From the Westside with Love - Episode 4
Keshawn's eyelids drooped as he fought to stay awake during Ms. Patel's riveting lecture on cellular mitosis. The plush leather seats of Thornwood Preparatory's state-of-the-art science lab were entirely too comfortable for a boy running on four hours of sleep. He stifled a yawn, his mind drifting to the arduous journey that brought him here each morning - a 5 AM wake-up call, followed by a bus, the Metro Rail, and a brisk walk through the manicured grounds of the elite private school.
Just as Keshawn's head began to nod forward, a sharp rap at the classroom door jolted him back to alertness. Ms. Patel paused mid-sentence about prophase, her brow furrowing as she glanced at the interruption.
"Yes?" she called out, a hint of annoyance in her crisp accent.
The door creaked open, revealing Mrs. Holloway, the school secretary, her salt-and-pepper hair coiled into a tight bun. Her eyes scanned the room before landing on Keshawn.
"I'm terribly sorry to interrupt," Mrs. Holloway said, her tone suggesting she was anything but, "but I need Keshawn Chase to come with me. Principal Thornton would like a word."
A chorus of sarcastic "oohs" rippled through the classroom, and Keshawn felt his cheeks burn, not one to be the center of the attention. He gathered his things, pointedly avoiding eye contact with his classmates as he shuffled towards the door.
The walk to Principal Thornton's office seemed to stretch on for miles. Keshawn's mind raced, cataloging every minor infraction he'd committed in the past week. Was it the gum he'd been caught chewing in English? The homework assignment he'd turned in a day late?
Mrs. Holloway rapped smartly on the heavy oak door, emblazoned with a gleaming nameplate: "Dr. Eleanor Thornton, Principal."
"Come in," a muffled voice called from within.
Keshawn stepped into the office, immediately enveloped by the scent of leather-bound books and lemon furniture polish. Dr. Thornton sat behind an imposing mahogany desk, her steel-gray hair swept into an elegant chignon. She peered at Keshawn over the rims of her glasses, gesturing for him to take a seat.
"Mr. Chase," she began, her voice gentle but probing, "I've noticed you've been tardy quite frequently this semester. Is everything alright? Obviously, given your circumstance…”
Keshawn squirmed in his seat, suddenly very aware of the blazer that was a touch too small across his shoulders, no longer being able to afford a weekly trip to the cleaners. "Everything's fine, Dr. Thornton," he mumbled, studying the intricate patterns of the Persian rug beneath his feet.
Dr. Thornton leaned in, “This is a delicate question but what’s your current living situation?”
“I’m staying with a family member,” Keshawn was purposely vague as he tried to get comfortable in the seat to no avail.
“Do you have a name? A number, email, preferably?” she continued to prod.
He paused, contemplating providing his sister’s but thought better of it. Simone had finished at the top of her class with her acceptance to UC Irvine, with a full scholarship, garnering plenty of attention that surely would have came across Dr. Thornton’s desk. She’d recognize her name, possible the voice as well.
“Yeah, I have her number,” Keshawn relented, taking out his phone.
…
The squeak of sneakers echoed through the empty gymnasium as Vic barked out instructions, his voice bouncing off the high ceilings. "Push! Push! Hurry the fuck up the court!”
Sweat dripped down his forehead as he dribbled the ball with lightning speed, weaving between his teammates who looked more like orange traffic cones than basketball players. Vic was easily the shortest guy on the court, but what he lacked in height, he made up for in speed and determination.
"Johnson, get your hands up! Ramirez, box out!" Coach Stewie shouted from the sidelines, his frustration growing with each sloppy play. The team's lone victory last season still stung - a narrow win against the worst team in the league, and even that felt like a fluke.
Vic passed the ball to Marcus, their lanky center, who fumbled it before regaining control. Marcus lumbered towards the hoop, his footwork about as graceful as a newborn giraffe. Vic winced as the ball clanged off the rim, not even grazing the net.
"Seriously, Marcus? That's a gimme!" Vic groaned, slapping his hands together. "Let's run it again, man. Just fucking hard dribble, go up strong, finish that shit.”
The team continued to struggle through the rest of practice, each drill seeming more disastrous than the last. Vic watched in dismay as his teammates fumbled passes, missed open shots, and tripped over their own feet. Even the simplest plays fell apart like a house of cards in a hurricane.
By the time Coach Stewie blew the final whistle, Vic felt like he'd aged ten years. The squeaking of sneakers gave way to the heavy breathing and frustrated muttering of his teammates as they trudged towards the locker room. Vic hung back, his eyes scanning the court littered with stray basketballs and discarded water bottles – a perfect metaphor for their team's current state.
Coach Stewie approached, clipboard tucked under his arm, unable to hide the deep frown etched on his face. "Vic, you got a minute?”
Vic nodded, dreading the conversation but knowing it was inevitable.
"Look," Coach Stewie began, "I know we want to run some of these sets but looking like that? It ain’t gonna happen, you know how Coach Hop is.”
Vic sighed, twirling a basketball between his hands. "The sh…the stuff we ran last year didn’t work either, Coach.”
Coach Stewie chuckled despite himself, then quickly sobered. "I get it, kid. Trust me, I do. I've got plays in my head that could revolutionize our offense. Quick passes, constant motion, three-pointers for days. But..."
"But Coach Hopkins won't go for it," Vic finished, knowing all too well the head coach's stubbornness when it came to his old-school philosophy.
"Exactly," Stewie nodded. "And the truth is, until we can nail the basics, we can't even think about anything more advanced. It's like trying to build a skyscraper on a foundation of Jell-O."
Vic snorted at the mental image, then grew serious. "So what do we do?"
Coach Stewie leaned back, his eyes scanning the empty gym as if searching for answers in the rafters. "Just keep working with them, keep putting that extra work and by that time we go through camp, hopefully something clicks and who knows?”
Vic nodded, feeling a glimmer of hope despite the disastrous practice. "Alright, Coach. But if Marcus still sorry as hell by the end of camp, I’m going to Africa myself and finding another one of them Makers and telling everybody they’re fifteen.”
Coach Stewie laughed, clapping Vic on the shoulder. "Just make sure the birth certificate looks right.”
Neighborhood.
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Soapy
Topic author - Posts: 12239
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 5313
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Neighborhood.
Keshawn anxious as hell. Interesting plot and characters you're building here
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Soapy
Topic author - Posts: 12239
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Neighborhood.
Thank you sir, 'Requiem' was special but this is broader and more challenging characters to write so looking forward go itCaptain Canada wrote: ↑03 Dec 2024, 12:25Keshawn anxious as hell. Interesting plot and characters you're building here
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Soapy
Topic author - Posts: 12239
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Neighborhood.
From the Westside with Love - Episode 5
Keshawn stared at the ceiling, his fingers drumming an anxious rhythm on his comforter. He groaned and rolled over, burying his face in his pillow as if he could suffocate the impending doom of the day ahead.
His phone buzzed, another alarm he had scheduled after Vic’s umpteenth threat of leaving him if he wasn’t ready. Keshawn's gaze drifted to his closet, where his crisp blazer hung like a ghost of his former life. Two semesters of unpaid tuition, and poof – eleven years of going to the same school no longer. Now he was headed to Hamilton High School, where the “other side” of the family went.
He finally dragged himself out of bed, his feet hitting the cool hardwood with a thud that seemed to echo his mood. As he rifled through his drawers for something to wear, Keshawn couldn't help but wonder: what exactly could he wear without making a statement?
