Maaaan.. These people here
Neighborhood.
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The JZA
- Posts: 8206
- Joined: 07 Dec 2018, 13:10
Neighborhood.
Finally caught up in all of this.
Maaaan.. These people here
Maaaan.. These people here
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Soapy
Topic author - Posts: 12239
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Neighborhood.
oh we just getting started
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Soapy
Topic author - Posts: 12239
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Neighborhood.
Summertime '06 - Episode 8
The bus lurched to a stop, its brakes hissing as it settled in front of the iron gates of Texas Southern University. Keshawn Chase unfolded from his seat near the back, ducking his head to avoid the low ceiling as he shuffled down the aisle. He was the last to exit, his creased Air Forces hitting the sun-baked pavement with a dull thud.
The Houston heat hit him like a wall, instantly beading sweat on his forehead. Keshawn squinted against the glare, taking in the sprawling campus before him with a mixture of fatigue and indifference. This was the third stop on their HBCU tour, and so far, nothing had managed to capture his interest.
Paul Quinn College had been quaint, its small campus nestled in the outskirts of Dallas feeling more like a high school than a university. The tour guide's enthusiasm hadn't been enough to overcome the dated facilities and limited course offerings. Texas College in Tyler had been a slight improvement but Keshawn couldn't shake the feeling that it was too small, too isolated, too dilapidated. After all, he was trying to get out of South Central LA, not just find another version of it.
He had initially welcomed the escape from the grind that the summer had began to feel like: early morning workouts with Vic, working out with the team afterwards and then getting some runs, whether in an official tournament or an just at the park, before finishing the day with some hours that his mom had managed to pick up for him at her job. But the long hours on the bus had began to wore on him and he was running out of podcasts to listen to.
Keshawn trudged behind Angela and the rest of the group as she began her purposeful march towards the library. The campus buzzed with more summer activity than Keshawn had anticipated and witnessed at their other stops. As they walked, Keshawn couldn't help but notice the lingering glances.
As they approached the library's imposing facade, its columns stretching skyward, Keshawn's gaze was drawn to a petite girl with close-cropped curls and wire-rimmed glasses. She sat cross-legged on the steps, a book open in her lap, but her eyes were locked on him. Unlike the others, her stare was direct, almost challenging.
They came to a stop near the library entrance, Angela checking her phone for updates from their tour guide. Keshawn shifted his weight from one foot to the other, acutely aware of the eyes still on him. Suddenly, the girl from the steps was in front of him, her book clutched to her chest like a shield.
"Hi," she said, her voice surprisingly steady despite the hint of nervousness in her eyes. "I'm Sharice. You guys are part of a group or something?”
Keshawn cleared his throat, having not spoken nearly the entire day. "Uh, yeah. We’re like doing campus tours and stuff across Texas, we’re from LA.”
“And your name?”
“Oh, sorry, Keshawn,” he let out an awkward chuckle.
Sharice's smile widened. "Well, Keshawn, I hope we make your shortlist. And if it does..." She grabbed his phone that was hanging by his side. Before he could react, she went typing away at his screen. "Maybe we could hang out.”
With that, she turned and walked away, leaving Keshawn staring at his hand in disbelief. Ronnie caught the tail end of the exchange and let out a low whistle.
"Damn," he said, a hint of amusement in his voice. "We've been here all of ten minutes and you're already pulling numbers. You tall motherfuckers got it easy, huh?”
Keshawn felt his cheeks burn. "It's not like that," he mumbled, but Ronnie was already moving on, waving at someone approaching from the library's entrance.
…
Ronnie and Angela sat at a small table near the window, trays laden with an assortment of questionable cafeteria fare. The official tour had ended but the part that most of the visiting high school seniors were looking forward to had just began as the sun had set on Texas Southern’s campus. They’d be spending the night on campus at a nearby motel but check-in for curfew wasn’t for a few hours with their chaperons just as likely to dabble into the nightlife themselves with Houston’s downtown being only a short Uber ride away.
Ronnie stabbed at the soggy fried chicken with his fork, his eyes darting across the room. "Yo, check it out," he said, nodding towards a table in the corner. "Looks like our boy Keshawn is living his best life over there."
Angela followed his gaze, her brow furrowing as she spotted Keshawn. He was seated at a table with three girls, none of them from Black Excellence but rather from the local scene. One of them - the girl from the library steps - reached out and touched his arm, eliciting a shy smile from Keshawn.
"Man, I don't know how he does it," Ronnie chuckled, shaking his head. "Dude's barely said two words this whole trip, and now he's got a whole fan club."
Angela's initial reaction was one of concern. She opened her mouth to say something, but then paused, watching Keshawn more closely. His posture was relaxed, his smile genuine. It was the most animated she'd seen him since they left LA.
"Good for him," she said, surprising herself. "I was starting to worry he wasn't feeling any of these schools."
Ronnie raised an eyebrow. "For real? I thought you'd be all 'we're here to focus on our futures, not flirt with these bitches.'"
Angela rolled her eyes, but there was no real annoyance behind it. "Look, I want us all to take this seriously. But I also want us to find somewhere we can be happy, you know? If Keshawn's vibing with the people here, that's a good thing."
“I’m glad it ain’t just me you do the overbearing mother shit on,” Ronnie teased, “I was beginning to think you thought I was ain’t shit or something.”
“You might still not be shit,” Angela joked back, trying to mask the sting of his comments, “I just…speak my mind, that’s all.”
Ronnie leaned back in his chair, his expression softening. "Look, Ang, I get it. You care. A lot. And that's dope. But sometimes, you come on a little strong, you know? People might not always be ready to hear what you're saying, even if it's the truth."
Angela's eyes flashed, but she took a deep breath before responding. "And what, I should just sugarcoat everything? Pretend like shit’s not fucked up?”
"Nah, that's not what I'm saying," Ronnie said, pushing his tray aside. "It's just... sometimes you catch more flies with honey than vinegar, you feel me?"
Angela scoffed, but there was a hint of uncertainty in her voice. "So what, you’re telling me to smile more? Flirt a little? Get everyone to think they have a shot with me so they join the club?”
Ronnie shook his head. "It's not about that. It’s about being…approachable. At the end of the day, people want to be around people that make them feel good and aren’t angry all of the time.”
Angela's shoulders slumped slightly. She glanced over at Keshawn, still engrossed in conversation with the girls. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter. "You don't think I know that? Every time I open my mouth, I'm fighting against being labeled as just another angry Black woman. Even when I have every right to be angry."
Ronnie leaned forward, his elbows on the table. He stayed quiet and let the silence linger as he could see the wheels turning in Angela’s head, deciding on what she was going to say next.
When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. "You know the shit with my mom, right?”
Ronnie nodded, his expression serious.
“She didn’t just wake up a fucking crackhead,” Angela continued, “The system let her down at every step of the way. They let that White motherfucker out of jail with a bunch of DUIs just to do it again and even then, he got a fucking slap on the wrist. The fucking justice system fucked us. The insurance company fucked her, they fucked us. This isn’t just about some fucking slogan for me, this is about making real fucking change to change this shit and leave it better than we found it.”
Ronnie reached out, covering Angela's hand with his own. "Damn, Ang.”
Angela nodded, blinking back tears. "So yeah, maybe I come on too strong sometimes. But I've seen what happens when people don't speak up, when they just accept things as they are.”
"I hear you," Ronnie said softly. "And I'm not saying you should be. Your voice matters, Angela. I just think sometimes, you might reach more people if you approach it differently."
Angela was quiet for a moment, considering his words. "Maybe you're right," she admitted. "But it's not easy, you know? To stay calm when everything inside you is screaming."
Ronnie squeezed her hand. Angela's eyes met Ronnie's, and for a moment, the bustling cafeteria around them faded away. The fluorescent lights seemed to soften, casting a warm glow on Ronnie's face. She noticed the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the slight curve of his lips as he offered a reassuring smile. Without thinking, she reached out, her fingers brushing against his hand.
The touch sent a jolt through her, like static electricity but warmer, more alive. Angela's breath caught in her throat as she realized how close they were sitting, how intimate this moment felt. The world seemed to slow down, the chatter of other students fading to a distant hum.
Just as Angela opened her mouth to speak, not sure what she was going to say but feeling the need to break the silence, a shadow fell across their table.
"Hey, guys," Keshawn's voice cut through the moment like a knife, causing Angela and Ronnie to jerk apart guiltily. Angela's hand flew back to her lap as if burned, while Ronnie leaned back in his chair, trying to appear casual.
Keshawn, oblivious to the tension he'd just interrupted, continued speaking. "So, uh, I kind of got invited to this party on campus," he said, his words tumbling out in a rush. "It's at one of dorms, I guess. Sharice – that's the girl from earlier – she said it would be a good chance to see what campus life is really like."
