for him to be such a positive force.
This didn't sit quite well with Moses. It was evident early on that the fraternal twin boys were opposites. Moses was as bad as Marshall was good. Moses stayed in trouble, and even Buford's tough love couldn't stop him. Moses cut school, disobeyed his parents, and was a relentless thief. He stole anything and everything, sometimes he stole just to see if he could do it. It was his passion from early on. Buford and Beatrice always had their hands full with the boy.
Moses and Marshall were, nonetheless, inseparable. They both cut school together, ran the streets, playing basketball and hanging out with their friends. The twins were thick as thieves then. They supported each other, lied for each other, and made their parents' life difficult. Moses was definitely the leader of the two. Marshall just thought of his brother as a fun and uninhibited person, and he admired his strength.
One summer night, Marshall and Moses had been chased
off the local basketball court by a group of bigger boys. They'd hung around for a while, when a boy they called Ducey decided to play what they called simply "cars." They'd stand on a street corner, covered in darkness, and throw rocks at the cars that whizzed by on a busy street. The nicer the car, the better. It was a silly and dangerous game, and that made it all the more attractive to the young boys.
Marshall and Moses stood on the corner that night with three other black boys, their pockets filled with stones. Mostly, they missed. It was hard to hit a moving vehicle. But suddenly, a slow-moving car came their way. It was an Eldorado, a red one. It drove by, and the rocks flew. Marshall saw the back window shatter, and they all cheered. Then the Eldorado screeched to a halt. The young boys immediately broke into a run.
"Black bastards!" the car's occupant had yelled.
The other three boys split up, but Marshall and Moses, as usual, ran together. They'd run about a half block, when they heard the shots behind them. One bullet hit a tree, taking off a big chunk of bark. Marshall saw his brother run into a backyard and hide. He, however, was still on the street, and in full view of the shooter. Another bullet whizzed by his ear as he ran through a vacant lot.
Marshall jumped a fence, his heart racing in his chest. He hid among a row of garbage cans in the backyard of a man named Hudgens. He sat there on the warm ground, thinking that he might die. They'd played the game many times, but no one had ever stopped and shot at them. Suddenly, the consequences of his actions fell upon him. It was wrong what they had done. It was supposed to be fun, but he had never thought about the man in the car. Now, it was too late. The shooter was after him, and he knew if he caught him, he'd never go home again.
Suddenly, he heard footsteps and the sound of metal hitting the ground. The shooter was reloading his gun.
"You're dead, motherfucker!" yelled the man.
A white man, thought Marshall. At least, he sounded like he was white. He was even more afraid now. Any white man who would run into the 'hood like that was crazy. Marshall tried to push himself down farther behind the cans without knocking them down and giving himself away.
Marshall heard the old gate creak as the shooter entered the backyard with him. He was about thirty feet or so away. The yard was dark, and Marshall prayed the shooter couldn't see him.
The man moved in Marshall's direction. As he came closer, Marshall saw that it was not a white man, but a black one. His dark face turned, looking around the yard. He looked Marshall's way and lingered for a moment.
Marshall shifted and knocked one of the cans into another one. The clang sounded like thunder to him. The man raced toward him as Marshall jumped up and tried to run away. A strong arm caught him by the shoulder. He was spun around right into the one-eyed stare of the shooter's gun.
For a
This didn't sit quite well with Moses. It was evident early on that the fraternal twin boys were opposites. Moses was as bad as Marshall was good. Moses stayed in trouble, and even Buford's tough love couldn't stop him. Moses cut school, disobeyed his parents, and was a relentless thief. He stole anything and everything, sometimes he stole just to see if he could do it. It was his passion from early on. Buford and Beatrice always had their hands full with the boy.
Moses and Marshall were, nonetheless, inseparable. They both cut school together, ran the streets, playing basketball and hanging out with their friends. The twins were thick as thieves then. They supported each other, lied for each other, and made their parents' life difficult. Moses was definitely the leader of the two. Marshall just thought of his brother as a fun and uninhibited person, and he admired his strength.
One summer night, Marshall and Moses had been chased
off the local basketball court by a group of bigger boys. They'd hung around for a while, when a boy they called Ducey decided to play what they called simply "cars." They'd stand on a street corner, covered in darkness, and throw rocks at the cars that whizzed by on a busy street. The nicer the car, the better. It was a silly and dangerous game, and that made it all the more attractive to the young boys.
Marshall and Moses stood on the corner that night with three other black boys, their pockets filled with stones. Mostly, they missed. It was hard to hit a moving vehicle. But suddenly, a slow-moving car came their way. It was an Eldorado, a red one. It drove by, and the rocks flew. Marshall saw the back window shatter, and they all cheered. Then the Eldorado screeched to a halt. The young boys immediately broke into a run.
"Black bastards!" the car's occupant had yelled.
The other three boys split up, but Marshall and Moses, as usual, ran together. They'd run about a half block, when they heard the shots behind them. One bullet hit a tree, taking off a big chunk of bark. Marshall saw his brother run into a backyard and hide. He, however, was still on the street, and in full view of the shooter. Another bullet whizzed by his ear as he ran through a vacant lot.
Marshall jumped a fence, his heart racing in his chest. He hid among a row of garbage cans in the backyard of a man named Hudgens. He sat there on the warm ground, thinking that he might die. They'd played the game many times, but no one had ever stopped and shot at them. Suddenly, the consequences of his actions fell upon him. It was wrong what they had done. It was supposed to be fun, but he had never thought about the man in the car. Now, it was too late. The shooter was after him, and he knew if he caught him, he'd never go home again.
Suddenly, he heard footsteps and the sound of metal hitting the ground. The shooter was reloading his gun.
"You're dead, motherfucker!" yelled the man.
A white man, thought Marshall. At least, he sounded like he was white. He was even more afraid now. Any white man who would run into the 'hood like that was crazy. Marshall tried to push himself down farther behind the cans without knocking them down and giving himself away.
Marshall heard the old gate creak as the shooter entered the backyard with him. He was about thirty feet or so away. The yard was dark, and Marshall prayed the shooter couldn't see him.
The man moved in Marshall's direction. As he came closer, Marshall saw that it was not a white man, but a black one. His dark face turned, looking around the yard. He looked Marshall's way and lingered for a moment.
Marshall shifted and knocked one of the cans into another one. The clang sounded like thunder to him. The man raced toward him as Marshall jumped up and tried to run away. A strong arm caught him by the shoulder. He was spun around right into the one-eyed stare of the shooter's gun.
For a
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