So what? I say. That’s her job.
The boy nods a weak-ass nod; he’s always resorting to weak-ass nods; if he keeps on he’ll be the pubescent prince of weak-assness. Look, man, you can’t be tripping in class. You want to get back to regular school, don’t you?
But she only be sweatin me and no one else, he says.
That’s a favor, I say. The fact that she gives a shit is a gift. You best check yourself for me and you got problems, patna. Serious problems.
Okay, Champ, okay, he says.
Okay, my ass, I say. Don’t fucking okay me.
A clique of juveniles troop in vociferous as shit and my bros and I can’t help but look over, can’t help but eyeball them till they find their seats.
So ya’ll tryin to hit that game room or what? I say. I fleece my sweats for cash. Spend some and put the rest in your sock, I say, but already baby bro is trucking off for heaven.
What about you? I say, and peel off KJ’s loot.
I’m good, he says, waving his hand.
Oh, like that? I say.
Yeah, I don’t feel like playing, he says. He wipes dried sweat from his forehead. He looks more than ever like Big Ken, who, as I’ve said, is his and Canaan’s biological pops, but was my pops in every other way that counts.
Suit yourself, I say. But tell me this: What we gone do about our rockhead baby bro?
You’re the big brother, he says.
Before Canaan was born, Mom and Big Ken brought me and KJ here on Saturdays. Big Ken would cop extra-large pizzas with extra pepperoni and iceless pitchers of off-brand pop. Mom, for her part, would bless us with handfuls of quarters and tell me to keep an eye on KJ in the game room; KJ, who, the minute he got his issue, would fall over himself trying to land first game on his favorite game, an intergalactic joint he couldn’t play for shit. He’d plow through his stock of quarters, burn through whatever was left of mine, which mattered less to me since, whenever we got to our last, Mom, the patron saint of extra coins, would appear with cuploads of replenishments. Sometimes she’d hit us with a refill and vanish, others she’d watch until we’d spent our last and/or a kid stretched his face from being sidelined diutius.
What I wouldn’t give for a rebirth of those blithe days.
What’s the deal with spring league? I say. You ballin?
Nothing, he says. He pours salt on the table and finger-swirls a design.
Tryouts is soon, right? I say. You got action at JV if you play tough D.
The high schoolers climb into the fire truck and howl as if it’s the funniest moment on earth.
Don’t know if I’m playin, he says.
Why? I say. Thought you was a hooper. Is it grades? Please tell me you ain’t not fuckin up in school too, I say. You fuck up now and you’ve fucked up. You ain’t no little kid.
I know I ain’t, he says. You the one who thinks I am.
Yo, don’t get clocked, patna, I say. You wanna get slugged?
He turns away. I touch my face and rub circles under my cheeks.
Is it grades?
No, he says.
Well, how are they? I say.
All right, he says.
Just all right, I say.
Yeah, he says.
Here we go with this one-word-answer melancholy shit, I say. I’m trying to have a dialogue.
My pager buzzes but I don’t bother to check who it is. Yeah, I need what I need, but there must be a time that’s off-limits.
What about the broads? I say. You got a girl?
Yes, Champ. I got a girl, he says.
Those years when me and my mom were still an inseparable tag team tandem, the years before my brother was even born, Big Ken pimped for our bread and meat, and though by the time KJ came along Big Ken was ebbing into retirement (maybe the smartest move he ever made), that nurture might of turned my bro into a super-bathetic anti-pimp.
Only one girl? I say.
Yes, one, he says.
Damn, well, have she gave you some womb? I say.
I don’t have to tell you, he says.
You don’t, I say. But check it, you’re already a year older than I was when I hit my first, so if you ain’t knocked one down, you best get crackin.
He squeezes his lips and glares. We’ve got the same dark brown eyes, the same long wild lashes. Champ, he says. Who says I want to be you? I don’t want to be like you.
They call our number over the speakers — a motherfucking boon — and I grab the marker and push away.
Right, I say. Right. If only you knew.
My bros when we leave slug out in tandem slow and rebel-like. Steps through the lot, KJ falls back and when I look to see where, I don’t know what to make of his face. I stand beside the car and track him over the roof. He stops to look at what I can’t see, stalls until I walk out to meet him. What’s the holdup? I say and catch him by the arm. He yanks away, jerks so tough he sends a small package tumbling. He breaks to pick it up.
What they’d told me for most my life is life has options.
But whose life, and when?
What’s that? I say.
Nothing, he says. It’s nothing. He looks shook and keeps the bit balled in his fist. Meantime, Canaan climbs out and gawks.
Let me see, I say. As if I need to see.
No! he says. He backs away, but trips in a pothole, and lands on his ass. I pounce on him, pry open his fist, and find the bit wrapped and clipped just like mine.
What in the fuck is this! I say. What in the fuck are you doing?
Mr brother stands on his own and brushes gravel from his ass and elbows. He tugs his shoulders, and as if by some sort of supernatural gift, he’s heads taller — has never looked this big, nor this sure, nor this doomed.
Answer me! I say.
He twists to look at Canaan and swings to look at me. His eyes and my eyes dueling.
What I’m doing what you do, he says.
Right now, now, it takes nothing to see me beating him half to death. Though when I wind up to swing, I can’t swing. My kith as my witness, I drop the bit, and stomp and stomp and stomp until I’ve crushed it all to dust.
Chapter 45
Sometimes you have the strength to face them;
sometimes you don’t.
A Kinky-Head boy runs up beside me while I’m in the store searching for snacks. He asks if I can buy him a pack of Capri Suns. His dimple is in the same cheek as Champ’s. There’s only one other person in the aisle, a pitiful-looking something, somebody’s baby herself, her arms tattooed to murals, who I suppose is the boy’s mama, but hope she isn’t, since she hasn’t noticed how far the boy has roamed. I take a knee and explain I’d love to, but we’d have to ask his mother. He leads me to her, and as soon as he’s within reach, she slaps him as though he’s grown. What I tell your mannish ass bout runnin off?
This is the time to turn and scoot off before I say something I shouldn’t. Rather, something I should.
The checkout line could trick you. Ahead of me kids fidget with handfuls of bagged candy and ahead of them a frosty-haired woman a few weeks by the looks — God knows I don’t say it to be facetious — from needing a wheelchair or walker. The woman slumps over the counter and so slow, so so slow, trawls her purse for change with a stack of coupons slabbed on the counter for signing checks. There’s a thin girl right beside her — an aide or something, I guess, since they don’t resemble — bagging the lady’s trickle of buys. The woman finds a second, thicker stack of coupons and starts to sort. Patience, patience, I say to myself. Though I can say for true: It won’t be me worrying a cashier or a manager over the small print of the weekend special. Will never be me but how could I ever know?