Angela blinked, trying to process this sudden shift. "I’m not your mom, Keshawn.”
Keshawn shuffled his feet, looking uncharacteristically animated. "Yeah, I know. It’s just with curfew... maybe you could cover for me?”
Angela opened her mouth to protest, but Ronnie cut in. "Come on, Ang. Let the man live a little. It's not every day we get to experience college life firsthand. Besides, if you ain’t trying to have him with the Becky’s and all at Pepperdine, you got to let Sharice show him a good time."
“Fine,” Angela laughed, “Just don’t be dumb, okay?”
…
A sharp knock echoed through the small apartment, startling Loraine from her nap before her graveyard shift. She bolted upright on the worn couch, her heart racing as she glanced at the glowing numbers on the microwave: 8:47 PM. Fear gripped her chest, memories of Fat Stacks' last visit flashing through her mind - his hulking frame filling the doorway, the way his presence left a longing feeling in the living room long after his departure.
The knock came again, more insistent this time. She inched towards the door, her bare feet silent on the threadbare carpet.
"Who is it?" she called, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice.
"Mrs. Chase? It's Daniel Hartman from Oaks Christian School. I apologize for the late hour, but I was hoping to speak with you about your son, Keshawn."
Loraine's brow furrowed in confusion. Oaks Christian? That was the private school in Westlake Village, wasn't it? They considered them for a while for Simone but opted to let her finish her entire schooling at Thornwood instead.
She hesitated, then slowly opened the door, keeping the chain latched. A clean-cut man in his early thirties stood in the dimly lit hallway, looking apologetic and slightly out of place in his crisp polo shirt and khakis.
"I'm so sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Chase," he said, his voice low and earnest. "I know it's terribly late, but I've been trying to reach you all day. We normally reach out on email or a call but we couldn’t get a hold of you. We have an incredible opportunity for Keshawn, and I didn't want to wait any longer to discuss it with you."
Loraine's grip on the bat loosened slightly, but she didn't unlock the chain. "What kind of opportunity?"
Daniel's face lit up. "A full athletic scholarship to Oaks Christian. We've been following Keshawn's basketball career closely, and we believe he would be an incredible asset to our program. Not to mention the academic opportunities our school could provide him."
"I... I don't understand," she stammered. "How did you even find us?"
Daniel's smile faltered slightly. "Well, to be honest, Mrs. Chase, it wasn't easy. We've been trying to reach you through official channels for weeks, but when we couldn't get a response, I took it upon myself to track you down. I hope you can forgive the intrusion, but I truly believe this could be life-changing for Keshawn."
…
Keshawn gripped the edges of the porcelain sink as he tried to steady himself in the cramped dorm bathroom. He squinted at his reflection in the smudged mirror, barely recognizing the glassy-eyed, grinning version of himself that stared back.
The room seemed to sway slightly, and Keshawn closed his eyes, taking deep breaths to fight the waves of nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. He'd lost count of how many red Solo cups he'd drained at the party, each one filled with a concoction that tasted like fruit punch but packed a punch he wasn't prepared for.
Despite his discomfort, Keshawn couldn't help but chuckle at the memory of the night. The pulsing music, the press of bodies in the crowded dorm common room, the way Sharice's hand felt in his as she pulled him onto the makeshift dance floor.
He splashed some cold water on his face, the shock momentarily clearing his head. As he fumbled for a paper towel, his eyes landed on a tube of toothpaste on the cluttered counter. With clumsy fingers, he squeezed a dollop onto his index finger and rubbed it around his mouth, desperate to mask the smell of alcohol on his breath.
The minty freshness only served to intensify his dizziness. Keshawn slumped against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the cold tile floor. He pulled out his phone, squinting at the too-bright screen. It was 2:37 AM. No point in rushing to the motel room now, he’d be in trouble no matter what.
Guilt gnawed at him briefly, but it was quickly overwhelmed by a giddy sense of rebellion. For once, he wasn't following anyone else's rules or expectations. He was living in the moment, consequences be damned.
A soft knock on the door jolted him from his thoughts. "Keshawn?" Sharice's voice was muffled but unmistakable. "You okay in there?"
"Yeah," he called back, his own voice sounding strange and far away. "Just... just a minute."
“We’re waiting for you,” she managed to get out in between giggles.
With considerable effort, Keshawn hauled himself to his feet. His reflection grinned back at him, a cocky, unfamiliar expression that he kind of liked.
As he reached for the doorknob, a small voice in the back of his mind whispered a warning about curfews, responsibilities and Gayle. But the alcohol coursing through his veins drowned it out, replacing it with the eager anticipation of what was underneath’s Sharice’s tight-fitting one piece.
Keshawn stumbled out of the bathroom, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the dim room. To his surprise, Sharice wasn't alone - her friend Maya was with her, both girls leaning against the wall with mischievous grins.
"Took you long enough," Sharice teased, reaching for his hand.
Keshawn's alcohol-addled brain struggled to process the situation. He'd assumed Maya had left earlier. His disappointment must have shown on his face, because both girls burst into giggles.
"Don't worry," Maya said, her voice low and sultry. "I'm not here to get in the way."
Before Keshawn could respond, Sharice was pulling him down the hall towards her dorm room. Maya followed close behind, her hand brushing against the small of his back. The touch sent shivers up his spine, igniting a mix of confusion and excitement.
Inside the room, the girls wasted no time. Sharice's lips found his in a hungry kiss while Maya's hands roamed his chest, tugging at his shirt. Keshawn's head spun, partly from the alcohol and partly from the realization of what was happening.
As Maya's fingers deftly unbuckled his belt, Keshawn's gaze drifted upwards. The ceiling swam in his vision, popcorn texture blurring into abstract patterns. A goofy grin spread across his face.
"Damn," he slurred, "I fucking love Texas Southern."
The bus lurched to a stop, its brakes hissing as it settled in front of the iron gates of Texas Southern University. Keshawn Chase unfolded from his seat near the back, ducking his head to avoid the low ceiling as he shuffled down the aisle. He was the last to exit, his creased Air Forces hitting the sun-baked pavement with a dull thud.
The Houston heat hit him like a wall, instantly beading sweat on his forehead. Keshawn squinted against the glare, taking in the sprawling campus before him with a mixture of fatigue and indifference. This was the third stop on their HBCU tour, and so far, nothing had managed to capture his interest.
Paul Quinn College had been quaint, its small campus nestled in the outskirts of Dallas feeling more like a high school than a university. The tour guide's enthusiasm hadn't been enough to overcome the dated facilities and limited course offerings. Texas College in Tyler had been a slight improvement but Keshawn couldn't shake the feeling that it was too small, too isolated, too dilapidated. After all, he was trying to get out of South Central LA, not just find another version of it.
He had initially welcomed the escape from the grind that the summer had began to feel like: early morning workouts with Vic, working out with the team afterwards and then getting some runs, whether in an official tournament or an just at the park, before finishing the day with some hours that his mom had managed to pick up for him at her job. But the long hours on the bus had began to wore on him and he was running out of podcasts to listen to.
Keshawn trudged behind Angela and the rest of the group as she began her purposeful march towards the library. The campus buzzed with more summer activity than Keshawn had anticipated and witnessed at their other stops. As they walked, Keshawn couldn't help but notice the lingering glances.
As they approached the library's imposing facade, its columns stretching skyward, Keshawn's gaze was drawn to a petite girl with close-cropped curls and wire-rimmed glasses. She sat cross-legged on the steps, a book open in her lap, but her eyes were locked on him. Unlike the others, her stare was direct, almost challenging.
They came to a stop near the library entrance, Angela checking her phone for updates from their tour guide. Keshawn shifted his weight from one foot to the other, acutely aware of the eyes still on him. Suddenly, the girl from the steps was in front of him, her book clutched to her chest like a shield.
"Hi," she said, her voice surprisingly steady despite the hint of nervousness in her eyes. "I'm Sharice. You guys are part of a group or something?”
Keshawn cleared his throat, having not spoken nearly the entire day. "Uh, yeah. We’re like doing campus tours and stuff across Texas, we’re from LA.”
“And your name?”
“Oh, sorry, Keshawn,” he let out an awkward chuckle.
Sharice's smile widened. "Well, Keshawn, I hope we make your shortlist. And if it does..." She grabbed his phone that was hanging by his side. Before he could react, she went typing away at his screen. "Maybe we could hang out.”
With that, she turned and walked away, leaving Keshawn staring at his hand in disbelief. Ronnie caught the tail end of the exchange and let out a low whistle.
"Damn," he said, a hint of amusement in his voice. "We've been here all of ten minutes and you're already pulling numbers. You tall motherfuckers got it easy, huh?”
Keshawn felt his cheeks burn. "It's not like that," he mumbled, but Ronnie was already moving on, waving at someone approaching from the library's entrance.
