I circled around back and scaled the fire escape. It was loose in several places and clanked against the building as I went up three floors. Climbing into my bedroom, I kicked off my shoes, threw my jacket over a chair, and stretched out on the bed. I rubbed my hands together to warm them up. My heart was beating fast, the way it always did when I was creeping. Creeping and peeping, the kind of thing that could get me killed any day of the week.
I was four months out of juvie and a lot deeper into the game than before I went in. But I had to work for Diamond Tony if I was going to find a way to bring him down. I had a mission—and nothing was going to get in my way.
Pup’s arrest tonight was just the beginning.
THE STOP
I stood at the bus stop the next morning, the wind biting my ears. Trey was standing beside me, running his mouth. I’d known him forever. Everybody had. He knew every bus route and where it went and would go on about it nonstop.
November was the ugliest time of year in the Jane and Finch projects. The trees were like skeletons, the grass dead and brown. It was a concrete jungle with huge high-rises that loom over you like Big Brother. I hated how bare it all looked. Reminded me of the cell blocks of juvie. I wished winter would come and cover the place with snow.
Trey carried a paper bag—his daily bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich made a big splotch of grease at the bottom. Me, I never ate before first period. Instead I sipped my morning drink: coffee mixed with hot chocolate. Today I ordered three-quarters coffee. I hadn’t slept much. I was too wired from last night. Detective Prescott had called soon after I got home to tell me how it all went down. Pup’s car had been loaded with drugs and weapons. I was glad, but when I finally fell asleep, my dreams were full of guns, shouting, and running. I was always having dreams like that.
Trey’s whine interrupted my thoughts. “The forty-seven again! It’s only supposed to show up every twelve minutes. It’s been eight minutes. The driver must be smoking weed.”
“More like crack,” I said. “Weed would slow him down.”
He didn’t get the joke. “Our bus better be on time. I’ve got a test.”
“Chill, T. It’ll be here.”
“I need to ace this one, so I don’t want to start late. How are your grades?”
“Okay.” I had a B average so far, but I was determined to crank it up to the next level. Too bad juvie had left me way behind. I should be a senior, but I was taking tenth- and eleventh-grade classes.
“You’ve only been absent twice. You’re better than you used to be. Remember the time you missed ten days in one month?”
I couldn’t help but smile. “Actually, I don’t remember, T.” Peeps at school was always calling Trey Ass-Burger because he had autism, the type that made you really smart.
Before he could say more, Biggie and Smalls came up to us. Also known as BJ and Lex, they’d been best friends practically since birth, mostly because they’d both grown up in the 15 high-rise. They were a weird-looking pair since Biggie was stocky and over six feet tall, and Smalls was so short and scrawny, people often mistook him for a twelve-year-old. Smalls was the one with the mouth, though. I’d known these guys for years, and before I went to juvie, we used to hang out. Not anymore. I’d lost too much time to be wasting it with guys who did nothing but smoke up and play video games. They were never gonna get out of the projects, and if I spent too much time with them, I wouldn’t either.
“You hear Pup got arrested last night?” Smalls’s voice went all high like a girl. “Our man Diamond Tony’s gonna be pissed!”
I knew a few smart people, and Smalls wasn’t one of them. There were a lot of guys like him in Jane and Finch. He was against everything—authority, common sense, probably even good nutrition. He thought the news was all propaganda made up by The Man. Truth was, he was as much of a follower as anyone else. He actually believed the real heroes were people like Diamond Tony, who weren’t scared of the cops and who didn’t follow society’s rules or the Ten Commandments. Smalls was a damned fool.
While we waited for the bus, the guys shared stories about Pup and all the sick shit he’d done. Pup was Tony’s goon, and torture was his MO. He didn’t torture to extract information, though. He did it because he enjoyed it.
The bus finally came, and we had to push our way on. Biggie and I stood on the bottom step and squeezed up against a fat guy so the driver could close the door. The bus ride took forever. Each time it stopped, I had to get off to let people exit, then fight to get back on. A short, wrinkled lady dressed in black elbowed past me. Same thing every day with that one. It was like being old gave her the right to do whatever she wanted.