His apprehensive thoughts were disrupted by a sudden knock on the door, no care for the early morning hours. Aunt Eleanora’s day began before theirs anyway, leaving no need for discretion. Vic didn’t wait for an acknowledgement before swinging the door open, eyeing Keshawn up and down.
“You wear pajamas?” he laughed, “You really different, my nigga.”
Keshawn suddenly felt subconscious of all his wardrobe choices, taking off his Ralph Laurent pajama top that his mother had gifted him as he rolled on some deodorant, “I thought you said 5:15.”
“You got time,” Vic sucked his teeth, “Just wanted to make sure you were awake is all. I will leave your ass, believe that.”
“Why we leaving so early anyway? It’s like ten minutes away.”
…
"Ay, Mr. Gino!" Vic called out, his voice echoing in the empty alley. "You got an extra set of hands today, aight?”
The elderly Italian man grunted in response, his thick accent barely intelligible as he mumbled something about lazy workers and early mornings. Keshawn trailed behind Vic, unsure of his role in this unexpected detour.
Inside, the kitchen was a flurry of activity. Two middle-aged women were already kneading dough, their weathered hands working with practiced efficiency. An ancient radio crackled in the corner, spewing rapid-fire Spanish that Keshawn couldn't begin to comprehend.
Vic immediately got to work, hefting massive bags of flour and hauling them to the storage room. Keshawn stood awkwardly for a moment before Vic barked at him, "Don't just stand there, cuz! Grab them boxes and start unpacking!"
For the next hour, Keshawn found himself elbow-deep in cardboard boxes, arranging cans of tomato sauce and packages of mozzarella on shelves. The work was monotonous but oddly satisfying, a welcome distraction from his anxieties about the new school.
As they finished up, the elderly Italian man handed Vic some cash, pausing to make eye contact with Keshawn before giving him some more dollar bills. Vic nodded before motioning for Keshawn to follow him to his car where the sunrise was nearly complete.
The crisp morning air hit Keshawn's face as they stepped outside, a stark contrast to the warm, yeasty atmosphere of the pizza shop. The sky was a canvas of pinks and oranges, streaked with wispy clouds that looked like brushstrokes.
Vic's car, a beat-up CR-V with more rust than paint, sat waiting for them. As they climbed in, the worn leather seats creaked in protest. Keshawn winced as he settled in, feeling every spring poking through the thin upholstery.
"So," Keshawn ventured, fingering the crumpled bills Vic had handed him into in his pocket, "is this like, a regular thing for you?"
Vic snorted, turning the key in the ignition. The engine sputtered to life with a series of coughs and wheezes. "Most of these folks don't speak much English, and Mr. Gino old ass damn near got killed last summer unloading them boxes. I don’t really pick up shifts anymore over there but he still gives me a little something every week to help him with inventory and shit.”
Keshawn looked over to the time on the dashboard, “We still got an hour before school.”
“Yeah,” Vic laughed, “I know, little nigga. You remembered to pack your basketball shit, right?”
…
The old church loomed before them, its weathered stone facade a stark contrast to the modern buildings surrounding it. Vic pulled into the empty parking lot, the gravel crunching under the tires. As they approached the side entrance, a grizzled man with a ring of keys jangling at his hip greeted them with a nod.
"Mornin', boys," he drawled, his voice gruff but warm. "Just lock up when you done.”
The gym was a time capsule, its wooden floors gleaming under the dim fluorescent lights. Faded championship banners from decades past adorned the walls, telling stories of glory days long gone. The musty smell of old sweat and floor polish hung in the air, a familiar scent that brought a smile to Vic's face.
"This is where my pops and them used to ball," Vic said, his voice tinged with pride. "Him and Mr. Johnson there," he jerked his thumb towards the maintenance guy, "were teammates back in the day. Almost won City that year.”
Keshawn watched as Vic effortlessly sank a three-pointer, the ball swishing through the net with a satisfying sound. For the next forty-five minutes, they ran drills, the rhythmic bounce of the ball echoing off the high ceilings. Vic barked out instructions, pushing Keshawn to his limits.
"Leave that soft ass shit at Thornwood, my nigga. You better dunk that bitch!”
Sweat poured down Keshawn's face, his lungs burning as he struggled to keep up with Vic's relentless pace. Just when he thought they were done, Vic grinned wickedly.
"Time for sprints, little nigga.”
The next ten minutes were pure agony. Back and forth across the court, their sneakers squeaking on the polished wood. Keshawn's legs felt like lead, his chest heaving as he gasped for air. When Vic finally called time, Keshawn collapsed onto the cool floor, spread-eagle and panting.
In the locker room, they quickly showered and changed. Keshawn's muscles protested as he pulled on his fresh clothes, already feeling the soreness setting in. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror – flushed, disheveled, and utterly exhausted.
As they headed out, the maintenance man gave them a knowing smile. "You boys have a good day at school now, y'hear?"
Keshawn nodded weakly, his backpack feeling ten times heavier than usual. The morning sun was now fully risen, promising a beautiful day. But as they climbed back into Vic's car, all Keshawn could think about was how he was going to make it through his first day at Hamilton when he was already dead on his feet.
…
The hallways of Hamilton High buzzed with the chaotic energy of the first day. Keshawn shuffled through the crowds, his eyes heavy and limbs leaden. The fluorescent lights seemed to bore into his skull, intensifying the dull ache that had taken residence there. He moved from class to class in a fog, barely registering the droning voices of teachers or the curious glances from his new classmates.
During lunch, Keshawn found a quiet corner in the cafeteria, unable to find Vic, picking at his food without appetite. The cacophony of voices and clattering trays washed over him like white noise. He caught snippets of conversations – gossip about summer flings, complaints about new schedules, excited chatter about the latest episode of Snowfall. It caught him by surprise, as if he expected them to be any different than his previous classmates.
By the final bell, Keshawn's eyelids were so heavy he could barely keep them open. He stumbled out of the building, squinting in the harsh afternoon sun. The thought of the long walk home made his feet ache in protest. As he stood there, debating whether he could summon the energy for the journey, he spotted Vic leaning against his car in the parking lot.
Without thinking, Keshawn found himself drifting towards the familiar face. Vic raised an eyebrow at Keshawn's approach. "Look alive, man," he remarked, a hint of amusement in his voice.
Keshawn managed a noncommittal grunt in response.
"Open gym today," Vic continued, jangling his keys. "You coming?"
The rational part of Keshawn's brain screamed at him to go home and collapse into bed. But the thought of walking alone, with nothing but his anxious thoughts for company, was even less appealing. He nodded silently.
The gym was already bustling when they arrived. The squeak of sneakers on polished wood and the rhythmic thump of basketballs filled the air. Keshawn followed Vic to the bleachers, where a group of boys were lacing up their shoes.
"Yo, who's the new kid?" one of them called out, eyeing Keshawn with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.
"He’s my cousin, Keshawn. He just transferred from Thornwood,” Vic answered, intentional in his disclosure of information.
“Shit, they’re sorrier than us,” another laughed. Keshawn could feel their gazes on him, assessing and judging.
"Thornwood, huh?" another boy sneered. "Bet they taught you how to dribble with your pinky out."
Laughter erupted from the group. Keshawn felt his cheeks burn, but exhaustion had robbed him of any clever comebacks. Besides, he wasn’t one to ruffle any feathers.