…
Ronnie and Angela sat at a small table near the window, trays laden with an assortment of questionable cafeteria fare. The official tour had ended but the part that most of the visiting high school seniors were looking forward to had just began as the sun had set on Texas Southern’s campus. They’d be spending the night on campus at a nearby motel but check-in for curfew wasn’t for a few hours with their chaperons just as likely to dabble into the nightlife themselves with Houston’s downtown being only a short Uber ride away.
Ronnie stabbed at the soggy fried chicken with his fork, his eyes darting across the room. "Yo, check it out," he said, nodding towards a table in the corner. "Looks like our boy Keshawn is living his best life over there."
Angela followed his gaze, her brow furrowing as she spotted Keshawn. He was seated at a table with three girls, none of them from Black Excellence but rather from the local scene. One of them - the girl from the library steps - reached out and touched his arm, eliciting a shy smile from Keshawn.
"Man, I don't know how he does it," Ronnie chuckled, shaking his head. "Dude's barely said two words this whole trip, and now he's got a whole fan club."
Angela's initial reaction was one of concern. She opened her mouth to say something, but then paused, watching Keshawn more closely. His posture was relaxed, his smile genuine. It was the most animated she'd seen him since they left LA.
"Good for him," she said, surprising herself. "I was starting to worry he wasn't feeling any of these schools."
Ronnie raised an eyebrow. "For real? I thought you'd be all 'we're here to focus on our futures, not flirt with these bitches.'"
Angela rolled her eyes, but there was no real annoyance behind it. "Look, I want us all to take this seriously. But I also want us to find somewhere we can be happy, you know? If Keshawn's vibing with the people here, that's a good thing."
“I’m glad it ain’t just me you do the overbearing mother shit on,” Ronnie teased, “I was beginning to think you thought I was ain’t shit or something.”
“You might still not be shit,” Angela joked back, trying to mask the sting of his comments, “I just…speak my mind, that’s all.”
Ronnie leaned back in his chair, his expression softening. "Look, Ang, I get it. You care. A lot. And that's dope. But sometimes, you come on a little strong, you know? People might not always be ready to hear what you're saying, even if it's the truth."
Angela's eyes flashed, but she took a deep breath before responding. "And what, I should just sugarcoat everything? Pretend like shit’s not fucked up?”
"Nah, that's not what I'm saying," Ronnie said, pushing his tray aside. "It's just... sometimes you catch more flies with honey than vinegar, you feel me?"
Angela scoffed, but there was a hint of uncertainty in her voice. "So what, you’re telling me to smile more? Flirt a little? Get everyone to think they have a shot with me so they join the club?”
Ronnie shook his head. "It's not about that. It’s about being…approachable. At the end of the day, people want to be around people that make them feel good and aren’t angry all of the time.”
Angela's shoulders slumped slightly. She glanced over at Keshawn, still engrossed in conversation with the girls. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter. "You don't think I know that? Every time I open my mouth, I'm fighting against being labeled as just another angry Black woman. Even when I have every right to be angry."
Ronnie leaned forward, his elbows on the table. He stayed quiet and let the silence linger as he could see the wheels turning in Angela’s head, deciding on what she was going to say next.
When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. "You know the shit with my mom, right?”
Ronnie nodded, his expression serious.
“She didn’t just wake up a fucking crackhead,” Angela continued, “The system let her down at every step of the way. They let that White motherfucker out of jail with a bunch of DUIs just to do it again and even then, he got a fucking slap on the wrist. The fucking justice system fucked us. The insurance company fucked her, they fucked us. This isn’t just about some fucking slogan for me, this is about making real fucking change to change this shit and leave it better than we found it.”
Ronnie reached out, covering Angela's hand with his own. "Damn, Ang.”
Angela nodded, blinking back tears. "So yeah, maybe I come on too strong sometimes. But I've seen what happens when people don't speak up, when they just accept things as they are.”
"I hear you," Ronnie said softly. "And I'm not saying you should be. Your voice matters, Angela. I just think sometimes, you might reach more people if you approach it differently."
Angela was quiet for a moment, considering his words. "Maybe you're right," she admitted. "But it's not easy, you know? To stay calm when everything inside you is screaming."
Ronnie squeezed her hand. Angela's eyes met Ronnie's, and for a moment, the bustling cafeteria around them faded away. The fluorescent lights seemed to soften, casting a warm glow on Ronnie's face. She noticed the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the slight curve of his lips as he offered a reassuring smile. Without thinking, she reached out, her fingers brushing against his hand.
The touch sent a jolt through her, like static electricity but warmer, more alive. Angela's breath caught in her throat as she realized how close they were sitting, how intimate this moment felt. The world seemed to slow down, the chatter of other students fading to a distant hum.
Just as Angela opened her mouth to speak, not sure what she was going to say but feeling the need to break the silence, a shadow fell across their table.
"Hey, guys," Keshawn's voice cut through the moment like a knife, causing Angela and Ronnie to jerk apart guiltily. Angela's hand flew back to her lap as if burned, while Ronnie leaned back in his chair, trying to appear casual.
Keshawn, oblivious to the tension he'd just interrupted, continued speaking. "So, uh, I kind of got invited to this party on campus," he said, his words tumbling out in a rush. "It's at one of dorms, I guess. Sharice – that's the girl from earlier – she said it would be a good chance to see what campus life is really like."
Angela blinked, trying to process this sudden shift. "I’m not your mom, Keshawn.”
Keshawn shuffled his feet, looking uncharacteristically animated. "Yeah, I know. It’s just with curfew... maybe you could cover for me?”
Angela opened her mouth to protest, but Ronnie cut in. "Come on, Ang. Let the man live a little. It's not every day we get to experience college life firsthand. Besides, if you ain’t trying to have him with the Becky’s and all at Pepperdine, you got to let Sharice show him a good time."
“Fine,” Angela laughed, “Just don’t be dumb, okay?”
…
A sharp knock echoed through the small apartment, startling Loraine from her nap before her graveyard shift. She bolted upright on the worn couch, her heart racing as she glanced at the glowing numbers on the microwave: 8:47 PM. Fear gripped her chest, memories of Fat Stacks' last visit flashing through her mind - his hulking frame filling the doorway, the way his presence left a longing feeling in the living room long after his departure.
The knock came again, more insistent this time. She inched towards the door, her bare feet silent on the threadbare carpet.
"Who is it?" she called, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice.
"Mrs. Chase? It's Daniel Hartman from Oaks Christian School. I apologize for the late hour, but I was hoping to speak with you about your son, Keshawn."
Loraine's brow furrowed in confusion. Oaks Christian? That was the private school in Westlake Village, wasn't it? They considered them for a while for Simone but opted to let her finish her entire schooling at Thornwood instead.
She hesitated, then slowly opened the door, keeping the chain latched. A clean-cut man in his early thirties stood in the dimly lit hallway, looking apologetic and slightly out of place in his crisp polo shirt and khakis.
"I'm so sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Chase," he said, his voice low and earnest. "I know it's terribly late, but I've been trying to reach you all day. We normally reach out on email or a call but we couldn’t get a hold of you. We have an incredible opportunity for Keshawn, and I didn't want to wait any longer to discuss it with you."
Loraine's grip on the bat loosened slightly, but she didn't unlock the chain. "What kind of opportunity?"
Daniel's face lit up. "A full athletic scholarship to Oaks Christian. We've been following Keshawn's basketball career closely, and we believe he would be an incredible asset to our program. Not to mention the academic opportunities our school could provide him."
"I... I don't understand," she stammered. "How did you even find us?"
Daniel's smile faltered slightly. "Well, to be honest, Mrs. Chase, it wasn't easy. We've been trying to reach you through official channels for weeks, but when we couldn't get a response, I took it upon myself to track you down. I hope you can forgive the intrusion, but I truly believe this could be life-changing for Keshawn."
…
Keshawn gripped the edges of the porcelain sink as he tried to steady himself in the cramped dorm bathroom. He squinted at his reflection in the smudged mirror, barely recognizing the glassy-eyed, grinning version of himself that stared back.
The room seemed to sway slightly, and Keshawn closed his eyes, taking deep breaths to fight the waves of nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. He'd lost count of how many red Solo cups he'd drained at the party, each one filled with a concoction that tasted like fruit punch but packed a punch he wasn't prepared for.
Despite his discomfort, Keshawn couldn't help but chuckle at the memory of the night. The pulsing music, the press of bodies in the crowded dorm common room, the way Sharice's hand felt in his as she pulled him onto the makeshift dance floor.
He splashed some cold water on his face, the shock momentarily clearing his head. As he fumbled for a paper towel, his eyes landed on a tube of toothpaste on the cluttered counter. With clumsy fingers, he squeezed a dollop onto his index finger and rubbed it around his mouth, desperate to mask the smell of alcohol on his breath.