Finally the bus dropped us off in front of the school. Smalls and I went to our first class, history. Tenth-grade history. Smalls’s only excuse was that he was lazy. I didn’t sit with him because I didn’t want the teacher to think I was lazy too. Smalls thought I sat at the other end of the classroom to be next to this hot chick Tiara.
When class started, Mr. Monk said, “Clear your desks.”
I could have kicked myself. I’d been so focused on the Pup mission that I’d forgotten all about the test.
Shit. I was going to have to do better.
* * *
Two classes later, I was in my happy place. The synthesizer pumped a raw beat.
I rapped inside my head:
Hup, hup, brought down the pup
Sick bitch had a free ride
He’ll pay on the inside.
The rest of the class was across the room playing instruments, but Mr. Filimino let me do my thing. He knew that violins and trumpets weren’t for me, so he was cool with me making beats and writing rhymes.
The music room was a big space that used to be the industrial arts workshop. Mr. Filimino had moved the music classes here because the acoustics were better than in any classroom. I switched the beat, speeding it up.
The king’s going down
I’m’a rip off his crown
Smash it under my feet
You’ll wanna know the deets
The hood’ll finally be free
Like how it used to be
No more terror monarchy.
Making music was the only time I had the flow. I could focus so intensely that hours felt like minutes. I’d stay in the zone until every beat was in place, until every word was perfection.
In juvie, I’d missed making music more than anything. I wasn’t allowed to have my keyboard or turntables because they could be used as weapons. As if I’d ruin my expensive equipment just to whack somebody over the head with it. So all I had was a notebook full of rhymes. I’d repeat the songs over and over so I wouldn’t forget the tunes. Finally I got approval to have an old handheld tape recorder.
My plan was to go to Ryerson University. Lots of music producers went there. After that, me and my friend from juvie, White Chris, were going to start our own record label, Juvenile Records. Chris knew how to drop a rhyme and, like me, had a head for business. Ryerson didn’t just want good audition tapes—they wanted good grades and recommendation letters, too. Luckily, I could count on Mr. Filimino to give me a rec when the time came. He was the one teacher who didn’t seem to hold my record against me.
The bell rang for lunch period. Most of the class left, but a few stayed behind to watch me play. I hardly knew them, since they were two years younger than me. Eventually it was just me and Ricky, a skinny kid with too many zits and not enough deodorant.
“Can I try out some lyrics?” he asked.
“Go for it.”
He gave a nervous cough as I slowed down the beat. Then he started. “I don’t need a pill/ To make this beat ill/ Sit back and hold still/ My lyrics gonna thrill.”
“Sick,” I said. Pretty basic beginner lyrics, but he had rhythm.
“I want to learn all this,” he said, touching the dials.
“Filimino will let you use it at lunchtime. If he trusts you.”
“Yeah?” I could see the question i
n his eyes. Filimino trusts you?
“He knows I’d never steal shit this old. I got better stuff at home.”
Ricky grinned.
“If you want to stay, go ask him.” Filimino was at the other end of the room stacking chairs.
He hesitated. “Wait, can you show me how to get that beat again?”
“Sure.”
As I showed him, I had the feeling I was being watched. I glanced up. Some girls stood in the doorway.
One of them was Jessica Thomas. She was in economics with me—one of my eleventh-grade classes. Some people said Jessica looked like Rihanna, but I thought she was way prettier. They say the only reason she wasn’t a model was that she was too short, maybe five two or three. She had flawless skin, full glossy lips, and big brown eyes that could make you forget your name. Yeah, thoughts of Jessica Thomas kept me company while I was in juvie.
I turned back to Ricky. “You good to go?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
I grabbed my books and headed for the door. The girls stepped out of my way, but Jessica said, “Hey, Darren.”
