Anba Tèt Chaje
The air felt wrong.
Not heavy, not loud—wrong. Caine sat up on the couch like the quiet had tapped him on the shoulder. For a second he thought maybe he’d overslept, but the dark was still thick against the blinds. The only light in the room came from the soft green glow of the cable box clock, numbers fuzzy without his contacts.
He pushed off the blanket, bare feet flat on cool linoleum. His legs bounced once, twice. The buzz under his skin wouldn’t quit. He stood and started doing jumping jacks in the middle of the living room—counting under his breath like he used to in the cell when the noise in his head got too loud. Ten… twenty… thirty. He stopped, chest rising and falling quick, but the itch inside him didn’t let up.
His corner was still in order from last night, but he crouched there anyway. His mother had folded his shirts the way she liked when she brought them over—small, neat bundles stacked in a milk crate. He unrolled each one, smoothed the cotton with his palms, rolled them back the way he’d learned inside: tighter, no air in the fold. Control in a world that gave you none.
The rest of his stuff was just as basic—pairs of jeans, sweats folded on the bottom, sneakers lined against the wall like soldiers. He lined them up again anyway, toe to heel, laces tucked. He told himself it looked cleaner, even though it didn’t.
When he’d run out of things to touch, he picked up his phone from the arm of the couch. Screen glare hit his eyes. Notifications stacked from group chats, a DM request from some burner account, and one message from Janae. u up? It was sent before midnight. He stared at it for a long beat, thumb tapping out a short reply—nothing slick, nothing to start a real conversation, but enough so she’d know he saw it.
He dropped the phone on the cushion, stood, and dug his sneakers from the line. The laces whispered against his fingers as he tightened them. A run would burn the edge off.
The air outside was cooler than it would be in a few hours, but still sat on his skin like it had weight. The street was empty except for the faint hum of a streetlamp and the echo of his first few steps. Bars had emptied an hour ago, and the city was in that in-between stretch—too late for drunks to still be out, too early for the first buses to run.
He knew this quiet. It was the kind that made you hear your own breathing. The kind that stretched long enough to trick you into thinking nothing could happen. He remembered walking streets like this with Dre and Ricardo, hoodies up, pockets light, looking for somebody too drunk to notice the danger until it was in their face. The quiet had felt like cover back then. Now it felt like an empty room with the door half-open.
He rounded the corner onto a straight stretch, eyes up. Two men stood on the curb next to a car, low voices trading something too soft to catch. One leaned on the roof, one had his hands deep in his hoodie.
Caine’s pace slowed by a hair. He drifted toward the far side of the street, eyes on the asphalt like he wasn’t paying them any mind, but his peripheral stayed locked.
The voices stopped. Silence swelled between them. He could feel their eyes now, a weight dragging across his shoulders. He turned his head just enough to meet it.
They didn’t look away.
The old instinct told him don’t break first. Looking away was a kind of bow, and bows could get you pressed. So he kept his gaze steady, expression flat. His lungs kept the rhythm, steady in-out, even though his pulse ticked faster.
The taller one tilted his chin, almost a nod, testing.
Caine gave the smallest nod back. Nothing friendly, just acknowledgment: I see you, you see me, and we’re leaving it there.
They went back to their conversation without turning their backs.
Caine faced forward again, kept moving. His feet found their rhythm easy, the sound of rubber hitting pavement louder now that the street behind him had gone quiet again. He didn’t look over his shoulder. Didn’t have to.
The city might be sleeping, but the game never was.
~~~
The workbook lay open across Mireya’s thighs, the edges of its pages curled from weeks of being shoved in and out of her bag. The black-and-white math problems swam a little if she stared too long, so she made herself keep the pencil moving—fill in one bubble, then the next, then on to the next page before she could start thinking about how much was riding on this. She was ahead of where she’d been last time. At least that’s what she told herself.
