Tariq’s hand. I remember it clear as day.
It was black. A .57 Magnum. Firepower like that’s no kind of a joke. I saw it. I saw it and I knew: T was finally coming around.
Where’s the gun now, they’re all asking. Talking about a Snickers bar, instead. Ain’t no one gonna confuse a Snickers bar for a .57 Magnum. I wouldn’t, anyway. I know a gun when I see one.
Where’s the gun now? I’ll tell you where. One of my boys musta picked it up and pocketed it. That’s a nice piece. You don’t let shit like that go to waste in some evidence locker. Hell no.
If I’d been the closest to Tariq, I’d have pocketed it. For sure. One of my boys musta got it, Sammy or Noodle or … I don’t know. When I figure out who, he’s gonna have to give it to me. And then I’m gonna cut him, for not giving it over to me right away.
VERNESHA
The tiny children line up to get on the school bus. They are barely as tall as the tires. Their backpacks hang off them like potato sacks, all lumpy and weird and jouncing on the backs of their knees.
Tariq was once small like that. He went off to school. I sent him out into the big bad world alone.
I didn’t worry enough.
That was my job; to worry, and to keep him safe. But Tariq was always so strong, and so easy.
I worry plenty about Tina. Half a dozen different doctors, all with a different story. Every test costs money and in the end I’m not looking for a cure—just a way to understand what’s going on in her head. Mom’s always saying, some people are just simple. That baby’s gonna be fine.
When Tina came along, I guess, that’s where all my fretting went.
Other mothers worried more. About the gangs, and the drugs, and the police, and the violence.
Tariq was going to be fine. I didn’t worry nearly enough.
WILL (AKA EMZEE)
I never think anything of wearing my hoodie. Throw it on, go outside. It’s what people wear, you know? You gotta have a hoodie to fit in. Let your pants hang low. Like the other guys.
My mom and Steve want me to be wearing all the preppy clothes, the khakis and the polo shirts with the collar and whatnot. But I can’t be seen fronting that. My grades are too good. I already have to worry about making my speech sound street when I’m out, and making it sound proper when I’m home. My mom’s all proud of me for being smart, but most of my homies don’t know I’m on the honor roll. I can’t be going around dressed like a geek, or they’ll catch on.
I’m pissed about what happened to Tariq—there’s enough around here to be scared about without having to be to be scared about how I dress. Now I got another thing to juggle. I hardly get any sleep as it is, because I have to hang with my homies in Underhill after school while my mom thinks I’m at the library, then I come home and do my homework after dinner or on the bus, and then go back out to tag once she thinks I’ve gone off to bed.
But my mom took away all my hoodies last night. Says I have to make do without them, so I won’t get shot. I tried to tell her, I’m not gonna be stupid like Tariq was, running around with the hood up, sporting colors. She took them anyway. Then she cried. I gave her a hug and all, but in the morning I went down to the corner and paid this guy from school to lend me one of his old hoodies, just until the heat wears off the Tariq situation and my mom relaxes. I know how much she loves me, but she doesn’t understand. I gotta fit in if I want to survive.
TYRELL
I keep thinking back on shit that happened a long time ago. Dumb shit, too, like how pissed I was at Tariq for stealing the nickname “T” before I could get to it. I was so damn mad over that, I remember. It was kind of a phase we went through, where everyone was called by their initial. Sammy was S, Junior was J, and Tariq became T.
T became T immediately, before I even got a chance to try it out. Everyone just started calling him that. I didn’t think it was fair. And no
It was black. A .57 Magnum. Firepower like that’s no kind of a joke. I saw it. I saw it and I knew: T was finally coming around.
Where’s the gun now, they’re all asking. Talking about a Snickers bar, instead. Ain’t no one gonna confuse a Snickers bar for a .57 Magnum. I wouldn’t, anyway. I know a gun when I see one.
Where’s the gun now? I’ll tell you where. One of my boys musta picked it up and pocketed it. That’s a nice piece. You don’t let shit like that go to waste in some evidence locker. Hell no.
If I’d been the closest to Tariq, I’d have pocketed it. For sure. One of my boys musta got it, Sammy or Noodle or … I don’t know. When I figure out who, he’s gonna have to give it to me. And then I’m gonna cut him, for not giving it over to me right away.
VERNESHA
The tiny children line up to get on the school bus. They are barely as tall as the tires. Their backpacks hang off them like potato sacks, all lumpy and weird and jouncing on the backs of their knees.
Tariq was once small like that. He went off to school. I sent him out into the big bad world alone.
I didn’t worry enough.
That was my job; to worry, and to keep him safe. But Tariq was always so strong, and so easy.
I worry plenty about Tina. Half a dozen different doctors, all with a different story. Every test costs money and in the end I’m not looking for a cure—just a way to understand what’s going on in her head. Mom’s always saying, some people are just simple. That baby’s gonna be fine.
When Tina came along, I guess, that’s where all my fretting went.
Other mothers worried more. About the gangs, and the drugs, and the police, and the violence.
Tariq was going to be fine. I didn’t worry nearly enough.
WILL (AKA EMZEE)
I never think anything of wearing my hoodie. Throw it on, go outside. It’s what people wear, you know? You gotta have a hoodie to fit in. Let your pants hang low. Like the other guys.
My mom and Steve want me to be wearing all the preppy clothes, the khakis and the polo shirts with the collar and whatnot. But I can’t be seen fronting that. My grades are too good. I already have to worry about making my speech sound street when I’m out, and making it sound proper when I’m home. My mom’s all proud of me for being smart, but most of my homies don’t know I’m on the honor roll. I can’t be going around dressed like a geek, or they’ll catch on.
I’m pissed about what happened to Tariq—there’s enough around here to be scared about without having to be to be scared about how I dress. Now I got another thing to juggle. I hardly get any sleep as it is, because I have to hang with my homies in Underhill after school while my mom thinks I’m at the library, then I come home and do my homework after dinner or on the bus, and then go back out to tag once she thinks I’ve gone off to bed.
But my mom took away all my hoodies last night. Says I have to make do without them, so I won’t get shot. I tried to tell her, I’m not gonna be stupid like Tariq was, running around with the hood up, sporting colors. She took them anyway. Then she cried. I gave her a hug and all, but in the morning I went down to the corner and paid this guy from school to lend me one of his old hoodies, just until the heat wears off the Tariq situation and my mom relaxes. I know how much she loves me, but she doesn’t understand. I gotta fit in if I want to survive.
TYRELL
I keep thinking back on shit that happened a long time ago. Dumb shit, too, like how pissed I was at Tariq for stealing the nickname “T” before I could get to it. I was so damn mad over that, I remember. It was kind of a phase we went through, where everyone was called by their initial. Sammy was S, Junior was J, and Tariq became T.
T became T immediately, before I even got a chance to try it out. Everyone just started calling him that. I didn’t think it was fair. And no
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