“We got next,” Vic said to no one in particular.
…
As they stepped onto the court, Keshawn's fatigue seemed to melt away, replaced by a familiar surge of adrenaline. The game started fast, bodies colliding and elbows flying as players jostled for position. Keshawn found himself matched up against a stocky guard with biceps like tree trunks and a permanent scowl etched on his face.
"Let's see what you got, pretty boy," the guard growled, his breath hot on Keshawn's face.
Keshawn tried to slip past him, but the guard's forearm slammed into his chest, knocking him off balance. He stumbled, barely keeping his feet as the ball sailed over his head and into the waiting hands of an opponent.
"Weak as fuck!" someone jeered from the sidelines.
The next few possessions were a blur of missed shots and fumbled passes. Every time Keshawn touched the ball, he found himself swarmed by a sea of reaching arms and jabbing elbows. The physical play was unlike anything he'd experienced at Thornwood, where finesse and skill were prized over brute force.
"Come on, cuz!" Vic shouted from across the court. "Stop playing with these niggas!”
Keshawn gritted his teeth, determined to prove himself. He called for the ball on the next play, spinning past his defender with a quick crossover. But as he rose for the layup, a hand caught him square in the chest, sending him crashing to the floor. The play continued, his teammates running past without a second glance.
"Get up, soft ass nigga!" someone taunted. "This ain't no country club!"
As Keshawn picked himself up, he caught Vic's eye. His cousin's face was a mask of disappointment and frustration.
The game wore on, a relentless barrage of trash talk and physical play. Keshawn's height and natural athleticism, which had always set him apart at Thornwood, seemed inadequate here. He found himself constantly pushed around, boxed out on rebounds by shorter but stockier players who used their bodies like battering rams.
"I thought this tall ass nigga could ball," one of the players called out during a water break. "He's softer than baby shit!"
Vic's jaw clenched, his eyes boring into Keshawn. "These niggas playing with your name, cuz.”
But Keshawn couldn't find it in himself to match their intensity. Every time he thought about pushing back, throwing an elbow or talking trash, something held him back. It wasn't just exhaustion anymore – it was fear.
Keshawn stared at the ceiling, his fingers drumming an anxious rhythm on his comforter. He groaned and rolled over, burying his face in his pillow as if he could suffocate the impending doom of the day ahead.
His phone buzzed, another alarm he had scheduled after Vic’s umpteenth threat of leaving him if he wasn’t ready. Keshawn's gaze drifted to his closet, where his crisp blazer hung like a ghost of his former life. Two semesters of unpaid tuition, and poof – eleven years of going to the same school no longer. Now he was headed to Hamilton High School, where the “other side” of the family went.
He finally dragged himself out of bed, his feet hitting the cool hardwood with a thud that seemed to echo his mood. As he rifled through his drawers for something to wear, Keshawn couldn't help but wonder: what exactly could he wear without making a statement?
His apprehensive thoughts were disrupted by a sudden knock on the door, no care for the early morning hours. Aunt Eleanora’s day began before theirs anyway, leaving no need for discretion. Vic didn’t wait for an acknowledgement before swinging the door open, eyeing Keshawn up and down.
“You wear pajamas?” he laughed, “You really different, my nigga.”
Keshawn suddenly felt subconscious of all his wardrobe choices, taking off his Ralph Laurent pajama top that his mother had gifted him as he rolled on some deodorant, “I thought you said 5:15.”
“You got time,” Vic sucked his teeth, “Just wanted to make sure you were awake is all. I will leave your ass, believe that.”
“Why we leaving so early anyway? It’s like ten minutes away.”
…
"Ay, Mr. Gino!" Vic called out, his voice echoing in the empty alley. "You got an extra set of hands today, aight?”
The elderly Italian man grunted in response, his thick accent barely intelligible as he mumbled something about lazy workers and early mornings. Keshawn trailed behind Vic, unsure of his role in this unexpected detour.
Inside, the kitchen was a flurry of activity. Two middle-aged women were already kneading dough, their weathered hands working with practiced efficiency. An ancient radio crackled in the corner, spewing rapid-fire Spanish that Keshawn couldn't begin to comprehend.
Vic immediately got to work, hefting massive bags of flour and hauling them to the storage room. Keshawn stood awkwardly for a moment before Vic barked at him, "Don't just stand there, cuz! Grab them boxes and start unpacking!"
For the next hour, Keshawn found himself elbow-deep in cardboard boxes, arranging cans of tomato sauce and packages of mozzarella on shelves. The work was monotonous but oddly satisfying, a welcome distraction from his anxieties about the new school.
As they finished up, the elderly Italian man handed Vic some cash, pausing to make eye contact with Keshawn before giving him some more dollar bills. Vic nodded before motioning for Keshawn to follow him to his car where the sunrise was nearly complete.
The crisp morning air hit Keshawn's face as they stepped outside, a stark contrast to the warm, yeasty atmosphere of the pizza shop. The sky was a canvas of pinks and oranges, streaked with wispy clouds that looked like brushstrokes.
Vic's car, a beat-up CR-V with more rust than paint, sat waiting for them. As they climbed in, the worn leather seats creaked in protest. Keshawn winced as he settled in, feeling every spring poking through the thin upholstery.
"So," Keshawn ventured, fingering the crumpled bills Vic had handed him into in his pocket, "is this like, a regular thing for you?"
Vic snorted, turning the key in the ignition. The engine sputtered to life with a series of coughs and wheezes. "Most of these folks don't speak much English, and Mr. Gino old ass damn near got killed last summer unloading them boxes. I don’t really pick up shifts anymore over there but he still gives me a little something every week to help him with inventory and shit.”
Keshawn looked over to the time on the dashboard, “We still got an hour before school.”
“Yeah,” Vic laughed, “I know, little nigga. You remembered to pack your basketball shit, right?”
…
The old church loomed before them, its weathered stone facade a stark contrast to the modern buildings surrounding it. Vic pulled into the empty parking lot, the gravel crunching under the tires. As they approached the side entrance, a grizzled man with a ring of keys jangling at his hip greeted them with a nod.
"Mornin', boys," he drawled, his voice gruff but warm. "Just lock up when you done.”
The gym was a time capsule, its wooden floors gleaming under the dim fluorescent lights. Faded championship banners from decades past adorned the walls, telling stories of glory days long gone. The musty smell of old sweat and floor polish hung in the air, a familiar scent that brought a smile to Vic's face.
"This is where my pops and them used to ball," Vic said, his voice tinged with pride. "Him and Mr. Johnson there," he jerked his thumb towards the maintenance guy, "were teammates back in the day. Almost won City that year.”
Keshawn watched as Vic effortlessly sank a three-pointer, the ball swishing through the net with a satisfying sound. For the next forty-five minutes, they ran drills, the rhythmic bounce of the ball echoing off the high ceilings. Vic barked out instructions, pushing Keshawn to his limits.
"Leave that soft ass shit at Thornwood, my nigga. You better dunk that bitch!”
Sweat poured down Keshawn's face, his lungs burning as he struggled to keep up with Vic's relentless pace. Just when he thought they were done, Vic grinned wickedly.
"Time for sprints, little nigga.”
The next ten minutes were pure agony. Back and forth across the court, their sneakers squeaking on the polished wood. Keshawn's legs felt like lead, his chest heaving as he gasped for air. When Vic finally called time, Keshawn collapsed onto the cool floor, spread-eagle and panting.
