I smirk and drop the bat to the floor. “Gotta fade,” I say to Camila, and end our call before she can tell me otherwise. I’ll pay for that later. The bad news is that I’m right—there’s a blisshead at my window. The good news is that it’s just Pooch, the friendly, neighborhood degenerate. As narrow as a string bean, goofy as all hell, and the absolute antithesis of dangerous. About two weeks ago, he showed up at my window asking for ten bucks to grab a meal at Wendy’s. He and I both knew that he could buy a meal for less than five bucks at Wendy’s, just like we both knew my ten dollars wouldn’t actually go toward a burger, fries, and a Frosty. Like always, it’ll probably take me five minutes to get rid of him. Though I’d much rather keep spitting game to Camila, I know she doesn’t have much patience to hang out on the other line while Pooch tells me for the hundred-and-third time about the night he thought Mary J. Blige hit on him in the club. Spoiler alert: Ms. Blige was just some black chick with a honey-blonde wig and a fierce two step.
Pooch motions for me to open my window. I shake my head and then hitch it to the side, tell him to beat it. He clasps both hands together in a prayer and, I don’t know, maybe it’s his ashy knuckles. Or the Dallas Cowboys jersey he wears so much you can barely still see Tony Romo’s number. Or the rings around his eyes that tell me he hasn’t had a good night’s sleep since Romo was actually the Cowboys’ quarterback. Either way, he looks just sad enough for me to humor him for a few minutes. I pry my window and rest my elbows against the sill.
“I don’t have any change tonight, Pooch.”
One of Pooch’s eyebrows quirks up. “Huh?”
“Change. I don’t have any change tonight, Pooch,” I repeat, even as a pair of twenties burns a hole in the pocket of my jogging pants. I guess the correct thing to say would be that I didn’t have any change for him tonight, but it’s late and I’m not trying to wake up MiMi so . . . “Later.”
I reach for the window and Pooch throws up his hands. “Hold up, youngblood. I ain’t ask you for no change.”
“Yet,” I say.
“I came for information, not coin.”
It’s my turn to raise an eyebrow. Pooch has a way of keeping me on my toes since I never knew what the hell was going to come out of his mouth—when he wasn’t talking about his almost hookup with the queen of R & B music.
“You know where I could find Javon?” Pooch asks me.
I give him a look that I’m pretty sure he gets every day in his life but never from me: one of complete and utter confusion. “Don’t come at me with that, Pooch. Why the hell would I know what Javon’s up to?” Lies. Nic took off with him earlier tonight. Right after MiMi told her she didn’t need to be going to any parties on a school night. Nic yelled a few words, MiMi yelled a few words back. Both glared at me, waiting for me to pick a side. But I’m Switzerland. I retreated to my room and Nic retreated to Javon’s car. The whole scene was too much of a headache to give Pooch the play-by-play.
“Him or his boys ain’t on the stoop.” Pooch looks over his shoulder and toward Javon’s building, completely ignoring my question. “Kenny’s not at his spot, either. I just needed to, you know, ask them something.”
Yeah, like could they spot him an ounce of whatever. I raise both my hands into a shrug. “Don’t know what to tell you, man.”
“Well . . . maybe your sister could tell me something. Where’s she?”
His question hits me like a hammer. “I’m not my sister’s keeper, Pooch.” More lies. I mean, kind of. I’ve tried to keep Nic a few too many times, but she doesn’t like to be kept. She slips through my fingers every time I think I get a good grip on her. Kind of like tonight. It’s almost midnight, we got school in the morning . . . and Nic still hasn’t slinked home from the party she wasn’t supposed to go to in the first damn place. Good thing MiMi fell asleep right after Grey’s Anatomy. I have too much going on than to referee another shouting match between those two.
“Hit her up then. She gotta be with Javon . . . or Kenny.” He lowers his lids, all you know what I mean? But I don’t know what he means. Kenny’s Javon’s boy—the main guy Javon trusts to push whatever he’s pushing. Kenny looks out for Nic from time to time, but only when Javon needs him to. And to think anything else is to think that my sister is some kind of skank.
“Fick off, Pooch. Don’t come around my window anymore. Don’t even glance at it on a leisurely Sunday stroll, you hear me?”
Pooch stumbles as if I actually used my bat on him. “Come on, Jay. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Sure you didn’t. Now beat it.”
“Jay. Jay? We cool, youngblood. We cool. Here.” He rummages through one of the pockets of his jeans. “Want a Jolly Rancher?”
I frown at him. “Pooch, I don’t know how long you’ve had them Jolly Ranchers.” I pause and think about all the Red Bull I guzzled earlier. I could use something else sweet to keep me awake instead of drinking more caffeine. “What kind?”
He looks down at the candy in his hand. “I’ll give you my watermelon if you got five bucks to spare.”
I scoff at him. “Man, ain’t nobody tryna give you no five dollars for some watermelon Jolly Ranchers.” If he had green apple, we could’ve negotiated.
“We cool still, right?” He pleads at me with his eyes. He and I both knew that my family were the main people in this neighborhood that looked out for him. I sigh and give him a slight nod. He claps his hands together. “My man! Did I tell you about the time I rolled up in The Alley a few years back?”
“Night, Pooch,” I say.
“It was ladies’ night,” he continues, smiling at the sky as if he was back in the nightclub. “Drinks were flowing, Frankie Beverly was bumping through the speakers, and out of the corner of my eye, who did I see tearing up the dance floor? None other than Ms. Mary J.—”
I close my window and draw my curtains closed. I had to finish Meek’s paper and try to squeeze in at least three hours of sleep before waking up for school. Enough with his shenanigans. I plop back down on my bed and rest my iPad on my lap. Crack my neck from side to side and get ready to dive into an analysis of Othello. As soon as the words start flowing, my phone buzzes and knocks against my windowsill . . . almost making me drop my iPad—and a deuce in my pants.
I sigh. “Come on, Mila,” I say under my breath when I realize I left my phone across the room. I almost ignore it but ignoring a call from Camila is far worse than hanging up on Camila. I’d have to promise shoulder rubs for a week to get out of that one. I trudge over to my phone, prepping a string of apologies in my head. But when I grab it, Mila’s name isn’t on the screen. It’s Nicole’s. Speak of the Devil.
“MiMi’s sleep,” I say as soon as I answer. “The coast is clear. For now. But you might want to book it before she gets her two a.m. sweet tooth.” Without fail, MiMi wakes up early in the morning with the taste for something that’ll spike her blood sugar. Then yells at me and Nic the next day for eating up all the cookies or graham crackers or whatever.