The minty freshness only served to intensify his dizziness. Keshawn slumped against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the cold tile floor. He pulled out his phone, squinting at the too-bright screen. It was 2:37 AM. No point in rushing to the motel room now, he’d be in trouble no matter what.
Guilt gnawed at him briefly, but it was quickly overwhelmed by a giddy sense of rebellion. For once, he wasn't following anyone else's rules or expectations. He was living in the moment, consequences be damned.
A soft knock on the door jolted him from his thoughts. "Keshawn?" Sharice's voice was muffled but unmistakable. "You okay in there?"
"Yeah," he called back, his own voice sounding strange and far away. "Just... just a minute."
“We’re waiting for you,” she managed to get out in between giggles.
With considerable effort, Keshawn hauled himself to his feet. His reflection grinned back at him, a cocky, unfamiliar expression that he kind of liked.
As he reached for the doorknob, a small voice in the back of his mind whispered a warning about curfews, responsibilities and Gayle. But the alcohol coursing through his veins drowned it out, replacing it with the eager anticipation of what was underneath’s Sharice’s tight-fitting one piece.
Keshawn stumbled out of the bathroom, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the dim room. To his surprise, Sharice wasn't alone - her friend Maya was with her, both girls leaning against the wall with mischievous grins.
"Took you long enough," Sharice teased, reaching for his hand.
Keshawn's alcohol-addled brain struggled to process the situation. He'd assumed Maya had left earlier. His disappointment must have shown on his face, because both girls burst into giggles.
"Don't worry," Maya said, her voice low and sultry. "I'm not here to get in the way."
Before Keshawn could respond, Sharice was pulling him down the hall towards her dorm room. Maya followed close behind, her hand brushing against the small of his back. The touch sent shivers up his spine, igniting a mix of confusion and excitement.
Inside the room, the girls wasted no time. Sharice's lips found his in a hungry kiss while Maya's hands roamed his chest, tugging at his shirt. Keshawn's head spun, partly from the alcohol and partly from the realization of what was happening.
As Maya's fingers deftly unbuckled his belt, Keshawn's gaze drifted upwards. The ceiling swam in his vision, popcorn texture blurring into abstract patterns. A goofy grin spread across his face.
"Damn," he slurred, "I fucking love Texas Southern."
Last edited by Soapy on 02 Jan 2025, 17:50, edited 1 time in total.
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The JZA
- Posts: 8206
- Joined: 07 Dec 2018, 13:10
Neighborhood.
Someone down the hall watching like:
Probably Agent
Probably Agent
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Caesar
- Chise GOAT
- Posts: 12109
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Neighborhood.
This corny ass negro got two bihs out of nowhere? Must've been fat hoes. 
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Soapy
Topic author - Posts: 12239
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Neighborhood.
Summertime '06 - Episode 9
Loraine's eyes gleamed with determination as she leaned across the kitchen table, her fingers drumming an insistent rhythm on the weathered wood. "Baby, you've got to think bigger," she urged, her voice a mix of honey and steel. "Hamilton's fine and all, but you're destined for more."
Keshawn slouched in his chair, his lanky frame folding in on itself as if trying to escape his mother's words. The smell of dinner—baked chicken and roasted brussels sprouts with honey—wafted through the air, a comforting counterpoint to the tension building between them.
"Ma, I told you," he mumbled, his eyes fixed on a crack in the linoleum floor. "Hamilton’s fine, my grades are even better than my last semester at Thornwood.”
"Fine is never good enough," Loraine cut him off, her voice rising. "Oaks Christian has connections. Real connections that’ll get you into any school you want. And that boarding school your sister found? Do you know how hard she worked to get you on that list?"
Keshawn's jaw tightened, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. "Things changed," he muttered.
Loraine sighed, reaching across the table to grasp her son's hand. "I know, baby and you did the best you could in those circumstances." Her voice softened, tinged with a hint of regret. "But it’s time we get back to our lives, your life.”
The unspoken weight of their family's recent troubles hung in the air between them. Keshawn shifted uncomfortably, feeling the familiar mix of love and frustration that came with his mother's relentless pushing.
"And Texas Southern?" Loraine continued, warming to her theme. "They're fine, but why not aim higher? There’s no reason you can’t get into a Berkeley or UPenn, you’ve always like our East Coast trips.”
“What’s wrong with Southern?” Keshawn fired back, Angela’s words still fresh in his mind.
“If you want to go that route, look into Howard or Clark,” Loraine suggested.
"Ma, please," Keshawn interrupted, finally meeting her gaze. His dark eyes were a storm of emotions—determination, uncertainty, and a hint of defiance.
Loraine opened her mouth to argue, but something in her son's expression gave her pause. She saw a glimmer of the man he was becoming, and it both thrilled and terrified her. After a moment, she nodded, squeezing his hand before letting go.
"Alright, Ke," she said softly. "But promise me you'll at least schedule those interviews. Just to see what's out there."
Keshawn hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. "I'll think about it," he conceded.
…
"You can't be serious, Ke," Angela scoffed, turning around to face him in the backseat. "Oaks Christian? That white-ass school?"
Keshawn shrugged his shoulders, already regretting making mention of it on their way in Vic’s car to a private run that Coach Bronstein had invited him to. He opened his mouth to respond, but Vic cut him off, his voice carrying a hint of exasperation.
"I don’t know," Vic tilted his head. "I’d think about it, cuz. Y’all squad this year?" He shook his head, letting out a low whistle. "It’s pretty much just you and A.J. and we weren’t even good last year.”
Angela's eyes flashed, her braids swinging as she whipped her head towards Vic. "So what? He's supposed to just bail on y'all? On his community?"
Keshawn winced, feeling the weight of her words. He remembered his last time being around that crowd at that party one night. The memory of once again being the token Black friend, feeling like an outsider in his own skin, made his stomach churn.
"It's not like that, Ang," Vic started, his voice low and uncertain, “We talking about basketball right now.”
But Angela was on a roll now, her words tumbling out fast and fierce. "Not like what? Like Thornwood? That place that chewed you up and spit you out?" She looked back towards Keshawn, her eyes burning with intensity. "You remember how that felt, right? When they were done with your Black ass, they didn’t give a fuck.”
The air seemed to thicken around them, heavy with unspoken tensions and painful memories. Keshawn's shoulders slumped, the weight of his mother's expectations and Angela's accusations pressing down on him.
Vic kept his eyes focused on the road. "Look," he said finally, his voice measured. "I get it. I do. But sometimes you gotta play the game to change it, you feel me? This motherfucker can go D1, high-major. Who gives a fuck if he spends a couple months at Oaks? Shit, he gonna use them just like they use him. "
Angela whirled on him, her eyes narrowing. "That's easy for you to say. You're not the one who'd be walking into that lion's den every day."
“And you ain’t either,” he fired back, finally looking into her eyes.
…
The fabric hit Keshawn's chest with a soft thump. He caught it reflexively, his fingers tracing the unfamiliar logo—a stylized mustang in green and gold. For a moment, he hesitated, glancing up at the bleachers where he knew Vic and Angela were watching. Then, with a deep breath, he pulled the jersey over his head.
He kept waiting for instructions from Coach Bronstein but none ever came as the veteran coach simply took a seat on the bench along with the coaches from the college whose facility the run was taking place. He began walking over to the area where the other players wearing a green and gold jersey were milling about in, a few yards away from where the other group — all wearing white — were huddled up.
Keshawn approached the group of green-clad players, feeling like an intruder in their midst. As he drew closer, the easy chatter and laughter of the college players washed over him, a foreign language he couldn't quite decipher.
They were all older, their bodies filled out with muscle where Keshawn still had awkward angles. One guy, built like a truck with biceps that strained against his jersey, was regaling the others with a story about some wild party. Another, lean and wiry with a closely cropped fade, kept glancing at his phone and muttering about his girlfriend.
Keshawn hovered on the edge of the group, trying to look casual as he stretched. He caught snatches of their conversation – something about a tough economics professor, plans for spring break in Cancun, arguments over the latest NBA signings. It was a world away from the hallways of Hamilton High, and Keshawn felt every inch the outsider.
A whistle pierced the air, sharp and insistent. The players began to move towards the court, their movements fluid and practiced. Keshawn followed, his steps just a beat behind, like a dancer who couldn't quite find the rhythm.
As they lined up for the jump ball, Keshawn found himself face-to-face with a player from the white team. The guy was easily six-foot-nine, with a wingspan that seemed to stretch for miles. He grinned at Keshawn, a predator sizing up its prey.
The ball went up, and suddenly the court exploded into motion. Keshawn's team got possession, and he instinctively cut towards the basket. But before he could even think about calling for the ball, his defender had already anticipated the move, cutting off his lane.