In the locker room, they quickly showered and changed. Keshawn's muscles protested as he pulled on his fresh clothes, already feeling the soreness setting in. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror – flushed, disheveled, and utterly exhausted.
As they headed out, the maintenance man gave them a knowing smile. "You boys have a good day at school now, y'hear?"
Keshawn nodded weakly, his backpack feeling ten times heavier than usual. The morning sun was now fully risen, promising a beautiful day. But as they climbed back into Vic's car, all Keshawn could think about was how he was going to make it through his first day at Hamilton when he was already dead on his feet.
…
The hallways of Hamilton High buzzed with the chaotic energy of the first day. Keshawn shuffled through the crowds, his eyes heavy and limbs leaden. The fluorescent lights seemed to bore into his skull, intensifying the dull ache that had taken residence there. He moved from class to class in a fog, barely registering the droning voices of teachers or the curious glances from his new classmates.
During lunch, Keshawn found a quiet corner in the cafeteria, unable to find Vic, picking at his food without appetite. The cacophony of voices and clattering trays washed over him like white noise. He caught snippets of conversations – gossip about summer flings, complaints about new schedules, excited chatter about the latest episode of Snowfall. It caught him by surprise, as if he expected them to be any different than his previous classmates.
By the final bell, Keshawn's eyelids were so heavy he could barely keep them open. He stumbled out of the building, squinting in the harsh afternoon sun. The thought of the long walk home made his feet ache in protest. As he stood there, debating whether he could summon the energy for the journey, he spotted Vic leaning against his car in the parking lot.
Without thinking, Keshawn found himself drifting towards the familiar face. Vic raised an eyebrow at Keshawn's approach. "Look alive, man," he remarked, a hint of amusement in his voice.
Keshawn managed a noncommittal grunt in response.
"Open gym today," Vic continued, jangling his keys. "You coming?"
The rational part of Keshawn's brain screamed at him to go home and collapse into bed. But the thought of walking alone, with nothing but his anxious thoughts for company, was even less appealing. He nodded silently.
The gym was already bustling when they arrived. The squeak of sneakers on polished wood and the rhythmic thump of basketballs filled the air. Keshawn followed Vic to the bleachers, where a group of boys were lacing up their shoes.
"Yo, who's the new kid?" one of them called out, eyeing Keshawn with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.
"He’s my cousin, Keshawn. He just transferred from Thornwood,” Vic answered, intentional in his disclosure of information.
“Shit, they’re sorrier than us,” another laughed. Keshawn could feel their gazes on him, assessing and judging.
"Thornwood, huh?" another boy sneered. "Bet they taught you how to dribble with your pinky out."
Laughter erupted from the group. Keshawn felt his cheeks burn, but exhaustion had robbed him of any clever comebacks. Besides, he wasn’t one to ruffle any feathers.
“We got next,” Vic said to no one in particular.
…
As they stepped onto the court, Keshawn's fatigue seemed to melt away, replaced by a familiar surge of adrenaline. The game started fast, bodies colliding and elbows flying as players jostled for position. Keshawn found himself matched up against a stocky guard with biceps like tree trunks and a permanent scowl etched on his face.
"Let's see what you got, pretty boy," the guard growled, his breath hot on Keshawn's face.
Keshawn tried to slip past him, but the guard's forearm slammed into his chest, knocking him off balance. He stumbled, barely keeping his feet as the ball sailed over his head and into the waiting hands of an opponent.
"Weak as fuck!" someone jeered from the sidelines.
The next few possessions were a blur of missed shots and fumbled passes. Every time Keshawn touched the ball, he found himself swarmed by a sea of reaching arms and jabbing elbows. The physical play was unlike anything he'd experienced at Thornwood, where finesse and skill were prized over brute force.
"Come on, cuz!" Vic shouted from across the court. "Stop playing with these niggas!”
Keshawn gritted his teeth, determined to prove himself. He called for the ball on the next play, spinning past his defender with a quick crossover. But as he rose for the layup, a hand caught him square in the chest, sending him crashing to the floor. The play continued, his teammates running past without a second glance.
"Get up, soft ass nigga!" someone taunted. "This ain't no country club!"
As Keshawn picked himself up, he caught Vic's eye. His cousin's face was a mask of disappointment and frustration.
The game wore on, a relentless barrage of trash talk and physical play. Keshawn's height and natural athleticism, which had always set him apart at Thornwood, seemed inadequate here. He found himself constantly pushed around, boxed out on rebounds by shorter but stockier players who used their bodies like battering rams.
"I thought this tall ass nigga could ball," one of the players called out during a water break. "He's softer than baby shit!"
Vic's jaw clenched, his eyes boring into Keshawn. "These niggas playing with your name, cuz.”
But Keshawn couldn't find it in himself to match their intensity. Every time he thought about pushing back, throwing an elbow or talking trash, something held him back. It wasn't just exhaustion anymore – it was fear.
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 5313
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Neighborhood.
This is the softest character I've read in a long time 
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Soapy
Topic author - Posts: 12239
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Neighborhood.
it be like that sometimes
son got marked out-
Soapy
Topic author - Posts: 12239
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Neighborhood.
From the Westside with Love - Episode 6
Keshawn slouched at the kitchen table, spooning soggy cereal into his mouth and squinting at the harsh midday light streaming through the window. His head felt fuzzy, like it was stuffed with cotton balls, and his limbs were heavy with the lingering weight of oversleep. The house was eerily quiet without it’s usual morning bustle with Vic sticking to his promise that he’d leave him behind if he didn’t wake up in time.
As he contemplated whether to attempt a belated dash to school, Uncle Quincy sauntered in, trailing a wisp of cigarette smoke. His gold tooth glinted as he grinned, clearly riding some kind of good mood high.
"Good morning, good morning, good morning," Quincy drawled, leaning against the doorframe. "Ain’t you supposed to be in school or something?”
Keshawn grunted noncommittally, shoving another spoonful of cereal into his mouth to avoid answering. Uncle Quincy chuckled, taking a long drag of his cigarette.
"I didn’t find school to be conducive to my endeavors either. Come roll with me today, playa’, we got some errands to run.”
Keshawn raised an eyebrow. Since his arrival, Uncle Quincy had spoken all of a handful of words to him, mostly keeping to himself on the sofa and by the time Keshawn got home, he was already asleep, knocked out with his dinner half eaten.
"What kind of errands?" he asked cautiously, Vic’s warning to avoid Uncle Quincy still fresh in his mind.
Quincy's grin widened. "Motherfucker, errands, nigga. The type you used to run with your momma and them, nigga.”
Keshawn hesitated, spoon hovering midair. The mere mention of his mother brought into focus exactly where he was and why he was there. His other options were to either stay here, toiling away in the prison that could become his mind or make that long walk, by himself, to school. It was only a few blocks away but scary nonetheless.
"Alright," he sighed, pushing away his cereal bowl. "Let me change up real quick.”
Uncle Quincy clapped his hands together. "I wasn’t asking so hurry up, nigga.”
…
Vic leaned against the brick wall of the school courtyard, one arm draped casually around Angela's shoulders.
"Where’s Carlton at?" Angela teased, nudging Vic with her elbow. "He already went scurrying away?”
Vic rolled his eyes, but couldn't help the small smile tugging at his lips. "Nah, our sweet prince was still passed out when I left this morning. Told him I wasn't gonna be his personal alarm clock anymore."