Camila was perched sideways across her lap, one sock halfway off, warm little fingers kneading at the hem of Mireya’s T-shirt like she was working bread dough. Every few seconds she made a soft, impatient sound—half whine, half sigh—and twisted to look up at her mother’s face.
“Shhh,” Mireya murmured, eyes still on the page. “Almost done with this part, mi amor.”
Camila answered by leaning her full weight back against Mireya’s ribs, heels thumping her mother’s thighs in a steady, restless rhythm. The pencil skated across the bubble she’d been aiming for, leaving a faint gray smear where she’d meant to color it in. Mireya closed her eyes for a second, jaw tight, and then tried again.
The air in the bedroom was close, heavy with the damp warmth that clung even before the sun got high. The box fan in the corner spun slow, blades clicking on every third turn, pushing more noise than air. A faint smell of laundry powder and the baby shampoo they used on Camila hung in the room, but it did nothing to make the space feel fresh.
Camila wiggled sideways again, bumping the workbook so it slid toward the edge of Mireya’s knees. Mireya caught it before it hit the floor, biting back the first sharp word that came to mind. She shifted her daughter higher on her hip and bent toward the book, but Camila twisted away, little hands grabbing at the pencil now like it was a toy.
“Not right now,” Mireya said, pulling it out of reach. “Mama’s working, mija.”
That set off another whine—longer this time, with a kick for emphasis. Mireya exhaled through her nose, shut the workbook with a muted thump, and set the pencil in the crease.
“Alright,” she said under her breath, “come on.”
She stood, her hip aching where Camila’s weight had been pressing, and carried her down the short hall toward the living room. The telenovela hit her first—the too-bright voices of women crying in rapid Spanish, a man’s voice cutting over them, sharp with accusation. The picture on the TV was all close-ups and dramatic lighting, a wedding veil and smeared mascara.
Maria sat on the couch in her usual spot, glasses low on her nose, one arm hooked along the back cushion. A mug sat on the coffee table beside her, half full of dark coffee gone cold. She didn’t look over when Mireya stopped beside her.
“Mami,” Mireya started, shifting Camila to the other hip. “Can you hold her for a little while? I’m trying to study for the ACT.”
Maria’s eyes stayed on the screen. “No. You have a daughter, you take care of her. A test is not more important than that.”
Mireya felt the answer in her chest before the words fully landed, the way she always did with her mother—like a door shutting fast. “Por favor,” she said, keeping her voice even. “Just an hour. That’s all I’m asking.”
Maria finally turned to look at her, eyes sharp over the rim of her glasses. “You think the world’s gonna give you an hour when you want it? No. You wanted her, you got her.”
“She’s not a punishment,” Mireya said, quieter now, but with heat behind it.
Maria raised an eyebrow. “Then don’t talk like she is.” She turned back toward the TV, the scene shifting to a close-up of a man clutching a bouquet.
Camila squirmed in Mireya’s arms again, letting out another frustrated sound. Her sock slipped the rest of the way off, dropping toward the carpet. Mireya bent and caught it before it fell, holding it in one hand while she adjusted her grip on her daughter.
She wanted to keep going, to push back harder, but the weight in her arms and the knot in her throat made it feel pointless. Maria had already turned back to the show.
“Nevermind,” Mireya said, barely above a whisper.
Her mother didn’t answer.
She walked back down the hall, the sound of the telenovela voices trailing after her—something about betrayal, something about a baby that wasn’t his.
Back in her room, she dropped the sock on the nightstand beside the closed workbook. She sat on the edge of the bed, then shifted to lie back, pulling Camila onto her chest.
The little girl settled almost immediately, head tucked under Mireya’s chin, breathing warm against her collarbone. The fan kept up its slow, uneven turn, stirring the edge of the curtain so a thin line of daylight broke across the wall.
Mireya stared at the ceiling, one hand cupped over the small of Camila’s back. The hour she’d asked for was gone before it had ever been hers. She closed her eyes, not to sleep, but to keep from looking at the book.