Keshawn backpedaled, trying to create space, but everywhere he turned, there was another body, another set of hands reaching into his space. The ball whizzed past his ear, a green blur as it was passed from player to player in a dizzying sequence.
Someone called out a play – "Floppy! Floppy!" – and suddenly everyone was moving. Keshawn hesitated for a split second, unsure of where to go, and in that moment, his man had already slipped past him, catching a perfect bounce pass for an easy layup.
On the next possession, Keshawn finally got his hands on the ball. He pivoted, looking for an open teammate, but the defense swarmed him instantly. Hands reached in from all directions, slapping at the ball. In a panic, Keshawn tried to dribble, but the ball bounced off his foot and rolled out of bounds.
He jogged back on defense, cheeks burning with embarrassment. The white team was already in motion, setting screens and making cuts that left Keshawn's head spinning. He found himself caught in a pick, too overwhelmed to have heard his teammate’s warning. He tried to maneuver his way around it but it was too late as he saw his man catch the ball and quickly released it for an easy bucket.
As the game wore on, Keshawn felt like he was drowning in a sea of green and white. Every move he made seemed a step behind, every decision a split-second too late. The college players moved with a fluidity and purpose that left him scrambling to keep up, always one play behind.
On offense, Keshawn found himself constantly out of position. When he cut to the basket, the ball would sail over his head to a teammate he hadn't even seen. When he tried to set screens, his teammates would slip past before he was set, leaving him standing awkwardly as the play developed elsewhere. The few times the ball did find its way into his hands, he felt the pressure of the moment like a physical weight, causing his usually smooth shot to clank off the rim or sail wide.
Defensively, things were somehow even worse. The white team's offense was a whirlwind of motion, screens, and cuts that left Keshawn's head spinning. He'd find himself caught on screens, unable to fight through the solid wall of muscle that suddenly appeared before him. When he tried to switch, he'd end up mismatched against players who towered over him or guards who left him in the dust with lightning-quick crossovers.
The game became a blur of missed assignments, turnovers, and frustrated glances from teammates. Keshawn's lungs burned as he tried to keep up with the relentless pace, his legs feeling like lead weights as he sprinted from one end of the court to the other.
From the sidelines, Coach Bronstein watched with a mixture of stern satisfaction and grudging admiration. His weathered face remained impassive, but his eyes gleamed with a calculated intensity. He nodded slightly as Keshawn fumbled another pass, muttering under his breath, "That's right, boychick. Feel it. Learn it."
The old coach's gaze swept over the court, taking in the intricate dance of players and ball. He saw the gaps in Keshawn's game laid bare, the raw potential struggling against the harsh reality of high-level play. Every mistake, every moment of hesitation, every flash of frustration on the young player's face was a lesson being etched into Keshawn's memory.
Up in the bleachers, Vic sat rigid, his hands clenched into tight fists. He winced with each of Keshawn's missteps, feeling every turnover and missed shot as if they were his own. "Come on, cuz," he muttered, too low for anyone else to hear. "Just fucking hoop, bro."
But Vic could see the tension in Keshawn's shoulders, the slight hesitation in his movements that betrayed his cousin's growing frustration. He wanted nothing more than to rush down to the court, to pull Keshawn aside and give him some pointers on the actions that they were running, get him going with an easy play to boost his confidence.
But he couldn’t. All he could do was watch.
Loraine's eyes gleamed with determination as she leaned across the kitchen table, her fingers drumming an insistent rhythm on the weathered wood. "Baby, you've got to think bigger," she urged, her voice a mix of honey and steel. "Hamilton's fine and all, but you're destined for more."
Keshawn slouched in his chair, his lanky frame folding in on itself as if trying to escape his mother's words. The smell of dinner—baked chicken and roasted brussels sprouts with honey—wafted through the air, a comforting counterpoint to the tension building between them.
"Ma, I told you," he mumbled, his eyes fixed on a crack in the linoleum floor. "Hamilton’s fine, my grades are even better than my last semester at Thornwood.”
"Fine is never good enough," Loraine cut him off, her voice rising. "Oaks Christian has connections. Real connections that’ll get you into any school you want. And that boarding school your sister found? Do you know how hard she worked to get you on that list?"
Keshawn's jaw tightened, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. "Things changed," he muttered.
Loraine sighed, reaching across the table to grasp her son's hand. "I know, baby and you did the best you could in those circumstances." Her voice softened, tinged with a hint of regret. "But it’s time we get back to our lives, your life.”
The unspoken weight of their family's recent troubles hung in the air between them. Keshawn shifted uncomfortably, feeling the familiar mix of love and frustration that came with his mother's relentless pushing.
"And Texas Southern?" Loraine continued, warming to her theme. "They're fine, but why not aim higher? There’s no reason you can’t get into a Berkeley or UPenn, you’ve always like our East Coast trips.”
“What’s wrong with Southern?” Keshawn fired back, Angela’s words still fresh in his mind.
“If you want to go that route, look into Howard or Clark,” Loraine suggested.
"Ma, please," Keshawn interrupted, finally meeting her gaze. His dark eyes were a storm of emotions—determination, uncertainty, and a hint of defiance.
Loraine opened her mouth to argue, but something in her son's expression gave her pause. She saw a glimmer of the man he was becoming, and it both thrilled and terrified her. After a moment, she nodded, squeezing his hand before letting go.
"Alright, Ke," she said softly. "But promise me you'll at least schedule those interviews. Just to see what's out there."
Keshawn hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. "I'll think about it," he conceded.
…
"You can't be serious, Ke," Angela scoffed, turning around to face him in the backseat. "Oaks Christian? That white-ass school?"
Keshawn shrugged his shoulders, already regretting making mention of it on their way in Vic’s car to a private run that Coach Bronstein had invited him to. He opened his mouth to respond, but Vic cut him off, his voice carrying a hint of exasperation.
"I don’t know," Vic tilted his head. "I’d think about it, cuz. Y’all squad this year?" He shook his head, letting out a low whistle. "It’s pretty much just you and A.J. and we weren’t even good last year.”
Angela's eyes flashed, her braids swinging as she whipped her head towards Vic. "So what? He's supposed to just bail on y'all? On his community?"
Keshawn winced, feeling the weight of her words. He remembered his last time being around that crowd at that party one night. The memory of once again being the token Black friend, feeling like an outsider in his own skin, made his stomach churn.
"It's not like that, Ang," Vic started, his voice low and uncertain, “We talking about basketball right now.”
But Angela was on a roll now, her words tumbling out fast and fierce. "Not like what? Like Thornwood? That place that chewed you up and spit you out?" She looked back towards Keshawn, her eyes burning with intensity. "You remember how that felt, right? When they were done with your Black ass, they didn’t give a fuck.”
The air seemed to thicken around them, heavy with unspoken tensions and painful memories. Keshawn's shoulders slumped, the weight of his mother's expectations and Angela's accusations pressing down on him.
Vic kept his eyes focused on the road. "Look," he said finally, his voice measured. "I get it. I do. But sometimes you gotta play the game to change it, you feel me? This motherfucker can go D1, high-major. Who gives a fuck if he spends a couple months at Oaks? Shit, he gonna use them just like they use him. "
Angela whirled on him, her eyes narrowing. "That's easy for you to say. You're not the one who'd be walking into that lion's den every day."
“And you ain’t either,” he fired back, finally looking into her eyes.
…
The fabric hit Keshawn's chest with a soft thump. He caught it reflexively, his fingers tracing the unfamiliar logo—a stylized mustang in green and gold. For a moment, he hesitated, glancing up at the bleachers where he knew Vic and Angela were watching. Then, with a deep breath, he pulled the jersey over his head.
He kept waiting for instructions from Coach Bronstein but none ever came as the veteran coach simply took a seat on the bench along with the coaches from the college whose facility the run was taking place. He began walking over to the area where the other players wearing a green and gold jersey were milling about in, a few yards away from where the other group — all wearing white — were huddled up.
Keshawn approached the group of green-clad players, feeling like an intruder in their midst. As he drew closer, the easy chatter and laughter of the college players washed over him, a foreign language he couldn't quite decipher.
They were all older, their bodies filled out with muscle where Keshawn still had awkward angles. One guy, built like a truck with biceps that strained against his jersey, was regaling the others with a story about some wild party. Another, lean and wiry with a closely cropped fade, kept glancing at his phone and muttering about his girlfriend.
Keshawn hovered on the edge of the group, trying to look casual as he stretched. He caught snatches of their conversation – something about a tough economics professor, plans for spring break in Cancun, arguments over the latest NBA signings. It was a world away from the hallways of Hamilton High, and Keshawn felt every inch the outsider.
A whistle pierced the air, sharp and insistent. The players began to move towards the court, their movements fluid and practiced. Keshawn followed, his steps just a beat behind, like a dancer who couldn't quite find the rhythm.