She had a shy look in her eyes. I wasn’t sure if I bought it. This was Jessica Thomas, after all. Sometimes guys called her Jessica Bing because of the effect her sweet curves could have on your imagination. But she was known as a good girl. She had this cheerful, fresh thing about her that was different from most girls.
“Hi,” I said, and kept on walking. I heard them squeal behind me.
The fact was, a lot of girls were noticing me lately. I wasn’t the gangly freshman who’d left for juvie more than two years ago—I’d worked out daily while I was locked up. And now that I was on Diamond Tony’s payroll, I could finally afford to wear the hottest brands and real bling around my neck.
The only thing the girls admired more than the clothes was my new street cred. Days after leaving juvie, I was back on the streets as a full-fledged dealer. They probably thought that took balls.
They had no clue.
ONE LABEL CAN BRAND YOU FOR LIFE.
DON’T MISS ALLISON VAN DIEPEN’S
SNITCH
THE DEAN’S OFFICE
People always make it sound like God is a man. But we’ve got no proof of that.”
Everybody gasped. Then a few snickers and giggles.
I felt myself blush, but I hurried on. “The whole idea of God looking like a man is a European concept. Back in Ancient Greece—”
“You saying God is a girl?” Eddie Evans shouted. “So God’s got titties and a—”
The class erupted in laughter.
I kicked my volume up. “No, that’s not what I’m saying. God is not male or female.”
“So God is a transvestite?” Jay shouted from the back row.
“Not a transvestite, dumbass, a hermaphrodite,” Cassie said. “That’s when you got a package and a coochie.”
Ms. Howard’s face reddened. I didn’t know if she was going to pass out or go postal. She yelled at everyone to settle down, but no one paid attention. She turned on me. “Just hand in your paper and sit down. We’ve heard enough.”
“You’re not gonna let me present it? I spent a lot of time on this.”
“Too bad you didn’t choose a more appropriate topic.”
“But this was one of the choices you gave us! It was topic seven —explore how different cultures—”
“Sit down,” she snapped.
Knowing when to shut up wasn’t usually a problem for me, but I heard myself saying, “This isn’t fair. You’re the one who assigned the topic.”
The class went, “Oooooohhhh.”
“Go to the dean, Julia.”
The class was so quiet, you could hear a pin drop. As everybody watched, I picked up my books and stalked out. You really should have seen her face. She didn’t think that A-student Julia DiVino would dare stand up to her.
My legs felt like jelly, probably more from the stress of the situation than anything else. Dad was going to kick my ass if he had to take off work to go to a suspension hearing. Or would he be proud that I stuck to my guns? I doubted it.
I surprised myself by heading toward the bathroom on my way to the dean’s office. I guess I needed a few minutes to let the redness in my cheeks go down.
Everybody knew Diana the bathroom lady. She was in her forties, with bleached-blond hair and heavy-metal tattoos. Her job was to spend her entire day outside the girls’ bathroom, making sure nothing nasty was happening—no drugs, no fights . . . no suicides.
“Hey there, baby.” Diana reached out to receive my bathroom pass but I shook my head.
“I don’t have one.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve been sent to the dean’s office by Ms. Howard, but I want a minute to . . . ”
“Go ahead, sweetie.”
Our bathrooms were like a mini Brooklyn housing project, littered with trash and covered in graffiti. The graffiti was mostly gang stuff: RLB rock da house, Hermanas Mexicalis is bad bitches, Crab girls got crabs. The worst culprits were the school’s biggest girl gang, the RLB, aka the Real Live Bitches. I’d spent lots of toilet-sittings deciphering their codes. All you needed to know was a little pig Latin and a little Creole and you could crack pretty much any code.
I splashed cold water on my face and let it spike my lashes and dribble into my eyes. The shock of the water made me feel a bit better. I patted my face dry with scraping brown paper towels, careful not to smear my (thankfully waterproof) mascara. Running my fingers through my hair, I headed out to face the dean, thanking Diana as I left.
“Holla back!”
I jumped when I heard the voice behind me. Turned out it was Black Chuck. “Chuck, what up?”