~~~
The smell of charcoal hung thick in the air, curling into the late-morning heat that already pressed down on the patio. Quentin stood at the grill in a faded Saints T-shirt, tongs in one hand, the sizzle of meat snapping and popping as fat hit the coals. The kids were on the far side of the table, arguing softly over who got the last Capri Sun, the kind of background noise he’d tuned into like static over the years.
Ashley sat in the shade with her legs crossed, sunglasses on, a plastic tumbler sweating in her hand. Every so often she’d tilt it to swirl the ice, the clink carrying under the quiet hum of the neighborhood—lawnmowers in the distance, the faint high whine of a cicada.
Quentin glanced over his shoulder. “I been thinking,” he said, flipping a row of chicken thighs to reveal the char starting to stripe the skin.
Ashley made a small sound that could have been interest or warning. “Mm-hmm?”
“I want to have Caine over for dinner.”
She lowered the sunglasses just enough to look at him over the top. “Have you lost your damn mind?”
He turned back to the grill, moving a piece away from a flare-up. “Nope.”
“Quentin.” She set the tumbler down on the table with a soft thud. “You mean the same Caine who was one of the three boys trying to steal your car? And shoot you?”
Quentin shook his head. “He didn’t try to shoot me.”
“Oh, excuse me.” Ashley leaned back in her chair, picking up the drink again. “He only tried to steal your car.”
Quentin let the jab pass, pressing the meat down lightly with the tongs. “He’s trying to turn his life around. I’ve been helping him prep for the ACT. He’s been taking it seriously. Young Black men need positive male role models. They need to see what a stable home life looks like—”
She cut in with a sharp laugh. “Stable home life?”
“—especially one with a Black couple,” he finished, undeterred. “Far as I know, he lives with almost all women. His mama, his child’s mama, his grandmother… kid doesn’t have a man in the house day to day.”
Ashley tipped her head, a smirk tugging at her mouth. “What are you trying to do, stop him from becoming gay?”
Quentin gave her a flat look, shaking his head. “That’s not what I’m saying.”
She waved her free hand. “I know. Just saying what half the men you know would be thinking.” She took another sip, ice knocking against her teeth.
“I’m saying,” Quentin went on, “I feel a need to extend a hand. Somebody’s gotta show him there’s more than… what he’s got right now.”
Ashley sighed, long and slow, leaning back until the chair creaked. “Your problem is you care too much.”
“That’s why you love me,” he said, a little smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
“That’s exactly why I love you.” She pointed at him with the hand holding the drink. “But it’s also why I’m saying—he tried to steal your fucking car.”
Quentin chuckled under his breath and started moving the barbecue off the grill, setting each piece carefully into the pan beside him. The smell rolled up in waves—smoke, spice, and the tang of sauce caramelizing in the heat.
Ashley watched him for a moment, the corner of her mouth twitching like she wanted to keep arguing but couldn’t quite bring herself to spoil a quiet Sunday. The kids had gone back to talking about something else entirely, their voices light and untroubled in the still heat.
Quentin slid the last piece into the pan, closed the grill lid with a soft metallic thump, and picked up the handle of the pan in a towel. He caught Ashley’s gaze for a beat longer than necessary before turning toward the table.
“Alright,” he said, setting the food down in the center, “let’s eat.”
~~~
The air in the garage was thick with the smell of motor oil and burnt rubber, the kind of scent that seeped into your clothes no matter how quick you were in and out. Tito had a rag slung over his shoulder, both hands deep under the raised hood of an old Impala with faded paint and a cracked windshield. Sweat beaded on his forehead, tracing slow lines through the faint smudge of grease across his temple.
Outside, heat rippled off the blacktop. A low hum of cicadas filled the gaps between the occasional pop of a nail gun from the construction site two blocks over.
The crunch of tires on gravel pulled his eyes up from the engine. A late-model sedan rolled to a stop just outside the bay. Door opened, and out stepped a man Tito didn’t recognize—older, bald, gold fronts catching a glint of sunlight when he smiled without warmth.