As they lined up for the jump ball, Keshawn found himself face-to-face with a player from the white team. The guy was easily six-foot-nine, with a wingspan that seemed to stretch for miles. He grinned at Keshawn, a predator sizing up its prey.
The ball went up, and suddenly the court exploded into motion. Keshawn's team got possession, and he instinctively cut towards the basket. But before he could even think about calling for the ball, his defender had already anticipated the move, cutting off his lane.
Keshawn backpedaled, trying to create space, but everywhere he turned, there was another body, another set of hands reaching into his space. The ball whizzed past his ear, a green blur as it was passed from player to player in a dizzying sequence.
Someone called out a play – "Floppy! Floppy!" – and suddenly everyone was moving. Keshawn hesitated for a split second, unsure of where to go, and in that moment, his man had already slipped past him, catching a perfect bounce pass for an easy layup.
On the next possession, Keshawn finally got his hands on the ball. He pivoted, looking for an open teammate, but the defense swarmed him instantly. Hands reached in from all directions, slapping at the ball. In a panic, Keshawn tried to dribble, but the ball bounced off his foot and rolled out of bounds.
He jogged back on defense, cheeks burning with embarrassment. The white team was already in motion, setting screens and making cuts that left Keshawn's head spinning. He found himself caught in a pick, too overwhelmed to have heard his teammate’s warning. He tried to maneuver his way around it but it was too late as he saw his man catch the ball and quickly released it for an easy bucket.
As the game wore on, Keshawn felt like he was drowning in a sea of green and white. Every move he made seemed a step behind, every decision a split-second too late. The college players moved with a fluidity and purpose that left him scrambling to keep up, always one play behind.
On offense, Keshawn found himself constantly out of position. When he cut to the basket, the ball would sail over his head to a teammate he hadn't even seen. When he tried to set screens, his teammates would slip past before he was set, leaving him standing awkwardly as the play developed elsewhere. The few times the ball did find its way into his hands, he felt the pressure of the moment like a physical weight, causing his usually smooth shot to clank off the rim or sail wide.
Defensively, things were somehow even worse. The white team's offense was a whirlwind of motion, screens, and cuts that left Keshawn's head spinning. He'd find himself caught on screens, unable to fight through the solid wall of muscle that suddenly appeared before him. When he tried to switch, he'd end up mismatched against players who towered over him or guards who left him in the dust with lightning-quick crossovers.
The game became a blur of missed assignments, turnovers, and frustrated glances from teammates. Keshawn's lungs burned as he tried to keep up with the relentless pace, his legs feeling like lead weights as he sprinted from one end of the court to the other.
From the sidelines, Coach Bronstein watched with a mixture of stern satisfaction and grudging admiration. His weathered face remained impassive, but his eyes gleamed with a calculated intensity. He nodded slightly as Keshawn fumbled another pass, muttering under his breath, "That's right, boychick. Feel it. Learn it."
The old coach's gaze swept over the court, taking in the intricate dance of players and ball. He saw the gaps in Keshawn's game laid bare, the raw potential struggling against the harsh reality of high-level play. Every mistake, every moment of hesitation, every flash of frustration on the young player's face was a lesson being etched into Keshawn's memory.
Up in the bleachers, Vic sat rigid, his hands clenched into tight fists. He winced with each of Keshawn's missteps, feeling every turnover and missed shot as if they were his own. "Come on, cuz," he muttered, too low for anyone else to hear. "Just fucking hoop, bro."
But Vic could see the tension in Keshawn's shoulders, the slight hesitation in his movements that betrayed his cousin's growing frustration. He wanted nothing more than to rush down to the court, to pull Keshawn aside and give him some pointers on the actions that they were running, get him going with an easy play to boost his confidence.
But he couldn’t. All he could do was watch.
-
Soapy
Topic author - Posts: 12239
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Neighborhood.
Summertime '06 - Episode 10
Keshawn fidgeted with his fork, the metal clattering against the laminate tabletop at Sizzler. The aroma of sizzling steaks and buttery garlic bread wafted through the air, but his appetite had abandoned him. Gayle sat across from him, her brown eyes twinkling with mischief as she watched him squirm.
"Damn, Ke, you look like you about to jump out your skin," Gayle teased, reaching for a breadstick. "What's got you so shook? Scared someone gonna see us together?"
Keshawn forced a weak smile, his stomach churning with guilt. The memory of those girls from the campus visit flashed through his mind - their soft skin, their eager touches. He swallowed hard, pushing the thoughts away.
"Nah, it ain't like that," he mumbled, his eyes darting around the restaurant. Families chatted over plates piled high with fried shrimp and mashed potatoes. A group of teenagers horsed around by the salad bar. None of them paid any attention to Keshawn and Gayle.
Gayle leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I ain’t like those girls that need to be wined and dine. Shit, we got a good thing going if you just want to keep it like that, you’re the one that asked me out." She grinned, clearly enjoying his discomfort.
Keshawn shook his head, willing himself to relax. "I'm good, just... thinking about some college shit.”
"Uh-huh," Gayle said, unconvinced. She reached across the table, her fingers brushing his. The touch sent a jolt through Keshawn, equal parts desire and shame. "You know, we can bounce. Like I said, I know what this is. I ain’t never asked for more.”
"No!" Keshawn said, a little too forcefully. He lowered his voice. "I mean, nah, I just feel like I should tell you that something happened while I was on those visits with some girls and…”
Gayle's hand shot up, cutting him off mid-sentence. "Hold up, now. You don't gotta explain yourself to me," she said, her voice firm but not unkind. "We don’t go together, baby. You think I’m blind, Keshawn? Tall, dark, and handsome and not a thirsty ass nigga always in a bitch face? Bitches gonna be throwing themselves at you and I’d be a dumb motherfucker to think you’re going to turn them all down. Especially some college pussy?” She paused, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "All I want is my piece of the action, and for you to not bring me no shit, got it?”
"I... yeah, I feel you," he managed, his voice hoarse. The guilt that had been gnawing at him began to recede, replaced by a dawning realization of the complexities of their relationship. Gayle's pragmatism both impressed and unsettled him. He was already a novice to the fairer sex, let alone the intricacies of a relationship that wasn’t black nor white.
"Now," Gayle said, her trademark mischievous grin returning, "How fine was these bitches?”
“Come on,” Keshawn laughed, his cheeks warming.
“What? Don’t be out there slanging good dick to ugly bitches,” Gayle scoffed, “You know I like girls too, right?”
“I didn’t know that,” Keshawn's eyes widened, caught off guard by Gayle's admission as he had started to believe that the rumors about her promiscuity were overblown, “They were cute.”
Gayle nodded appreciatively, gesturing for him to continue.
"Nice bodies but a bit on the skinny side. Her friend surprised me though, didn’t expect her to have all…that.”
A low whistle escaped Gayle's lips. "Damn, Ke! I hope you held your own. So, you serious about going to a school like Texas Southern? Sounds like you had yourself a time."
Keshawn's playful demeanor faded, replaced by a furrowed brow. "I don’t know. I mean, it was fun, for sure, not just talking about…that. The vibe was cool, Houston’s right there but…I mean, everyone keeps saying I’m going to get these offers from bigger schools and that means more money…”
Gayle nodded, her expression turning serious. "Being for the culture is dope and shit but you gotta think about your future, too. What's gonna set you up best?"
"I don't know," Keshawn admitted, shrugging his shoulder. "Part of me wants that experience, you know? To be surrounded by people who look like me, to actually play for something bigger than me. But then I think about the money I could make, help my family out and shit with their situation…
“At the end of the day, you gotta think of yourself first. No one else is gonna do it for you."
…
The sun dipped low over the Pacific, casting a golden glow across the manicured lawn of Coach Bronstein's Malibu estate. The salty breeze carried the faint scent of jasmine from Nina's prized garden, mingling with the rich aroma of grilled lamb chops sizzling on the state-of-the-art outdoor kitchen.
Stewie paced back and forth on the flagstone patio, his hands gesticulating wildly as he spoke. "Dad, I don't understand. I've been working for months to build Keshawn's confidence, to get him to believe in himself. And now you want to, what, tear him down?"
Bronstein stood stoically by the grill, tongs in hand, his weathered face impassive as he flipped a chop with practiced precision. "Whoop-de-fucking-do," he growled, his voice gravelly from years of barking orders on the court. "You’ve built him up to the point that you guys don’t get embarrassed by Westchester? If that’s all we’re going for here, I could have stayed retired.”
Stewie ran a hand through his hair, exasperation evident in every movement. "This isn’t Mater Dei, Dad. We’ve got to get our wins where we can and if you saw that kid a year ago, you’d known that he’s come a long way. He needs to be nurtured and—”
"Nurture?" Bronstein scoffed, turning to face his son. "You want to coddle him like a baby bird? This game, this life, it doesn't coddle anyone, Stewart. You of all people should know that."
