Read Online The Dying Ground by Nichelle D. Tramble - Free Book Online Page A

quiet, given to very few words, and a notorious street fighter. He too had been shot, but knives were his weapon of choice. Before their arrival Flea had tried to explain that her brothers were ghetto stars in their South Central neighborhood. She told me this but I was not prepared for them when I met them.
    The two of us were sitting on the steps in front of Dwinelle Hall when a distinctive whistle lit up the campus. The sound caused people to look up in curiosity. Flea, in the middle of aconversation, heard the sound and jumped to her feet. Then she let go with a whistle of her own. A whistle came back, and their fierce call-and-response stopped several students in their tracks.
    Finally, two men came into view, both loaded down with the blue wardrobe of L.A. Crips. The taller one, who I found out later was Reggie, had a swinging style to his walk. One arm swung loosely, almost in slow motion, back and forth across his body while he favored his left leg in a cool-as-hell skip. The other arm held up pants sagging so low they defied gravity. His jeans were unwashed Levi’s, with copper buttons instead of zippers and copper stitching to match. He had sharp creases down the front of his pants and a crisp white T-shirt. His tennis shoes were blinding-white K-Swiss and his hair was braided in tight cornrows. A scar on the left side of his mouth gave him a permanent grimace. He wore gold hoops in both ears, and a toothpick dangled from his lip.
    At his side was Crim, the quiet brother who made more than a few people uneasy as he passed. Both of them spoke in death and murder even in silence, but in Crim it breathed on its own. Crim was dressed like Reggie but with a blue T-shirt instead of white. Crim also wore a short Afro, more functional than stylish, and silver hoops. They both had the same dark skin as Flea. In Reggie you saw a handsome devilish face beneath the gangster, but Crim was a sight to behold. The man was ugly bordering on monstrous, with rock-hard arms and a short neck to match. Inbred pit bull was the first thing that came to my mind.
    While the rest of us watched, Felicia flew down the stairs and grabbed both of them in an embrace. After they finished hugging she turned and motioned me forward.
    “Maceo, these are my brothers.” Surprise crossed my face but I recovered quickly and offered a hand. They both ignored it.
    “Wassup?” I asked.
    Reggie nodded and looked me up and down. I allowed the scrutiny, knowing how older brothers can be. I was also no fool. I knew immediately that the brothers had a fight-to-the-death pack mentality that could be unleashed at the slightest provocation.
    “This is Reggie. And this is Crim.” She swatted Crim on his crossed arms. “What y’all doing here? Aunt Venus know you came?”
    “Naw, we just rode out this morning. Wanted to see our baby sister and shit.” Reggie managed a semblance of a smile.
    “How long y’all staying?”
    “As long as these white people can stand us.” Reggie directed his words at two frat boys who’d strolled a little too close. They jumped away as he leaned toward them. Once they were a sufficient distance away, Reggie turned back to Flea. “Let’s go eat.”
    “Alright. Maceo, you wanna come?” All of us knew there was no point in my joining them.
    “I have to study. I’ll call you later.”
    Flea leaned over to give me a kiss. Her brothers stared. By way of an exit Reggie simply said, “Check you out, square padna.” I noticed the
d
he used in “padna,” another difference between the Bay Area and Los Angeles. We preferred to come down hard on the
t
—“patna”—but I chose not to point that out to either one of the Bennett boys.
    I watched the three of them walk away, Flea between her brothers. For the entire week they were there I stayed as far away from Flea as possible. Trouble was just waiting on that family. It came less than twenty-four hours later when they started a mini-riot at San Francisco’s End Zone