The man walked into the shadow of the garage like he owned a piece of it. Tito straightened, wiped his hands on the rag. “What’s good? You need work done?”
The man shook his head slow. “Nah. I come to talk to you.”
Tito’s fingers tightened on the rag, but his face stayed neutral. “A’ight. Go ‘head.”
“Your boy been out in the streets running his mouth,” the man said. “Asking a lotta questions all of a sudden. Talkin’ reckless. That gon’ cause problems.”
Tito let the words hang a second, the steady tick of cooling metal from the Impala filling the space. “You know how it is,” he said finally. “Junior’s a grown ass man.”
“That’s fine,” the man replied, stepping a little closer, “but hood niggas don’t like when somebody go around talking like they gon’ do somethin’ about an L they took. That don’t sit right.”
Tito’s head tipped in a slow nod, his shoulders loose, but there was a weight behind his eyes. He’d heard this song before—different verses, same hook. The streets had a way of policing their own, and sometimes the warning came before the consequence. Sometimes.
He let the silence stretch just long enough to make it clear he wasn’t rattled. “So,” Tito said, voice even, “what you with—39 or somethin’?”
The man’s lips pulled back over those gold teeth in something halfway between a grin and a sneer. “Heavens no. I couldn’t fuck with them bitch-ass niggas. I’m Dooney all day.” He paused, like he was making sure the name landed. “But your J.R.? He all over the city, investigatin’ like he the fuckin’ police.”
Tito didn’t blink. “You’ll need to take that up with Tee Tito, though.”
The man’s hands came up, palms out, the universal sign for I ain’t here for all that. “Just lettin’ you know.”
He turned, walking back toward the sedan without another word. The sunlight caught on the smooth dome of his head before he ducked inside. Engine turned over, tires crunched back over the gravel, and the car eased away into the street.
Tito stood there a moment, rag still in hand, watching the car shrink to a speck. Then he shook his head once, slow, like he was brushing off a gnat, and turned back to the Impala.
The hood came down with a solid thunk. He bent to his tools, the clink of a socket wrench echoing in the heat and let the work swallow him again.
~~~
By late afternoon, Camila’s mood had shifted. The crying fits and restless squirming had worn themselves out, leaving her limp against Mireya’s side as they crossed the cracked sidewalk toward Sara’s porch. The heat still pressed heavy, a slow bake that made the air taste faintly of metal and dust. Mireya adjusted her grip on Camila, feeling the girl’s legs bounce lightly against her hip.
Sara answered on the second knock. She was still in her work scrubs, teal fabric wrinkled and the knees faintly faded, hair pulled back tight but with a few loose curls escaping. The lines around her eyes looked deeper than usual.
“You look tired,” Mireya said without thinking.
Sara stepped aside so they could enter. “Worked a double yesterday, another today,” she said. “Haven’t sat down more than ten minutes since Friday.”
The living room was dim but warm, the single lamp in the corner throwing a soft pool of light over the coffee table. The smell of laundry detergent clung in the air, with something faintly bitter underneath — old coffee, abandoned in the pot before the sun came up. Near the wall, a small pile of Camila’s toys sat waiting: a bucket of blocks, a faded plush dog.
“I was hoping…” Mireya shifted Camila to her other hip. “If you could watch her for a while so I can study for the ACT.”
Sara didn’t hesitate. She held out her arms, and Camila leaned toward her easily. “Claro que si,” Sara said, the word coming out low but certain. “Might take a nap while she watches me — see how she likes being on the other side for once.”
Camila gave a small laugh and tucked her face into Sara’s neck.
Sara lowered herself onto the carpet, joints bending with a quiet crack, settling cross-legged with Camila in her lap. She reached for the bucket and tipped it, the blocks spilling out in a clatter softened by the rug. Her hands moved with the slow assurance of someone who’d done this enough times to know the rhythm — let the child lead, keep the pieces within reach, make the thing stand.
