Home > When You Look Like Us(7)

When You Look Like Us(7)
Author: Pamela N. Harris

“I’m figuring it all out,” I say. I lie. “And I’ll get back to Mrs. Chung soon.” I can’t stop lying. “We good? I really need to fade—get my history on.”

Pratt exhales loudly, her hopes for me drifting through her nostrils. “I’ll be in touch. Tell Mr. Booker thank you for letting me borrow you.”

My ass is out of the seat like it has a fever. Hard to think about my future when I could hardly keep my sister present. I grab my phone, open the texting window to shoot a message to Nic, but then catch myself. That’s Old Jay rearing his worried head. New Jay shoves his phone back into his pocket and heads to Booker’s class to learn about the past. Nic can wait.

New Jay repeats that until it sticks.

 

 

Three


“YOU’RE BREATHING A BIT TOO HARD ON MY NECK, BRUH,” I say to Bowie.

Bowie huffs and puffs behind me, pressing down on his bike pedals as we make our way up Warwick Boulevard. I’m perched on his handlebars, hanging on for dear life as he maneuvers past cars and pedestrians.

“My apologies, Your Highness,” Bowie says in between breaths. “It usually doesn’t take this much exertion to ride my bike, but I’m carrying deadweight at the moment.”

“I’m typically described as lean.”

“Can you lean your ass more to the right as I whip this turn?” Bowie asks.

I shift to the right as Bowie grunts under his breath and turns on Colony. Poor guy. We wouldn’t be in this predicament if Meek hadn’t been waiting for me at the bus ramp, as expected. I hid behind a shrub and watched his nostrils flare as he paced back and forth in front of my exact bus. Homeboy did his research. I had two options: endure the beatdown and show up to my Taco Bell interview half-dead, or ask Bowie for a ride that would get me to Taco Bell in one piece, albeit with a sore ass.

I chose the handlebars and sore ass.

“You can drop me off here,” I say to Bowie as we reach Canal Street.

“I got you this far, might as well give you door-to-door service.”

Panic crawls up my throat as I spot the opening to the Ducts. “It’s all good. I have to regain the feeling in my ass anyway. Walking could do me some good.”

“It’s not a big deal. I could use some water and—”

“Stop the fickin’ bike!” I jump off the handlebars before Bowie can get to a complete stop. The pavement skids so much under my sneakers that I expect to see a trail of smoke behind me. Instead, Bowie stares back at me with question marks in his eyes.

I should’ve known this would happen. Bowie tried to invite himself to my place for years, but every time I made up some bullshit excuse, like the air conditioner was busted, or MiMi was having the carpet cleaned. Eventually Bowie figured out I was dishing lies, so stopped asking like the good friend that he is. And I liked that about him. How he knew when to drop things. When to cut the tension with some whack-ass joke. Like when the other white kids at school find out about where I live, he puts the cap on that real quick.

Random White Kid: The Ducts. Holy shit. Have you ever been shot?

Bowie: My nana gets shot every day. I mean, she’s diabetic, but still . . .

Hearing about the Ducts is one thing, but actually seeing it is a whole other beast. The beat-up furniture spilling out of the dumpster. The neighbors inspecting said beat-up furniture to add to their collection . . . and that’s not even mentioning all the foul shiz that goes down when the moon’s at its highest. But that’s what all the assholes talk about. The ones that consider the Ducts to be the worst kind of stereotype. The ones that have never been to a neighborhood fish fry, or tasted Mrs. Jackson’s sweet potato pie on Thanksgiving. If Bowie starts looking at me like those assholes do, I don’t know how I’ll get through the next year at Youngs Mill. I couldn’t.

“Man,” I say, pushing out a smile. I rub my backside to dim the awkward, but rubbing your ass is always awkward. “If we’re going to make this a thing, you should invest in a pillow or something.”

“I don’t live in a palace, Jay,” Bowie says, ignoring me. He looks me dead in the eye, speaks in a low voice. Last time I saw him like this, I had spent the night at his house for the first time and just told him about my parents. “That sucks, bro,” he said after the longest five seconds of my life. Then he let me have the last slice of pizza. Bowie would eat his own underwear with the right amount of tomato sauce, so that last slice solidified our friendship.

“Yeah, pretty sure they wouldn’t let you into Buckingham with that hair.” I slip my backpack off his shoulders and give him a salute. He studies me and I don’t move. He and I both know that I’m not taking another step until he pedals in the opposite direction.

Bowie finally gives in and returns the salute. “Text me later. Let me know how it goes at El Taco Bell.” He lays on the accent extra thick, but every time he tries any accent, he always ends up sounding like some sweaty guy that works in a pizzeria in the Bronx.

“Yeah, and send my regards to your uncle Vito,” I say.

“Why I oughta . . .” Bowie shakes his fist at me like a true stereotype as he gives himself a push on his bike. I wait until he rounds the bend before I trek the rest of the way to my apartment building.

It’s weird to call the Ducts home. My tongue still gets in my way when I try, as if it’s embarrassed for me. Dad’s eyelid twitched more times than his doctor would have liked when he found out that MiMi was moving here. It isn’t that the Ducts are the projects—it’s the neighborhood that everyone migrates to when they move on up from the projects. The buildings might be newer, but the chaos inside those buildings remains the same. Behind these walls, there are still families living paycheck to paycheck, and the occasional idiot creeping into windows to steal those paychecks.

I walk past the security booth stationed at the entrance but, of course, the guard is nowhere to be seen. The booth is just something to make government officials sleep better at night. To show that even though the Ducts is part of the public housing system, they still care about our well-being. So they hire security guards as twisted as some of the folks who live here.

The most twisted of them all, though, is Javon. Remember when I said I’d get back to him later? Here goes: Javon Hockaday is the Ducts’ resident Don Corleone or Walter White or any other badass who makes money off fear. And he has the whole fear factor thing on lock. I’ve never actually seen him lay a hand on anyone, but I have seen grown-ass men—big dudes who like to show off their biceps in wife beaters even when the sun isn’t shining—cross the street to avoid eye contact with Javon. There are rumors Javon and his boy, Kenny, once seared a guy’s eye with a lit blunt for staring at Javon too long after asking for directions. Kind of surprising to hear that about Kenny. Though he rolls with Javon, he still takes the time to help MiMi carry her groceries upstairs when I’m not around. Sometimes, when he isn’t making runs for Javon, we’ll catch him playing freeze tag with the younger kids in the hood. But Javon is a different story. Only time I’ve seen him smile is when something sinister lurks behind his eyes. Like he’s plotting all the ways to dismember you and where to hide every limb.

Javon’s apartment building is in the parking lot to the left of the security booth. He does his business right under the guards’ noses, slinging out bliss, crinkle, and other drugs du jour. A part of me figures that’s why he got into the business. A big ol’ middle finger to the system that gives the side-eye to guys who look like us.

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