Here we go, I thought to myself.
“Ray Lewis ain’t had nothing on me, boy. I used to break bones. Crack! I’m talking about giving coaches straight up sleepless nights tryna figure out how to block me. Had lil quarterbacks like you in straight panics. Rome, I would’ve broke you up, boy.”
“You too slow, Wicked,” I said, shaking my head. “You wouldn’t stand a chance.”
“You crazy. Ask your brother ’bout me, boy. Matter of fact, come by the crib. I got tapes to prove my word ain’t a lie.”
“Whatever. I don’t wanna see any tapes. If you were all that, then why ain’t you in the league?”
“See, my problem was I wanted that fast money.” Wicked spread his arms and nodded toward his black 745 BMW. “Ain’t doing too bad but if I could do it all again, I might’ve paid for this ride with different dollars.”
“It’s not too late,” I said.
“Look at you. Mr. Opportunistic. Always looking on the bright side.”
“You mean optimistic.”
“That’s what I said.”
“No, you said opportunistic.”
Wicked turned to one of his flunkies. “What did I say?”
“You said it right,” said Mark, a tall skinny kid whose only job on earth was to be Wicked’s yes-man.
“Whatever,” I said. “How are you gonna ask somebody who failed pre-K to answer a question about a word with more than one syllable?”
“Who you talking to?” Mark said, puffing out his little birdlike chest and yanking the chain of his vicious-looking pit bull.
“You,” I said, not in the least bit concerned with him or his dog.
“Mark, shut yo mouth, boy. We can’t have Romeo out here hurting up his hands on the likes of you,” Wicked said, pushing his flunky away.
“I ain’t worried about his hands. I’ma let this damn dog go on him.”
“I’m petrified,” I said. “Oh, my bad. That’s three syllables. I meant to say, I’m scared.”
“Come on, Rome.” Wicked went into his boxer’s stance. “I’m tired of you and all your mouth.”
I still didn’t move. Pete was my older brother Kwame’s friend, so he looked at me as if I was his little brother. That was the only reason I could get away with talking to him the way I did. Anyone else would be picking up a few teeth right about now.
“Boy, how old is you now?” Wicked asked.
“Seventeen.”
“And you what?” Wicked stood in front of me and placed his hand at his head to measure who was the tallest. “Six feet.”
“Six-one,” I said, standing up. “You know my brother might be coming home in a few days. His parole hearing’s tomorrow.”
“Aw, man.” Wicked swatted away my concern with his chubby hand. “That lil crack charge ain’t ’bout nuttin’. Ain’t no might about it—he coming home. And you tell him I said come holla at me the minute he touches town.”
“I can’t wait for him to get out of that place. He’s been gone too long,” I said, thinking about how much I missed the guy who was far more than a big brother to me. He was also the only father figure I’d ever had. Everything I knew, I learned it from Kwame.
“Two years.” Wicked frowned up his face. “Man, that ain’t jack. I can do that without a snack.”
“Two years is a long time.”
“For you maybe, but not for my dog. See you…Big Nana sheltered you too much. Wouldn’t let you cuss, made you do your homework, and had you up in piano lessons like you was gonna be a black Rocketeer or somebody,” Wicked said, drawing laughter from his cronies.
“There you go. I’m outta here,” I said, reaching out to tap his fist with mine.
“A’ight. Tell Kwame I said come holla at a player when he gets himself settled,” Wicked said, touching his heart.
“Okay,” I said, walking away and frowning at the ludicrous thought of my brother putting himself back into the same situation that got him arrested in the first place. I wasn’t sure what led to his arrest, because everyone kept the details from me, but I was almost one hundred percent sure Wicked had something to do with it.
“Rome.” Wicked stood and shuffled his three-hundred-pound frame over to me. “Hold up, boy. You always rushing off somewhere.” He placed a roll of money in my palm.
“What’s this for?”
“Just a lil something something. Make sure Kwame knows I gave you that. If…When he gets home, give him some of it and tell him I said we need to talk.”
I nodded and we shared another brotherly hug.
Living in the Village Apartments, aka “The V,” gave you an edge, a hardness that was essential if you were going to survive the everyday rigors of life in subsidized housing. But it was also a trap waiting to close its jaws around you at the slightest slipup. I made my way through the breeze-ways between the buildings and stopped when I saw General Mack, our neighborhood nutcase and shell-shocked war veteran, marching a line of five-year-olds as if they were in basic training.
“Hut two, three, four. Pick ya legs up, soldier. Hey, pay attention, boy. You gonna mess around and get yourself shot,” he sang with all seriousness.
“Good Lord. That man is nuttier than a fruitcake,” I said, shaking my head at the spectacle before me. The kids seemed to be having fun, so all I could do was laugh before heading upstairs to the apartment I shared with my nana.
2
ROMEO
“Nana,” I called out the second I crossed the threshold into our small, two-bedroom apartment.
“Boy, please hush all that fuss,” Nana said with a frown. Beatrice “Nana” Braxton was as beautiful as the day was long. Heavyset, with gray hair that came down to the small of her back and sweet as a peach cobbler. The woman we all called Nana was sitting at her sewing machine making a quilt when she stopped what she was doing to chastise me.
I took a whiff of the air and knew right away that we had company. An old green army jacket was draped over the arm of the sofa. My eyes darted around the room, looking for the one person I could go the rest of my life without seeing. I found her walking out of the bathroom, rubbing her hands on a pair of dirty cargo pants.
“Hey, Romeo,” she said, brushing imaginary lint from an equally dirty denim shirt.
I nodded but didn’t utter a word.
“You can’t speak to your momma?” Nana said, pulling herself to her feet with a grunt. She walked over to me and placed a hand on the small of my back. “Go on and give your momma a hug,” she said with a nudge.
“I spoke,” I said, not moving toward the haggard-looking woman with whom I shared my big brown eyes, pointy nose, and full lips.
“I know I’m old, but I didn’t know I was hard of hearing,” Nana said.
Reluctantly, I walked over to my scraggly-looking mother and gave her a halfhearted hug. The stench coming from her body almost choked the life out of me. She smelled like something had crawled up inside of her and died.
“How you doing, Pearl?” I said. I had abandoned the “Mommy” tag shortly after she abandoned us.
“I’m doing good. I got a job.” She smiled