Mireya stayed near the doorway, her bag still on her shoulder, watching. The image in front of her scraped against the one from that morning — her mother, sunk into the couch, eyes locked on a telenovela, her “no” sharp and fast like she couldn’t be bothered to even think about it.
Sara held out a block. “What you makin’, baby?”
“A tower,” Camila answered.
“Mmm. Gotta make it fuerte,” Sara said, helping her stack the first two pieces.
Mireya’s voice cut in without warning. “You ever do something you regretted because you thought it was best for your family?”
Sara didn’t look up right away. She steadied Camila’s hand as another block slid into place.
Camila reached for a green one. “This one next.”
“Alright,” Sara murmured, clipping it on. She let the silence stretch a beat longer before she said, “Yeah.”
Mireya waited.
“When Caine was about her age,” Sara began, her tone even, “he got real sick. I thought he was gonna die, I was so afraid.” She kept her eyes on the tower, pressing down a crooked block. “This was right around the time the Saints won the Super Bowl. New Orleans was packed. You couldn’t walk two feet on Bourbon without bumping into somebody.” She let out a small breath through her nose, almost a laugh. “Nobody leaves valuables in their hotel rooms like drunk tourists running out to the Quarter.”
The words hung there. She didn’t explain further, didn’t need to.
Sara adjusted her position on the carpet, her knees popping. “Caine got that fucking medicine though,” she said finally. “And I’d do it again even if I wish I hadn’t all the time.” She smirked faintly, still not looking up. “Probably where he got his stealing gene.”
Mireya felt the weight of it — not just the story, but the casual way Sara laid it out. No apology, no defensiveness. Just fact.
Sara passed Camila a red block. “You regret something you did?”
Mireya nodded.
“You don’t have to apologize for whatever it is,” Sara said. “Sometimes you just do what you gotta do.”
The carpet muffled the sound of Camila setting down another block, her little voice announcing, “It’s tall now.”
Sara gasped in that way of false awe that parents did. “Que magnifico, nena.”
Mireya glanced at her bag, thought of the prep books waiting back in her room, and then back at the woman on the floor — shoulders sloped with exhaustion, hair frizzing loose from a day of work, still keeping both hands steady on the blocks so they didn’t tip.
Sara broke the quiet. “Go study. I’ll have Caine bring her back when he gets home.”
Mireya stepped forward, kissed the top of Camila’s head, the scent of kid-shampoo and sweat mixing with Sara’s faint smell of detergent and hotels. “Thanks,” she said, meaning more than just for this hour.
Camila held up her uneven tower for inspection. Sara leaned in, nodding, her arm looping around the girl with the same sure grip Mireya imagined she’d once had on Caine at that age — in sickness, in trouble, in whatever storm came for them.
Outside, the air was thick enough to taste. Mireya walked back toward the street with the image fixed in her mind: Camila’s two grandmothers, one saying no from the couch, the other saying yes without hesitation, even when she had less to give.
~~~
The ring wasn’t really a ring. Just four sun-faded traffic cones set wide in a patch of dirt, with rope sagging between them like it had been pulled out of somebody’s garage that morning. The knots were crooked, and one cone leaned like it was already tired of holding the fight together.
The crowd stood in loose knots around it, some on patched lawn chairs, others leaning against the siding of the house, beer bottles sweating in their hands. Every time a punch landed, the noise spiked — not quite a cheer, more like that sharp laugh people made when something ugly still managed to be entertaining.
Caine stood with Ramon at the back, near a rusted-out grill turned sideways to make space. Tyree was a few steps off, jawing with a pair of G-Strip dudes in white tees and sagging shorts. The talk had that thin smile to it, the kind where the words were friendly but the eyes weren’t. E.J. had already worked his way closer to the cones, his attention bouncing between the fight and the cash in his fist, always betting on the 3NG side.
The heat pressed down heavy, baking the smell of spilled beer and sweat into the dirt. Somewhere behind the house, a radio played bounce low under the sound of voices.