Angela raised an eyebrow, her dark eyes sparkling with amusement. "That’s messed up. You know he probably got lost trying to find his way here without you. Bet he's wandering the streets right now, clutching his pearls and asking strangers where he can find the nearest Whole Foods."
"You’re about two semesters at Riverside away from being just like that," Vic chuckled, giving her a playful shove.
“I don’t know why you keep bringing up Riverside, it was just a pamphlet,” she shook her head, “If you scared of me leaving you, baby, just say that.”
“I graduate this year, you don’t,” Vic shrugged, “Your competition is about to get a lot more fierce.”
“Boy, bye,” she playfully pushed his arm away from her, “If anything, them white girls gonna chew you up and spit you back out once they’re done pissing their daddies off. You’ll be back begging and I’ll be long gone.”
"You go me fucked up,” he laughed, “What, you’re going to cuff one of them niggas in your club?”
Angela shot him a look, disapproving of his choice of words, “You know what? Thanks for reminding me, you’re coming today.”
“Fuck no,” Vic scoffed, “I got practice and shit.”
“Y’all sorry anyway,” she teased, grabbing his hand and swinging it back and forth, “You haven’t gone to a single meeting since the first one. This is the shit that really matters, Vic, making an impact in our community. Plus, it'll look great on college applications. You know, if you ever decide to actually finish them."
Vic winced, pulling his hand away. "That ain’t fair, you know I’m still waiting to hear back from some of those coaches."
Angela's expression softened, and she reached up to cup his face. "I know, I'm sorry. I just... I don’t want you to be at their mercy, you know?”
Vic leaned into her touch, his eyes closing briefly. When he opened them again, there was a hint of resignation in his gaze. "Aight, I'll come. But if it's boring as fuck, I'm out."
…
The sun was dipping low on the horizon, painting the East Los Angeles sky in vibrant shades of orange and pink as Keshawn trudged alongside Uncle Quincy. They'd started at Big Mike's auto shop, where Quincy had exchanged hushed words with the hulking owner. Keshawn had hung back, intimidated by Big Mike's tattoo-covered arms and perpetual scowl. But then the man had broken into a gap-toothed grin, invite Keshawn over for some breakfast burritos he had ordered for the crew. The ever growing teenager, Keshawn couldn’t resist despite the initial apprehension.
From there, it was a whirlwind tour of the neighborhood that Keshawn had been so terrified to walk through that very morning. They'd stopped by Loco's corner store, where the owner—a wiry man with a jagged scar across his cheek—had schooled Keshawn on the art of the pick-and-roll, the youngster’s height giving away his athletic pursuit.
“You got to change the angle,” Loco told him, “I hated when my bigs just slipped out the exact same way every time.”
As the day wore on, Keshawn found himself relaxing, his initial wariness giving way to curiosity. He'd always seen these streets through a lens of fear, but now he was privy to a different side of things. The dude with the face tattoos who'd always scared him? Turned out he ran a youth basketball program on weekends. The group of guys who hung out on the corner? They were quick to help an old lady with her groceries, teasing her gently about her cat.
Their last stop was a run-down bar that wasn’t no bigger than Keshawn’s childhood bedroom, its faded neon sign flickering weakly in the twilight. Keshawn hesitated at the entrance, but Uncle Quincy ushered him in with a firm hand on his shoulder. The interior was dimly lit, the air thick with cigarette smoke and the musty scent of spilled beer.
Quincy steered them towards the rickety stools near an ancient TV mounted in the corner, currently showing a Lakers game. The bartender, a heavyset woman with frizzy gray hair, nodded at Quincy in recognition.
"Just water for now, Marge," Quincy called out, settling into a creaky chair.
Keshawn fidgeted uncomfortably, hyper-aware of the curious glances thrown their way. He felt out of place, like a kid who'd accidentally wandered into an adult space. The Lakers were down by ten, and Quincy muttered curses under his breath with each missed shot.
As the game wore on, Keshawn found himself relaxing slightly, drawn into the ebb and flow of the plays. He even ventured a few comments, which Quincy acknowledged with approving grunts. The bar's atmosphere shifted as more patrons trickled in, the volume rising with each round of drinks.
Finally, as the fourth quarter began, Quincy caught Marge's eye. "Crown and Coke," he called out, his gold tooth glinting in the dim light.
Keshawn's stomach clenched. He glanced at the clock above the bar – it was well past dinner time, and Aunt Eleanora would be wondering where he was.
Swallowing hard, Keshawn cleared his throat. "Uh, Uncle Quincy? Maybe we should head home. It's getting late, and Auntie Elly..." he trailed off, uncertain.
Quincy turned to him, his expression unreadable in the bar's shadows. For a moment, Keshawn feared he'd overstepped, but then his uncle's face softened.
“I don’t need an APB out looking for your ass," Quincy sighed, sliding a few dollar bills across the counter. "I’ll take a raincheck on that Crown and Coke, Marge.”
As they stood to leave, Keshawn caught a glimpse of something in Quincy's eyes – a flicker of pride, maybe even respect. It was gone in an instant, but it left Keshawn feeling taller somehow, like he'd passed some unspoken test.
They stepped out into the cool night air, the sounds of the bar fading behind them. The street was quiet now, save for the distant wail of sirens and the rhythmic chirping of crickets. As they walked towards their house, just a few blocks away, Quincy turned to Keshawn.
“You got some real nigga in you,” Quincy laughed, “I see your momma and daddy ain’t take away all of it.”
Keshawn slouched at the kitchen table, spooning soggy cereal into his mouth and squinting at the harsh midday light streaming through the window. His head felt fuzzy, like it was stuffed with cotton balls, and his limbs were heavy with the lingering weight of oversleep. The house was eerily quiet without it’s usual morning bustle with Vic sticking to his promise that he’d leave him behind if he didn’t wake up in time.
As he contemplated whether to attempt a belated dash to school, Uncle Quincy sauntered in, trailing a wisp of cigarette smoke. His gold tooth glinted as he grinned, clearly riding some kind of good mood high.
"Good morning, good morning, good morning," Quincy drawled, leaning against the doorframe. "Ain’t you supposed to be in school or something?”
Keshawn grunted noncommittally, shoving another spoonful of cereal into his mouth to avoid answering. Uncle Quincy chuckled, taking a long drag of his cigarette.
"I didn’t find school to be conducive to my endeavors either. Come roll with me today, playa’, we got some errands to run.”
Keshawn raised an eyebrow. Since his arrival, Uncle Quincy had spoken all of a handful of words to him, mostly keeping to himself on the sofa and by the time Keshawn got home, he was already asleep, knocked out with his dinner half eaten.
"What kind of errands?" he asked cautiously, Vic’s warning to avoid Uncle Quincy still fresh in his mind.
Quincy's grin widened. "Motherfucker, errands, nigga. The type you used to run with your momma and them, nigga.”
Keshawn hesitated, spoon hovering midair. The mere mention of his mother brought into focus exactly where he was and why he was there. His other options were to either stay here, toiling away in the prison that could become his mind or make that long walk, by himself, to school. It was only a few blocks away but scary nonetheless.
"Alright," he sighed, pushing away his cereal bowl. "Let me change up real quick.”
Uncle Quincy clapped his hands together. "I wasn’t asking so hurry up, nigga.”
…
Vic leaned against the brick wall of the school courtyard, one arm draped casually around Angela's shoulders.