Stewie flinched at the implied reference to his past mistakes but pressed on. "I'm not saying coddle him. I'm saying we need to be careful. He's just starting to come out of his shell, to trust us. If we push too hard—"
"If we push too hard, what?" Bronstein interrupted, his voice rising. "He'll break? Then he was never meant for greatness in the first place." He jabbed a finger at Stewie's chest. "You wanted me to coach, not me. You begged me to come out of retirement, to help you with this team. Well, this is how I coach. This is how I've always coached."
Stewie's shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of him. "I know, Dad. I know. But times have changed. The kids have changed. We can't just—"
"Times change, people change, but the fundamentals of greatness? Those are eternal." Bronstein's eyes blazed with an intensity that had driven countless players to their limits and beyond. "You think John Wooden would have changed his methods if he were coaching today? You think Red Auerbach would have softened his approach?"
"But Dad—"
"No buts, Stewart." Bronstein's tone was one of finality, “Now go help your mother in the kitchen, you know how her hands get.”
…
The bass throbbed through the floorboards, vibrating up Keshawn's legs as he stood awkwardly in the corner of the dimly lit living room. Bodies writhed and swayed to the music, a sea of dark skin and bright clothing illuminated by the pulsing multicolored lights. It was far from the ‘small kickback’ that Gayle had told him about once they got done with Sizzler.
Gayle appeared at his side, two red Solo cups in hand. She pressed one of the cups into Keshawn's hand, her fingers lingering on his for a moment longer than necessary.
"Here," she shouted over the music, her lips close to his ear. "It's just Hennessy and Coke."
Keshawn eyed the cup warily. He was still recovering from his outing at Texas Southern but Gayle's eyes sparkled with challenge, and he found himself raising the cup to his lips. The liquid burned going down, but he managed not to cough.
Gayle grinned, clearly pleased. "That's what I'm talking about!" She grabbed his free hand, tugging him towards a group of people clustered around a beer pong table. "Come on, stop being that weird ass nigga in the corner.”
As they approached, a few heads turned their way. Keshawn felt the familiar tightness in his chest, the anxiety that always crept in when he was thrust into new social situations. He took another swig of his drink, hoping it would calm his nerves.
"Y'all, this is Keshawn," Gayle announced, her arm snaking around his waist. "I don’t know why I’m telling y’all this like y’all all don’t know this nigga.”
A chorus of greetings met him, some enthusiastic, others merely curious. He greeted all of them before fading into the background, as was his usual want. The alcohol was working its way through his system, softening the edges of his anxiety. He found himself laughing at their jokes, trading playful jabs whenever the opportunity presented. The Hennessy warmed his blood, loosening his usual reserve. He even joined in a game of beer pong, regaling the onlookers with his accuracy.
"Yo, Ke," Gayle called out, her voice cutting through the music. She was beckoning him over, a sly grin on her face. Beside her stood a girl Keshawn recognized from school - Lakisha, one of the varsity cheerleaders.
Lakisha was a vision in a red cut off top and high-waisted jeans that accentuated every curve of her athletic frame. Her dark skin gleamed under the pulsing lights, and her braids were piled high on her head in an intricate style. As Keshawn approached, he couldn't help but notice the way her eyes traveled appreciatively over his tall frame.
"Keshawn, you know Lakisha, right?" Gayle's voice dripped with suggestion. She placed a hand on Lakisha's lower back, guiding her closer to Keshawn. "I was just telling Kisha here about your soft hands.”
Keshawn's eyebrows shot up, a mix of confusion and embarrassment coloring his features. "Uh, what?"
Gayle laughed, the sound rich and throaty. "He uses women’s lotion, girl." She grabbed Keshawn’s hand and placed them on her forearm. "See? I told you!”
Lakisha ducked her head, a shy smile playing on her full lips. "They are pretty soft," she said, her voice soft but carrying a hint of flirtation.
"Thanks," Keshawn mumbled, still trying to process what was happening. He glanced at Gayle, searching for some explanation in her expression, but she just grinned wider.
"I ain’t never lied to you, girl," Gayle laughed, "If y’all tryna go upstairs, just use the second room on the right. The first room is a fucking mess, don’t ask me how I know.”
Lakisha's eyes widened, a blush creeping across her cheeks. But there was no mistaking the interest in her gaze as she looked up at Keshawn through long lashes. "I mean, if you want..." she trailed off, leaving the invitation open.
Keshawn's mind reeled. He looked from Lakisha to Gayle, trying to make sense of the situation. Gayle, the girl he'd been seeing, was essentially pushing him towards another girl.
"I... uh..." he stammered, unsure how to respond.
…
A.J. stepped out of Alyssa's apartment, a grin plastered on his face as he replayed their passionate encounter in his mind. The cool night air hit his flushed skin, and he tugged his hoodie tighter around his body.
Suddenly, a figure emerged from the darkness, followed by another, and another. A.J.'s heart rate spiked as he recognized the faces - the same guys from Smoke’s team a few weeks ago, the ones he'd gotten into it with due to his shit talking.
"What’s good, motherfucker," the tallest one sneered, cracking his knuckles. "You ain’t so big and bad without that fat, slob ass motherfucker now is you?”
A.J. raised his hands, palms out. "Come on, man, that was just basketball. I ain’t mean nothing by it, it wasn’t personal. I don’t even bang or nothing, bro, on my momma."
"Ain't personal?" another guy spat, stepping closer. "You was banging that East Side shit, motherfucker! You was talking real aggressive, real violent words!”
A.J.'s eyes darted between the men, searching for an escape route. "Call Smoke, man. he knows I just hoop bro. I don’t even be out there like that for—"
The first punch caught him off guard, a vicious right hook that sent him staggering backwards. A.J.'s vision blurred as pain exploded across his jaw. Before he could recover, another fist slammed into his stomach, driving the air from his lungs. The men were relentless, raining down blows on A.J.'s head and body. He tried to curl into a ball, to protect himself, but kicks to his ribs left him gasping and exposed.
Blood trickled from A.J.'s split lip, metallic and warm on his tongue. His left eye was already swelling shut.
"Bunch of East Side bitches!" one of the attackers growled, grabbing a fistful of A.J.'s hair and slamming his head against the pavement.
Keshawn fidgeted with his fork, the metal clattering against the laminate tabletop at Sizzler. The aroma of sizzling steaks and buttery garlic bread wafted through the air, but his appetite had abandoned him. Gayle sat across from him, her brown eyes twinkling with mischief as she watched him squirm.
"Damn, Ke, you look like you about to jump out your skin," Gayle teased, reaching for a breadstick. "What's got you so shook? Scared someone gonna see us together?"
Keshawn forced a weak smile, his stomach churning with guilt. The memory of those girls from the campus visit flashed through his mind - their soft skin, their eager touches. He swallowed hard, pushing the thoughts away.
"Nah, it ain't like that," he mumbled, his eyes darting around the restaurant. Families chatted over plates piled high with fried shrimp and mashed potatoes. A group of teenagers horsed around by the salad bar. None of them paid any attention to Keshawn and Gayle.
Gayle leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I ain’t like those girls that need to be wined and dine. Shit, we got a good thing going if you just want to keep it like that, you’re the one that asked me out." She grinned, clearly enjoying his discomfort.
Keshawn shook his head, willing himself to relax. "I'm good, just... thinking about some college shit.”
"Uh-huh," Gayle said, unconvinced. She reached across the table, her fingers brushing his. The touch sent a jolt through Keshawn, equal parts desire and shame. "You know, we can bounce. Like I said, I know what this is. I ain’t never asked for more.”
"No!" Keshawn said, a little too forcefully. He lowered his voice. "I mean, nah, I just feel like I should tell you that something happened while I was on those visits with some girls and…”
Gayle's hand shot up, cutting him off mid-sentence. "Hold up, now. You don't gotta explain yourself to me," she said, her voice firm but not unkind. "We don’t go together, baby. You think I’m blind, Keshawn? Tall, dark, and handsome and not a thirsty ass nigga always in a bitch face? Bitches gonna be throwing themselves at you and I’d be a dumb motherfucker to think you’re going to turn them all down. Especially some college pussy?” She paused, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "All I want is my piece of the action, and for you to not bring me no shit, got it?”
"I... yeah, I feel you," he managed, his voice hoarse. The guilt that had been gnawing at him began to recede, replaced by a dawning realization of the complexities of their relationship. Gayle's pragmatism both impressed and unsettled him. He was already a novice to the fairer sex, let alone the intricacies of a relationship that wasn’t black nor white.
"Now," Gayle said, her trademark mischievous grin returning, "How fine was these bitches?”
“Come on,” Keshawn laughed, his cheeks warming.