“That’s Bird from Miro,” Ramon said, nodding toward the ring where a short, stocky guy in red shorts was swinging wide, his chin high. “Don’t let the size fool you. He a stepper. And that’s Big Ron from G-Strip. Just got out. Heard he caught his girl fuckin’ one of the 3NG niggas while he was gone.”
Caine sipped his beer, the can warm from the heat in his hand. Ramon kept pointing — to a couple of older men posted under the shade of an oak, to a tall, wiry guy near the ring with braids past his shoulders. “OGs,” he said. “That one there, been putting in work since Katrina. That’s why he don’t even gotta talk loud no more. Niggas just listen.”
Another punch landed, glove slapping against skin. Somebody hollered. The rope sagged harder.
“See her?” Ramon tilted his chin toward a girl in cutoffs and a tank top, laughing with her friends. “That’s Keem’s baby mama. Keem locked up, so you know how that shit go. Tone ain’t even wait before he was punching dick in her. And Tone just came home last week. Whole lotta mix goin’ on.”
Caine smirked faintly, but his eyes kept moving, the way they did on the field — read the coverage, spot the blitz before it’s there. He clocked the ones holding their beers too loose, the glance two guys traded before one slid his hand deeper into a pocket, the girl who stopped laughing mid-sentence when someone walked past. Little shifts, nothing loud yet, but the kind of changes you only noticed if you were looking for them. He always was.
A shadow fell over them.
“Mook,” Ramon said, breaking into a grin. They clasped hands, pulling each other into a half-hug, shoulders bumping.
Ramon turned slightly toward Caine. “This my nigga off Gallier. Mook.”
Caine reached out, their palms slapping before locking together. Mook’s grip was firm, a quick pump, then loose again. He looked Caine over, his head tilted just a little.
“You clicked up with them?” Mook asked.
Before Caine could answer, Ramon did it for him. “He ain’t official, but he gettin’ money with us.”
Mook let it sit there a second, eyes narrowing like he was weighing the words. Then he smiled, slow. “Shit then. My niggas’ niggas is my niggas, right?” He held both arms out, palms up, then dapped Ramon again.
The two of them slid into talk about somebody’s court date and who’d been running dice games without cutting in the right people. Caine took another pull from his beer, letting the conversation fade into background noise.
In the ring, Big Ron threw a wild right that caught Lil’ Dre on the side of the head, snapping sweat into the air. Bird stumbled, grabbed the rope, then came back swinging with a flurry that made the crowd surge forward a step.
The rope dipped low enough for a kid in the front row to reach over and slap it like he was ringing a bell. His mother smacked his hand without looking away from the fight.
From the corner of his eye, Caine caught Tyree laughing at something one of the G-Strip guys said, his shoulders loose but his jaw still set tight. Across the dirt, E.J. was grinning wide, his cash hand raised high as somebody passed him bills.
The heat sat in Caine’s shirt like a second skin. He finished his beer, the last swallow tasting flat and warm, and let his eyes roam the crowd again. Even here, even at what passed for “family fun,” the edges were sharp — loyalty running one way until the money or the mood shifted, smiles covering the quiet math everyone was doing in their heads.
Bird caught Big Ron clean in the mouth. Blood hit the dirt in a thin spray, and the cheer that went up carried both excitement and the faint edge of relief — like the score had been settled, at least for now.
Caine leaned back against the grill, watching the two fighters circle, their chests heaving, gloves low. Whatever Ramon and Mook were talking about now had dropped into low voices. Tyree’s laugh had thinned out. E.J. was already hunting the next bet.
if she’d said she wouldn’t have fucked for weed, yall asses would’ve said “so she would fuck for cocaine!”
and before you argue, her accepting grimey money knowing where it came from, admonishing Caine for it, then still saying it was easier when he gave it like cmon girl pick a slant and stay in it ffs
![[img]https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/51066730087_8f014a0403_o.gif[/img]](./images/smilies/51066730087_8f014a0403_o.gif "Jonesy")