"Where’s Carlton at?" Angela teased, nudging Vic with her elbow. "He already went scurrying away?”
Vic rolled his eyes, but couldn't help the small smile tugging at his lips. "Nah, our sweet prince was still passed out when I left this morning. Told him I wasn't gonna be his personal alarm clock anymore."
Angela raised an eyebrow, her dark eyes sparkling with amusement. "That’s messed up. You know he probably got lost trying to find his way here without you. Bet he's wandering the streets right now, clutching his pearls and asking strangers where he can find the nearest Whole Foods."
"You’re about two semesters at Riverside away from being just like that," Vic chuckled, giving her a playful shove.
“I don’t know why you keep bringing up Riverside, it was just a pamphlet,” she shook her head, “If you scared of me leaving you, baby, just say that.”
“I graduate this year, you don’t,” Vic shrugged, “Your competition is about to get a lot more fierce.”
“Boy, bye,” she playfully pushed his arm away from her, “If anything, them white girls gonna chew you up and spit you back out once they’re done pissing their daddies off. You’ll be back begging and I’ll be long gone.”
"You go me fucked up,” he laughed, “What, you’re going to cuff one of them niggas in your club?”
Angela shot him a look, disapproving of his choice of words, “You know what? Thanks for reminding me, you’re coming today.”
“Fuck no,” Vic scoffed, “I got practice and shit.”
“Y’all sorry anyway,” she teased, grabbing his hand and swinging it back and forth, “You haven’t gone to a single meeting since the first one. This is the shit that really matters, Vic, making an impact in our community. Plus, it'll look great on college applications. You know, if you ever decide to actually finish them."
Vic winced, pulling his hand away. "That ain’t fair, you know I’m still waiting to hear back from some of those coaches."
Angela's expression softened, and she reached up to cup his face. "I know, I'm sorry. I just... I don’t want you to be at their mercy, you know?”
Vic leaned into her touch, his eyes closing briefly. When he opened them again, there was a hint of resignation in his gaze. "Aight, I'll come. But if it's boring as fuck, I'm out."
…
The sun was dipping low on the horizon, painting the East Los Angeles sky in vibrant shades of orange and pink as Keshawn trudged alongside Uncle Quincy. They'd started at Big Mike's auto shop, where Quincy had exchanged hushed words with the hulking owner. Keshawn had hung back, intimidated by Big Mike's tattoo-covered arms and perpetual scowl. But then the man had broken into a gap-toothed grin, invite Keshawn over for some breakfast burritos he had ordered for the crew. The ever growing teenager, Keshawn couldn’t resist despite the initial apprehension.
From there, it was a whirlwind tour of the neighborhood that Keshawn had been so terrified to walk through that very morning. They'd stopped by Loco's corner store, where the owner—a wiry man with a jagged scar across his cheek—had schooled Keshawn on the art of the pick-and-roll, the youngster’s height giving away his athletic pursuit.
“You got to change the angle,” Loco told him, “I hated when my bigs just slipped out the exact same way every time.”
As the day wore on, Keshawn found himself relaxing, his initial wariness giving way to curiosity. He'd always seen these streets through a lens of fear, but now he was privy to a different side of things. The dude with the face tattoos who'd always scared him? Turned out he ran a youth basketball program on weekends. The group of guys who hung out on the corner? They were quick to help an old lady with her groceries, teasing her gently about her cat.
Their last stop was a run-down bar that wasn’t no bigger than Keshawn’s childhood bedroom, its faded neon sign flickering weakly in the twilight. Keshawn hesitated at the entrance, but Uncle Quincy ushered him in with a firm hand on his shoulder. The interior was dimly lit, the air thick with cigarette smoke and the musty scent of spilled beer.
Quincy steered them towards the rickety stools near an ancient TV mounted in the corner, currently showing a Lakers game. The bartender, a heavyset woman with frizzy gray hair, nodded at Quincy in recognition.
"Just water for now, Marge," Quincy called out, settling into a creaky chair.
Keshawn fidgeted uncomfortably, hyper-aware of the curious glances thrown their way. He felt out of place, like a kid who'd accidentally wandered into an adult space. The Lakers were down by ten, and Quincy muttered curses under his breath with each missed shot.
As the game wore on, Keshawn found himself relaxing slightly, drawn into the ebb and flow of the plays. He even ventured a few comments, which Quincy acknowledged with approving grunts. The bar's atmosphere shifted as more patrons trickled in, the volume rising with each round of drinks.
Finally, as the fourth quarter began, Quincy caught Marge's eye. "Crown and Coke," he called out, his gold tooth glinting in the dim light.
Keshawn's stomach clenched. He glanced at the clock above the bar – it was well past dinner time, and Aunt Eleanora would be wondering where he was.
Swallowing hard, Keshawn cleared his throat. "Uh, Uncle Quincy? Maybe we should head home. It's getting late, and Auntie Elly..." he trailed off, uncertain.
Quincy turned to him, his expression unreadable in the bar's shadows. For a moment, Keshawn feared he'd overstepped, but then his uncle's face softened.
“I don’t need an APB out looking for your ass," Quincy sighed, sliding a few dollar bills across the counter. "I’ll take a raincheck on that Crown and Coke, Marge.”
As they stood to leave, Keshawn caught a glimpse of something in Quincy's eyes – a flicker of pride, maybe even respect. It was gone in an instant, but it left Keshawn feeling taller somehow, like he'd passed some unspoken test.
They stepped out into the cool night air, the sounds of the bar fading behind them. The street was quiet now, save for the distant wail of sirens and the rhythmic chirping of crickets. As they walked towards their house, just a few blocks away, Quincy turned to Keshawn.
“You got some real nigga in you,” Quincy laughed, “I see your momma and daddy ain’t take away all of it.”
-
Caesar
- Chise GOAT
- Posts: 12109
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Neighborhood.
I can’t root for Keshawn. Hopefully Vic the main protagonist 
-
Soapy
Topic author - Posts: 12239
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
-
Soapy
Topic author - Posts: 12239
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Neighborhood.
From the Westside with Love - Episode 7
"Baby, how's school going?" Loraine asked, her voice softer than usual, stripped of its usual sass. Her orange jumpsuit seemed to swallow her whole, making her look smaller than Keshawn remembered.
He shrugged, picking at a loose thread on his jeans. "It's cool."
Simone, perched on the edge of her seat, jumped in. "He made the basketball team, Mama. What number did you pick again?”
"Forty-four," Keshawn mumbled, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.
Loraine beamed, leaning forward as far as the bolted-down table would allow. "That's your father’s football number! He’d be happy to hear that! You’re starting?”
Keshawn nodded, finally looking up. His mother's eyes were bright, but he could see the dark circles underneath, the worry lines etched deeper than before. He felt a pang of guilt for his sullen silence.
"Yeah, I think so. They don’t really have anybody else my height on the team," he offered.
Loraine grinned, nudging him with her elbow. "Think so? Please. I’ve seen you play and trust me, no offense, Hamilton ain’t never been good at basketball, even when your daddy tried out."
“He didn’t make the team?!” Simone exclaimed. A few heads turned, and she lowered her voice, “He never told us that.”
“He said he wanted to focus on football,” Loraine laughed as she reminisced, “But truth be told, the coaches had told him that he wasn’t going to make it so he didn’t go to the final day of tryouts.”
