
He talked toward the crispy strips of pork. “What you want me do, Ma?”
The sugar was back.
“Tez obviously like you. I’m just saying put in a good word for your brothers. They can’t sit around the house playing video games forever.” She crossed her arms. “You not gonna eat after I cooked for you?”
“I’m still trying get up, for real,” he said, forcing his eyes upward.
For the longest, he had done what he could to keep his brothers from getting in trouble. But school, basketball, and hustling meant he wasn’t home as much. Getting Dre and Dom onto the Marauders would mean giving them a break from their mother. And it meant making cash. That’s what his mother cared about.
He pushed himself away from the table and busied himself making toast. Anything so he wouldn’t have to look at her.