“This fool done lost his mind,” Shameeka said over her shoulder. “Better put that toy down, fool. You don’t even know how to use it.” She grabbed Mookie’s arm, but he snatched it away.
“Do it again,” he warned, and stuck a finger in her face. “Go on ’head and touch this toy, so I can show you how I play.”
“Chill, Mook,” Ant said almost desperately. “You fi’n to get in trouble over some nonsense.”
“Better listen to your boy.” She grabbed Mookie’s finger, just as the bigger boy’s other hand clapped the side of her head. A shining earring flew into the street, and Shameeka slumped bonelessly to the ground.
“Told that bitch not to touch me.” Mookie lifted his hand to take another swing, but Floyd said something before Anthony could.
“Don’t do that shit,” he said flatly. “Leave her alone.”
Mookie lowered his hand without protest. Shameeka drew a big breath and wailed. One of her friends rushed over and bent to her aid. “You ain’t hafta hit her like that,” the girl said, lovingly brushing dirt from her face. “What kinda nigga is you, punching on girls?”
“A real nigga! What you think?”
Shameeka blinked at him from her place on the concrete. Her friends helped her to her feet and led her away, shouting threats over their shoulders.
Twenty minutes later, the boys were still on the corner. Mookie made a joke about how fast Shameeka had hit the ground, and when no one responded, he sulked. “She hit me first.” He went into the street and grabbed the abandoned earring. “Here you go, Dr. Phil,” he said, trying to hand it to Floyd. “Give it back and she might give you some stank.”
Floyd smacked his hand and the hoop went tumbling again, this time landing in ragged bushes. Anthony stared at the earring and then back at his friends, who were squared off like they were ready to fight. He knew that they wouldn’t, though. Mookie was bigger and had a bad rep, but Floyd was their leader. It had been that way since kindergarten.
“Both of yaw need to chill,” Anthony said. “We don’t need to be fighting each other.”
Floyd started walking and Anthony fell into place by his side, with Mookie trailing close behind them. “Mr. Davis told me some shit today,” Anthony said, and then immediately regretted opening his mouth.
“What?” Floyd said, not breaking stride. “Thought you said he ain’t want nuthin’?”
“It was about that school . . . guess I got in.”
Behind them, Mookie laughed, but the other two boys got quiet. Anthony suddenly wanted to be somewhere else. “The nigga Ant ’bout to hit reform school and ain’t never been arrested,” Mookie said. “Your moms be trippin’ hard!”
“Just ’cause I got in don’t mean I’m gon’ go,” Ant said, glowering. “Plus, it ain’t no reform school, anyway. How many times I gotta tell you that?”
“About a million,” Floyd said. “And even then, this dumb nigga still won’t understand.”
They reached the point where each boy went in a different direction. Anthony turned a corner and was surprised to see his mother’s car squatting in their driveway.
Maxine Jones was an inch shorter than her youngest boy but every bit as strong. Muscles rippled her calves when she wore shorts or dresses, and they creased her angry arms. She ruled her boys like an overseer, snapping her belt and whipping them instead of using child psychology. But with age and growing size came a kind of emancipation; for his brothers the leather strap had already lost its sting. That day was coming for Anthony, and it was coming soon. He would welcome freedom from the belt, but it also made him sad. After him, she would have no one left to take care of.
He opened the door and went inside, found the house dark and still. His iron mother was in bed, home early with a stomach bug.
“Where you been, anyway?” she asked hoarsely. “School ended damn near two hours ago.”
“I had detention . . . sorry.”
She rolled her eyes toward him without moving her head. “Don’t know how in the world you expect to go to that school if you cain’t stop acting like a fool.”
“What if I don’t get in?” He sat on the edge of the mattress. “Would it be so bad if I had to stay here with you?”
“You’ll get in,” she said, not looking at him. “You as good as gone, I can feel it.” She grabbed his hand then and rubbed it. “My baby gon’ be the next president!” Her smile quickly faded and then disappeared altogether. She dropped his hand and looked at him sternly. “Now once you get up there, you cain’t get in no trouble. No fights, no detentions, no nothing.”
“I know, Ma. . . .”
“And make sure to be friends with them white people. Somebody’s daddy might give you a job.”
He swallowed hard. “But what if I don’t wanna go? Do I get any say at all?”
“Of course you do,” she answered. “As long as you do what I tell you, you can have all the say in the world.” She laughed and turned the TV to Oprah. The audience was screaming over gifts.
The next night Anthony found himself at Reggie’s house, playing video games with friends. By then, he had told his mother the Belton news and was tired of hearing her brag to her friends. It was good to spend some quality time with people who didn’t care about Maine.
What they did care about, though, was beer. Anthony volunteered to go out and buy more, along with Mookie, who said he needed some air. They had tried to get Floyd to make the trip too, but he was busy kicking ass in John Madden football. It was dark outside and getting cooler. Mookie fumbled with his unzipped coat and mumbled drunken lyrics.
“Fuck a white cop at the end of my block, got the Glock in my sock and it’s ready to pop, make that blood drip-drop on the ground like it’s hot, till his fuckin’ heart stop beating bullshit . . .”
Mookie stopped dead in his tracks and raised his arms like a heavyweight champion, obviously pleased with his latest freestyle. “Oh, shit. You hear that shit, nigga? Off the top of the dome, nigga. Now that’s what’s up.”
“I heard. We gon’ have to start calling you Fi’teen Cent.”
“Forget you, man. Don’t ask to be in the video.”
They got to the store and bought two bottles of Olde English. Back outside, they were halted by a disheveled man with a salt-and-pepper beard. “Hey, Johnny,” the man said, stepping in front of them. “You got any spare change?”
“Hell naw,” Mookie snapped. “Get a job.”
“Johnny . . . ?”
Mookie kept walking, but Anthony stopped and gave the man all the change in his pockets. “Here you go, dude. It ain’t much, but you might get a nip.”
“God bless you, Johnny,” the man said, and approached someone else.
The boys walked in silence for a while. Anthony could feel his friend looking at him, but he wouldn’t look back. “Why you be givin’ that nigga money all the time?” Mookie finally asked. “He don’t even know yo’ name. Johnny. Who the hell is Johnny?”
“Why you be askin’ me the same question all the time?”