Keshawn felt a lump forming in his throat, dreading the words that were about to come out of his mouth.
“You spoke to dad?” he asked, desperation evident in his voice.
Loraine nervously looked towards Simone and back towards her son, trying to find the right words, “When your father is ready…”
“Oh, okay,” he responded, avoiding eye contact.
“He just doesn’t want to see you guys in here,” Loraine tried to explain, “It’s different for him…he feels he has to…he still loves you guys, you know that?”
“Yeah,” Keshawn mumbled as he looked up towards the ceiling, trying to keep the tears from flowing.
…
Vic found himself standing outside Charlene's apartment building, a crisp envelope tucked into his jacket pocket. Charlene answered the door on the third knock, her hair piled high in a messy bun, dark circles under her eyes betraying her exhaustion. A toddler clung to her leg, peering up at Vic with curious eyes.
"Hey," Vic said, his voice catching slightly. "How you holdin' up?"
Charlene shrugged, stepping back to let him in. "You know how it is." Her gaze flicked to the envelope as Vic pulled it out. "Fat Stacks?"
Vic nodded, handing it over.
Charlene's fingers trembled slightly as she counted the bills. Her shoulders sagged, and she let out a frustrated sigh. "That’s it?”
Vic's eyes darted to the worn-out sneakers on the little boy's feet, then back to Charlene's face. He felt a familiar tug in his chest, one he'd been trying to ignore since he met her. "I know it's tough," he said softly. "Shit just been slow, for everyone."
Charlene's eyes flashed. "For everyone? Stacks still driving on them rims, ain't he? Still got his gold chains?" She scooped up Little Malcolm, balancing him on her hip. "Meanwhile, I got to water his shit down.”
Vic held up his hands, placating. "Look, I get it, I ain’t saying it’s cool or nothing but shit is what it is, for real. Truth be told he don’t got to do this."
"He doesn’t have to do this," Charlene repeated bitterly. She turned away, bouncing Malcolm gently as he started to fuss. "Your brother didn’t have to go with him that night, either.”
Vic stepped closer, close enough to catch the faint scent of her shampoo. "Hey," he said gently. "I could... maybe I could help out a little. I got some extra cash I was going to put on Trey’s books but...."
Charlene looked back at him, her expression softening. For a moment, the air between them seemed to crackle with unspoken tension. Then she shook her head. "Nah, I can't take your money, Vic.”
"It's no big deal," Vic insisted, even as a voice in the back of his head warned him he was treading dangerous waters. "We're family, right?"
…
The smell of spices and grilled meat made Keshawn's stomach growl audibly. Simone grinned, "They feed you, right?”
Keshawn ducked away from her hand, but there was a hint of a smile on his face. "Stop it, you're embarrassing me," he muttered, his eyes darting to a group of giggling girls near the drink station.
As they moved up the line, Simone watched her brother carefully construct his burrito bowl. "Extra chicken," he instructed the server, his voice cracking slightly. Simone bit back a smile, remembering how their mom used to tease Keshawn about his changing voice.
They found a small table by the window, sunlight streaming in and warming their faces. Keshawn immediately dug into his food, shoveling rice and beans into his mouth with the voracity of a typical teenage boy.
Simone picked at her own bowl, her appetite dampened by the weight of their earlier visit. She watched as Keshawn paused between bites, his eyes distant.
"You okay, Ke?" she asked softly.
Keshawn shrugged, pushing a piece of chicken around his bowl. "Why are they so weird around us?”
“Who?”
“Everyone really,” Keshawn scoffed, “Auntie Elly and them. I mean, they’re nice and stuff, but I don’t know, feels like I got a dumb ass sticker on my forehead or something.”
“Your face ain’t exactly easy on the eyes,” she teased her brother, “But for real, I know what you mean, it’s always been like that.”
“For real?”
Simone leaned back in her chair, her eyes scanning the bustling restaurant before settling back on her brother. She lowered her voice, mindful of the other diners around them.
"Yeah, for real. It's... it's complicated, Ke. You were too young to remember, but it's been this way since before we were born. It's all tied up with Grandpa Eli and what happened back in the day."
Keshawn furrowed his brow, setting down his fork. "What do you mean? What happened?"
Simone sighed, pushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Okay, so you know how Grandpa started that corner store that turned into our store? Well, our old store now.”
Keshawn nodded, leaning in closer.
"Well, the story goes that he didn't exactly come by that money by himself. Listen, I don’t believe this shit so you shouldn’t either but the way the story goes is that he was rocking with the Panthers and then he wasn’t and then some of them went to jail and then he had the store. Shit, it’s probably why your name is Keshawn instead of Elijah, the Third.”
Keshawn's shook his head, taking a sip from his drink. "I don’t know, seems a bit far fetched.”
"Again, I don't know if it's true," Simone cut in quickly. "I don’t even know if people believe it or even still remember why they don’t fuck with us but yeah, it’s that. I mean, mom and dad don’t exactly endear themselves either. Mom has a whole collection of designer bags when everybody else is on WIC. Well, she had.”
Keshawn pushed his food around, his appetite suddenly gone. "I don’t see you wearing clothes from Walmart, either.”
She paused, watching her brother's face as he processed this information. "Shit, I’m guilty too, we all are. We don’t exactly fuck with them so I can’t blame them for still not fucking with us. They’re treating you good?”
“It’s fine,” Keshawn shrugged, still feeling like a stranger in their home.
"Look, I get it, I wouldn’t want to live there either but it’s the best we can do. Just keep your head down, focus on your grades, really focus on your school, you hear me? I've been talking to some of my friends and if you can keep your grades up, I might be able to get you into an accelerated program for your senior year. It’s a boarding school.”
Keshawn's eyes widened. "For real?”
"Yeah, for real," Simone nodded, her enthusiasm growing. "My roommate’s best friend is doing it, got a full scholarship and everything. It’s a religious school and it’s extremely competitive to get in though.”
She pulled out her phone, quickly pulling up the school's website. Keshawn leaned in, his eyes drinking in the images of sprawling green lawns, stately brick buildings, and a state-of-the-art gymnasium.
"Damn," he whispered, a mix of awe and trepidation in his voice. "You really think I could get in somewhere like that?"
Simone nodded emphatically. "You check off a lot of boxes so hell yeah. But it's gonna take work, Ke. Serious work."
She scrolled through more photos, showing him images of students in crisp uniforms, engaged in lively classroom discussions. "Alright? So, don’t get sidetracked and pulled into the mud with whatever they got going on at Hamilton. I like Auntie Elly and all but, you saw what happened with Trey. Damn near a right of passage in that house.”
Keshawn's mind was reeling, imagining himself away from his current situation, back to his more natural habitat. But then reality crashed back in. "What about Mom? And... and Dad?"
Simone's face softened. "Well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it."
"Baby, how's school going?" Loraine asked, her voice softer than usual, stripped of its usual sass. Her orange jumpsuit seemed to swallow her whole, making her look smaller than Keshawn remembered.
He shrugged, picking at a loose thread on his jeans. "It's cool."
Simone, perched on the edge of her seat, jumped in. "He made the basketball team, Mama. What number did you pick again?”
"Forty-four," Keshawn mumbled, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.
Loraine beamed, leaning forward as far as the bolted-down table would allow. "That's your father’s football number! He’d be happy to hear that! You’re starting?”
Keshawn nodded, finally looking up. His mother's eyes were bright, but he could see the dark circles underneath, the worry lines etched deeper than before. He felt a pang of guilt for his sullen silence.