“What? Don’t be out there slanging good dick to ugly bitches,” Gayle scoffed, “You know I like girls too, right?”
“I didn’t know that,” Keshawn's eyes widened, caught off guard by Gayle's admission as he had started to believe that the rumors about her promiscuity were overblown, “They were cute.”
Gayle nodded appreciatively, gesturing for him to continue.
"Nice bodies but a bit on the skinny side. Her friend surprised me though, didn’t expect her to have all…that.”
A low whistle escaped Gayle's lips. "Damn, Ke! I hope you held your own. So, you serious about going to a school like Texas Southern? Sounds like you had yourself a time."
Keshawn's playful demeanor faded, replaced by a furrowed brow. "I don’t know. I mean, it was fun, for sure, not just talking about…that. The vibe was cool, Houston’s right there but…I mean, everyone keeps saying I’m going to get these offers from bigger schools and that means more money…”
Gayle nodded, her expression turning serious. "Being for the culture is dope and shit but you gotta think about your future, too. What's gonna set you up best?"
"I don't know," Keshawn admitted, shrugging his shoulder. "Part of me wants that experience, you know? To be surrounded by people who look like me, to actually play for something bigger than me. But then I think about the money I could make, help my family out and shit with their situation…
“At the end of the day, you gotta think of yourself first. No one else is gonna do it for you."
…
The sun dipped low over the Pacific, casting a golden glow across the manicured lawn of Coach Bronstein's Malibu estate. The salty breeze carried the faint scent of jasmine from Nina's prized garden, mingling with the rich aroma of grilled lamb chops sizzling on the state-of-the-art outdoor kitchen.
Stewie paced back and forth on the flagstone patio, his hands gesticulating wildly as he spoke. "Dad, I don't understand. I've been working for months to build Keshawn's confidence, to get him to believe in himself. And now you want to, what, tear him down?"
Bronstein stood stoically by the grill, tongs in hand, his weathered face impassive as he flipped a chop with practiced precision. "Whoop-de-fucking-do," he growled, his voice gravelly from years of barking orders on the court. "You’ve built him up to the point that you guys don’t get embarrassed by Westchester? If that’s all we’re going for here, I could have stayed retired.”
Stewie ran a hand through his hair, exasperation evident in every movement. "This isn’t Mater Dei, Dad. We’ve got to get our wins where we can and if you saw that kid a year ago, you’d known that he’s come a long way. He needs to be nurtured and—”
"Nurture?" Bronstein scoffed, turning to face his son. "You want to coddle him like a baby bird? This game, this life, it doesn't coddle anyone, Stewart. You of all people should know that."
Stewie flinched at the implied reference to his past mistakes but pressed on. "I'm not saying coddle him. I'm saying we need to be careful. He's just starting to come out of his shell, to trust us. If we push too hard—"
"If we push too hard, what?" Bronstein interrupted, his voice rising. "He'll break? Then he was never meant for greatness in the first place." He jabbed a finger at Stewie's chest. "You wanted me to coach, not me. You begged me to come out of retirement, to help you with this team. Well, this is how I coach. This is how I've always coached."
Stewie's shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of him. "I know, Dad. I know. But times have changed. The kids have changed. We can't just—"
"Times change, people change, but the fundamentals of greatness? Those are eternal." Bronstein's eyes blazed with an intensity that had driven countless players to their limits and beyond. "You think John Wooden would have changed his methods if he were coaching today? You think Red Auerbach would have softened his approach?"
"But Dad—"
"No buts, Stewart." Bronstein's tone was one of finality, “Now go help your mother in the kitchen, you know how her hands get.”
…
The bass throbbed through the floorboards, vibrating up Keshawn's legs as he stood awkwardly in the corner of the dimly lit living room. Bodies writhed and swayed to the music, a sea of dark skin and bright clothing illuminated by the pulsing multicolored lights. It was far from the ‘small kickback’ that Gayle had told him about once they got done with Sizzler.
Gayle appeared at his side, two red Solo cups in hand. She pressed one of the cups into Keshawn's hand, her fingers lingering on his for a moment longer than necessary.
"Here," she shouted over the music, her lips close to his ear. "It's just Hennessy and Coke."
Keshawn eyed the cup warily. He was still recovering from his outing at Texas Southern but Gayle's eyes sparkled with challenge, and he found himself raising the cup to his lips. The liquid burned going down, but he managed not to cough.
Gayle grinned, clearly pleased. "That's what I'm talking about!" She grabbed his free hand, tugging him towards a group of people clustered around a beer pong table. "Come on, stop being that weird ass nigga in the corner.”
As they approached, a few heads turned their way. Keshawn felt the familiar tightness in his chest, the anxiety that always crept in when he was thrust into new social situations. He took another swig of his drink, hoping it would calm his nerves.
"Y'all, this is Keshawn," Gayle announced, her arm snaking around his waist. "I don’t know why I’m telling y’all this like y’all all don’t know this nigga.”
A chorus of greetings met him, some enthusiastic, others merely curious. He greeted all of them before fading into the background, as was his usual want. The alcohol was working its way through his system, softening the edges of his anxiety. He found himself laughing at their jokes, trading playful jabs whenever the opportunity presented. The Hennessy warmed his blood, loosening his usual reserve. He even joined in a game of beer pong, regaling the onlookers with his accuracy.
"Yo, Ke," Gayle called out, her voice cutting through the music. She was beckoning him over, a sly grin on her face. Beside her stood a girl Keshawn recognized from school - Lakisha, one of the varsity cheerleaders.
Lakisha was a vision in a red cut off top and high-waisted jeans that accentuated every curve of her athletic frame. Her dark skin gleamed under the pulsing lights, and her braids were piled high on her head in an intricate style. As Keshawn approached, he couldn't help but notice the way her eyes traveled appreciatively over his tall frame.
"Keshawn, you know Lakisha, right?" Gayle's voice dripped with suggestion. She placed a hand on Lakisha's lower back, guiding her closer to Keshawn. "I was just telling Kisha here about your soft hands.”
Keshawn's eyebrows shot up, a mix of confusion and embarrassment coloring his features. "Uh, what?"
Gayle laughed, the sound rich and throaty. "He uses women’s lotion, girl." She grabbed Keshawn’s hand and placed them on her forearm. "See? I told you!”
Lakisha ducked her head, a shy smile playing on her full lips. "They are pretty soft," she said, her voice soft but carrying a hint of flirtation.
"Thanks," Keshawn mumbled, still trying to process what was happening. He glanced at Gayle, searching for some explanation in her expression, but she just grinned wider.
"I ain’t never lied to you, girl," Gayle laughed, "If y’all tryna go upstairs, just use the second room on the right. The first room is a fucking mess, don’t ask me how I know.”
Lakisha's eyes widened, a blush creeping across her cheeks. But there was no mistaking the interest in her gaze as she looked up at Keshawn through long lashes. "I mean, if you want..." she trailed off, leaving the invitation open.
Keshawn's mind reeled. He looked from Lakisha to Gayle, trying to make sense of the situation. Gayle, the girl he'd been seeing, was essentially pushing him towards another girl.
"I... uh..." he stammered, unsure how to respond.
…
A.J. stepped out of Alyssa's apartment, a grin plastered on his face as he replayed their passionate encounter in his mind. The cool night air hit his flushed skin, and he tugged his hoodie tighter around his body.
Suddenly, a figure emerged from the darkness, followed by another, and another. A.J.'s heart rate spiked as he recognized the faces - the same guys from Smoke’s team a few weeks ago, the ones he'd gotten into it with due to his shit talking.
"What’s good, motherfucker," the tallest one sneered, cracking his knuckles. "You ain’t so big and bad without that fat, slob ass motherfucker now is you?”
A.J. raised his hands, palms out. "Come on, man, that was just basketball. I ain’t mean nothing by it, it wasn’t personal. I don’t even bang or nothing, bro, on my momma."
"Ain't personal?" another guy spat, stepping closer. "You was banging that East Side shit, motherfucker! You was talking real aggressive, real violent words!”
A.J.'s eyes darted between the men, searching for an escape route. "Call Smoke, man. he knows I just hoop bro. I don’t even be out there like that for—"
The first punch caught him off guard, a vicious right hook that sent him staggering backwards. A.J.'s vision blurred as pain exploded across his jaw. Before he could recover, another fist slammed into his stomach, driving the air from his lungs. The men were relentless, raining down blows on A.J.'s head and body. He tried to curl into a ball, to protect himself, but kicks to his ribs left him gasping and exposed.
Blood trickled from A.J.'s split lip, metallic and warm on his tongue. His left eye was already swelling shut.
"Bunch of East Side bitches!" one of the attackers growled, grabbing a fistful of A.J.'s hair and slamming his head against the pavement.
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Caesar
- Chise GOAT
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Soapy
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