“I got him too,” I say. Mr. Phillips the history teacher. He at least seventy-five. He yell all the time and get mad over the stupidest stuff.
“Ol’ ET-looking ass.” Junie throw back some sunflower seeds. “He oughta phone home.”
“You know damn well they’d send him back,” I say.
Rico brush his hair. Gotta keep his waves on point. “Goddamn! I wanna go home already.”
These girls pass us, looking fine as hell in their new ’fits and hairdos. Rico and Junie watch them walk away.
“Forget that, I’m staying,” Junie says, and Rico give him dap.
“I’m with you on that,” I lie easily. Fine as them girls are, they ain’t Lisa. I’m a sucker, for real.
Rico go on his way, and me and Junie go to history class. Mr. Phillips write on the chalkboard as everybody file into the room. It’s hot as hell today, and this man in a wool blazer. He real weird, yo.
Iesha’s best friend, Lala, run her mouth while sucking her thumb. She got an overbite from always doing that. Usually wherever Lala is, so is Iesha, but I haven’t seen Iesha since I got here.
I tap Lala’s shoulder. “Ay.”
She turn around and roll her eyes. Her blue contacts match her blue weave and her blue outfit. Girl overmatching. “What you want?”
“Is Iesha at school? I need to talk to her.”
“Do I look like I’m her babysitter?”
“Why you copping an attitude? I only asked—”
“Mr. Carter!” Phillips shouts. “This is not a social gathering. Take a seat!”
I ain’t even said much to that girl.
Whatever. It ain’t worth getting into it with him on the first day. I head to the back of the room and take a seat.
Halfway through the day, I’m dragging myself around.
I fell asleep in US history. It was boring anyway. I’m tired of hearing ’bout all these fucked-up white people who did fucked-up stuff, yet people wanna call them heroes. Phillips talked ’bout how Columbus discovered America, and all I could think was how the hell can you “discover” a place where people already lived?
Funny how that work.
World lit kept me awake. I like books, and we got a long list we’ll be reading this year. Mrs. Turner said we’ll cover Shakespeare first. His stories the bomb. Romeo and Juliet was basically on some gang shit. You could say she was a Queen Lord, and he was a GD. They went out on their own terms like some straight-up Gs.
That one dope class wasn’t enough to energize me. I could crash, for real. I go to the library during free period, grab a book, and sit in one of them beanbag chairs in the back. I hold the book in front of my face to hide the fact I’m taking a nap.
The class bell wake me up, and I head to my Spanish class. No sign of Iesha yet. Honestly, she one of them students who only make “guest appearances” at school. It’s not a big shocker that she not here.
My pager vibrate in my back pocket. I take it out, and King’s number pop up on the screen, followed by three digits—227. That’s our code for Yo, I’m outside.
When King was a student, the two of us used to sneak off on the first day. It ain’t like nothing important happens—teachers spend most of the time telling us what we gon’ do the rest of the year. We’d hit up the mall for a couple of hours.
Guess he wanna keep the tradition going even though he expelled. Forget the mall, I wanna sleep. I could crash at King’s crib for a while, and maybe that’ll energize me enough for work later. That sound way better than going to class.
Getting outta here might be tricky. Ms. Brown the school secretary always watch the doors like a hawk. Today she distracted as Mr. Clark the security guard talk to her. They can’t stop smiling. I don’t know what that’s about and don’t care. Long as they don’t notice me, I’m good, and they don’t. At first.
“Hey!” Clark yells.
I run for it. Clark’s feet thump behind me. Everybody know he slow as hell.
I shove the doors open. King sit on the hood of his silver Crown Victoria in front of the school. He see me, and then he see Clark.
“Oh shit!” he says.
King jump in the car, turn the engine on, and throw open the passenger door. I haul tail across the schoolyard. Clark huff and puff behind me.
“Got me sweating like this on the first day,” Clark says. “Get your butt back here!”
The second I’m close to the car, I throw myself in. “Go, go, go!”
King peel off. I look back, and Clark bent over on the sidewalk, gasping for air. I think he throw me a middle finger. I don’t care. I’m outta there.
Eight
At Garden High, King is a legend. If he walked in the building right now, people would act like he Jesus.
Unfortunately, he can’t walk into the school. He not allowed on the grounds.
See, King used to be on the football team. He was probably the best defensive end that Garden High ever saw. Problem was he hated his coach. To be honest, everybody hated Coach Stevens. Dude was a straight-up redneck. He didn’t throw around the N-word, nah. It was other stuff, like having a Confederate flag on his truck, calling it “heritage.” Heritage my ass.
One day last year he told King to wash his car before practice. King told Coach Stevens he wasn’t his slave. Coach looked him dead in the face and said, “You are whatever the hell I say you are, boy.”
King beat the mess outta him.
I swear I ain’t seen nothing like it. King threw blows like Tyson. He got expelled and sent to juvie. Coach Stevens never came back, and now none of us have to deal with his redneck ass. King forever a hero for that.
He crack up as he drive farther from the school. “Clark still can’t catch nobody, huh?”
“Hell nah, never. What’s up? I haven’t seen you in a minute.”
“You know how it is,” King says. “These streets keep me busy. Had to scoop you up so we chill like we usually do on the first day of school.”
“Straight up? I just wanna crash at your crib, dawg. I’m tired as hell.”
“What? You trippin’! We gotta hit the mall. You know how we do.”
“I don’t got it in me, King. I need to rest up before I go to work in a couple of hours.”
“Work? What kinda work you doing?”
“Dre convinced me to take a job with Mr. Wyatt,” I say. “I’ll be helping him in his store and with his garden.”
“Hold on. You walked away from our side hustle to go make pennies for that old man? You may as well work for the police!”
The Wyatts were King’s last foster family right before he went to juvie. He always said they were too strict with him.
I shrug. “It’s Mr. Wyatt or Mickey D’s. I gotta provide for my son somehow.”
The car get real quiet. The only sound is the DJ on the radio.
“Everything good with the side hustle?” I ask.
“Yep.”
“No problems from Shawn and them?”
“Nah,” King says.
Neither of us say anything else for a while. Some Master P joint start on the radio. King’s speakers thump it hard.
“You got them new subwoofers installed?” I ask.