"Yeah, I think so. They don’t really have anybody else my height on the team," he offered.
Loraine grinned, nudging him with her elbow. "Think so? Please. I’ve seen you play and trust me, no offense, Hamilton ain’t never been good at basketball, even when your daddy tried out."
“He didn’t make the team?!” Simone exclaimed. A few heads turned, and she lowered her voice, “He never told us that.”
“He said he wanted to focus on football,” Loraine laughed as she reminisced, “But truth be told, the coaches had told him that he wasn’t going to make it so he didn’t go to the final day of tryouts.”
Keshawn felt a lump forming in his throat, dreading the words that were about to come out of his mouth.
“You spoke to dad?” he asked, desperation evident in his voice.
Loraine nervously looked towards Simone and back towards her son, trying to find the right words, “When your father is ready…”
“Oh, okay,” he responded, avoiding eye contact.
“He just doesn’t want to see you guys in here,” Loraine tried to explain, “It’s different for him…he feels he has to…he still loves you guys, you know that?”
“Yeah,” Keshawn mumbled as he looked up towards the ceiling, trying to keep the tears from flowing.
…
Vic found himself standing outside Charlene's apartment building, a crisp envelope tucked into his jacket pocket. Charlene answered the door on the third knock, her hair piled high in a messy bun, dark circles under her eyes betraying her exhaustion. A toddler clung to her leg, peering up at Vic with curious eyes.
"Hey," Vic said, his voice catching slightly. "How you holdin' up?"
Charlene shrugged, stepping back to let him in. "You know how it is." Her gaze flicked to the envelope as Vic pulled it out. "Fat Stacks?"
Vic nodded, handing it over.
Charlene's fingers trembled slightly as she counted the bills. Her shoulders sagged, and she let out a frustrated sigh. "That’s it?”
Vic's eyes darted to the worn-out sneakers on the little boy's feet, then back to Charlene's face. He felt a familiar tug in his chest, one he'd been trying to ignore since he met her. "I know it's tough," he said softly. "Shit just been slow, for everyone."
Charlene's eyes flashed. "For everyone? Stacks still driving on them rims, ain't he? Still got his gold chains?" She scooped up Little Malcolm, balancing him on her hip. "Meanwhile, I got to water his shit down.”
Vic held up his hands, placating. "Look, I get it, I ain’t saying it’s cool or nothing but shit is what it is, for real. Truth be told he don’t got to do this."
"He doesn’t have to do this," Charlene repeated bitterly. She turned away, bouncing Malcolm gently as he started to fuss. "Your brother didn’t have to go with him that night, either.”
Vic stepped closer, close enough to catch the faint scent of her shampoo. "Hey," he said gently. "I could... maybe I could help out a little. I got some extra cash I was going to put on Trey’s books but...."
Charlene looked back at him, her expression softening. For a moment, the air between them seemed to crackle with unspoken tension. Then she shook her head. "Nah, I can't take your money, Vic.”
"It's no big deal," Vic insisted, even as a voice in the back of his head warned him he was treading dangerous waters. "We're family, right?"
…
The smell of spices and grilled meat made Keshawn's stomach growl audibly. Simone grinned, "They feed you, right?”
Keshawn ducked away from her hand, but there was a hint of a smile on his face. "Stop it, you're embarrassing me," he muttered, his eyes darting to a group of giggling girls near the drink station.
As they moved up the line, Simone watched her brother carefully construct his burrito bowl. "Extra chicken," he instructed the server, his voice cracking slightly. Simone bit back a smile, remembering how their mom used to tease Keshawn about his changing voice.
They found a small table by the window, sunlight streaming in and warming their faces. Keshawn immediately dug into his food, shoveling rice and beans into his mouth with the voracity of a typical teenage boy.
Simone picked at her own bowl, her appetite dampened by the weight of their earlier visit. She watched as Keshawn paused between bites, his eyes distant.
"You okay, Ke?" she asked softly.
Keshawn shrugged, pushing a piece of chicken around his bowl. "Why are they so weird around us?”
“Who?”
“Everyone really,” Keshawn scoffed, “Auntie Elly and them. I mean, they’re nice and stuff, but I don’t know, feels like I got a dumb ass sticker on my forehead or something.”
“Your face ain’t exactly easy on the eyes,” she teased her brother, “But for real, I know what you mean, it’s always been like that.”
“For real?”
Simone leaned back in her chair, her eyes scanning the bustling restaurant before settling back on her brother. She lowered her voice, mindful of the other diners around them.
"Yeah, for real. It's... it's complicated, Ke. You were too young to remember, but it's been this way since before we were born. It's all tied up with Grandpa Eli and what happened back in the day."
Keshawn furrowed his brow, setting down his fork. "What do you mean? What happened?"
Simone sighed, pushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Okay, so you know how Grandpa started that corner store that turned into our store? Well, our old store now.”
Keshawn nodded, leaning in closer.
"Well, the story goes that he didn't exactly come by that money by himself. Listen, I don’t believe this shit so you shouldn’t either but the way the story goes is that he was rocking with the Panthers and then he wasn’t and then some of them went to jail and then he had the store. Shit, it’s probably why your name is Keshawn instead of Elijah, the Third.”
Keshawn's shook his head, taking a sip from his drink. "I don’t know, seems a bit far fetched.”
"Again, I don't know if it's true," Simone cut in quickly. "I don’t even know if people believe it or even still remember why they don’t fuck with us but yeah, it’s that. I mean, mom and dad don’t exactly endear themselves either. Mom has a whole collection of designer bags when everybody else is on WIC. Well, she had.”
Keshawn pushed his food around, his appetite suddenly gone. "I don’t see you wearing clothes from Walmart, either.”
She paused, watching her brother's face as he processed this information. "Shit, I’m guilty too, we all are. We don’t exactly fuck with them so I can’t blame them for still not fucking with us. They’re treating you good?”
“It’s fine,” Keshawn shrugged, still feeling like a stranger in their home.
"Look, I get it, I wouldn’t want to live there either but it’s the best we can do. Just keep your head down, focus on your grades, really focus on your school, you hear me? I've been talking to some of my friends and if you can keep your grades up, I might be able to get you into an accelerated program for your senior year. It’s a boarding school.”
Keshawn's eyes widened. "For real?”
"Yeah, for real," Simone nodded, her enthusiasm growing. "My roommate’s best friend is doing it, got a full scholarship and everything. It’s a religious school and it’s extremely competitive to get in though.”
She pulled out her phone, quickly pulling up the school's website. Keshawn leaned in, his eyes drinking in the images of sprawling green lawns, stately brick buildings, and a state-of-the-art gymnasium.
"Damn," he whispered, a mix of awe and trepidation in his voice. "You really think I could get in somewhere like that?"
Simone nodded emphatically. "You check off a lot of boxes so hell yeah. But it's gonna take work, Ke. Serious work."
She scrolled through more photos, showing him images of students in crisp uniforms, engaged in lively classroom discussions. "Alright? So, don’t get sidetracked and pulled into the mud with whatever they got going on at Hamilton. I like Auntie Elly and all but, you saw what happened with Trey. Damn near a right of passage in that house.”
Keshawn's mind was reeling, imagining himself away from his current situation, back to his more natural habitat. But then reality crashed back in. "What about Mom? And... and Dad?"
Simone's face softened. "Well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it."