“I told you, don’t call me Chuck. I’m going by Black now.”
“What kind of a name is Black?”
“My kind of name, Ju.”
I rolled my eyes. “I told you not to call me that. Everybody’s going to think I’m Jewish.”
“So? Nothing wrong with that, is there?”
“ ’Course not, but—”
“No butts. Only asses. So where we going, Ju? Don’t tell me you cutting. Not Miss DiVino. You got a sub in Howard’s class?”
“Actually, she sent me to see the dean.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I’m serious. It’s because I said in my speech that God wasn’t a man and didn’t have a package. She got upset.”
Black Chuck burst out laughing. “I got you. Well, if they gonna suspend your ass, I’ll walk you down there.”
“You’re so sweet.”
He dropped me off outside the office. As he walked away, I shouted over my shoulder, “Your pants are falling down.”
He shouted back, “Damn right they are!”
The dean’s office was a large space with about a dozen orange plastic chairs and several connecting rooms. It used to be guidance central, but the admin switched the offices when they realized that more students needed suspensions than programming advice.
I’d always felt sorry for the poor suckers who got sent here. Today I was one of them, along with a hot Hispanic guy who sat outside Dean Hallett’s door.
The guy lifted his eyes, meeting mine. I looked away quickly, sitting down two seats away from him. I felt him giving me a once-over before looking back down at his iPod.
Just my luck, Hallett was on duty today. She was the strictest of the deans. I took a deep breath, wondering what she’d do to me.
The guy didn’t seem worried. He was nodding his head to his music.
“Is it too loud?” he asked, removing one of his earbuds.
“No, it’s fine,” I said, without looking at him.
I was hoping he’d put the earbud back in and go back to minding his business, but he kept looking at me. “So, you in trouble or something?”
“Well, I am in the dean’s office.”
“That doesn’t mean anything. I’m just here to get my ID card.” I glanced at him. His smile was smooth, ea
sy.
“Not me, unfortunately.”
“I feel you. I’ve been at the dean’s office myself a few times at my old school.”
Okay, so I had to ask. “What school’s that?”
“You wouldn’t know it unless you know Detroit.”
“Detroit, huh? I hear that place is gangsta. Guess you won’t have trouble getting used to Brooklyn.”
“No trouble at all.”
“How’d you end up in Brooklyn?”
But he couldn’t answer, because that’s when Hallett’s door opened. She was a heavyset woman with the shrewd eyes of a criminal prosecutor.
“Hi, Eric. Come on in.” Her eyes landed on me. “Was there something I could help you with, Julia?”
“Uh, well . . . Ms. Howard wanted me to speak to you.”
“All right. I’ll see you in a few minutes.” She let Eric into her office and closed the door.
I sighed. Wait until she found out why I was there.
Q
My best friend, Q, begged for the 411 on the bus ride home. She already knew about my trip to the dean’s office and that I’d been spotted talking to a hot guy.
We took the special bus that stopped outside the school. It was convenient, and we both knew it wasn’t smart to hang out at the bus stops on Nostrand Avenue. There was always drama going on, and we didn’t want to be part of it.
“You’ve got to be kidding. Not literally one minute.”
“I’m serious. One and a half, tops. I told her what happened and she said to try to be less controversial next time so Ms. Howard won’t get upset. That’s it.”
“She must like you.”
“She likes us.” I smiled. “ ’Cause we’re cornballs.”
Q laughed. We weren’t cornball honors students, but we weren’t totally mainstream either. We fit somewhere between the gangbangers and the nerds, though we weren’t really sure where.
In a school run by gangs, staying out was harder than joining. But Q and me had made a pact in seventh grade not to join any gang, and we’d stuck to it. There were a few different gangs represented at the school: Real Live Bitches and Real Live Niggaz (Blood connection), Hands Up (Blood connection), Sixty-Six Mafia (Crip connection), Flatbush Junction Crips (Crip connection.) We knew who our friends were and were careful about what we said. If people thought we were haters, it would only be a matter of time before we got jumped.