Chameleon (20 page)

THE SCALP-SOOTHING BREEZE blew Marisol into my thoughts. Her hair brushed across my face as I swiveled my head around the park. Everywhere I looked, there she was: next to a tree in pink, sitting on the grass in yellow, drinking from a water fountain in turquoise, shooting caroms in purple, eating ice cream in white, double-Dutching in green, playing kickball in orange.

I wonder what she’s up to this weekend.

“What you guys up to this weekend?” I asked.

“Same ol,’ same ol.’ Just listen to my dad chew me out as usual,” Lorenzo said.

“Nothin’ much,” mumbled out of Trent’s and Andre’s mouths.

“What about you, Shawn? Which house you gonna be in this weekend?” Trent asked, making the three of them snicker.

They know I bounce around a lot: Auntie’s on weekdays in Compton, Mom’s on nights and weekends in Carson, and Dad’s every other weekend in Santa Monica. Three houses. Three adults. One teenager.

Dad called this morning before Mama dropped me off, so at least I knew where I would be tonight.

“I’m going to my dad’s.”

“I said it once and I’ll say it again: I don’t know how you do it, Shawn. All that going back and forth from here to there . . . I’d go crazy,” Lorenzo said.

“It ain’t that bad. It keeps me on my toes because it keeps things interesting. Usually we play a little ball, and then, depending on how he’s feeling, we do something else. Last time I saw him we went to the La Brea Tar Pits. That was right before school let out.”

“Dang!” in three-voice stereo.

“Feels like school got out a long time ago now, huh?” Andre asked to the wind.

We nodded, then stared in silence — Lorenzo at the sky, Andre at the ball in his lap, and me and Trent at our sneakers.

Images of the past were replaced by visions of the future: me and Andre playing ball in junior high PE turned into me and Andre running the break on the b-ball team; me and Trent slap-boxing after junior high turned into me and Trent doing kung-fu moves in gym; me watching ’Zo solve complex math problems turned into me listenin’ to ’Zo bag on somebody at lunch; me and Marisol talking once in a while between classes turned into me and Marisol kissing in the back of Spanish class . . . hopefully.

Are we even gonna be in the same class? Marshall is a big school.

“How many people you think go to Marshall?” I asked.

“My brother said there was like five hundred people in his class when he got out so . . . four times five hundred is . . .” Andre started.

Lorenzo finished, “Dang! Two
thousand
people?”

“Yup, that sounds about right. But the school is spread out, so maybe it won’t feel like that many people are there,” Trent said.

“I don’t care how it
feels
— I just wonder how much we gonna see each other, especially if we don’t have the same classes,” I said.

Silence. I think this was the first time any of us even thought about that. In junior high we had most of our classes together, so we saw each other all the time. But with our class about to double in size, who knew what to expect?

“There’s always lunch,” Lorenzo said.

“Don’t they have, like, three lunch periods?” Andre asked me.

“You asking the wrong person.”

“We’ll see each other one way or another. I mean . . . at the very least we’ll be in the same school. Right?” Trent joked. Everybody nodded, but nobody laughed.

Lorenzo looked at the bright side. “That just means more girls! Speaking of which, Shawnie-Shawn”— he rubbed his big mitts together —“wuzzup with you and Marisol?”

Where did that come from? I didn’t wanna talk about Marisol, because whenever I do, I say stuff I don’t wanna say, so I said, “Nothing.”

That got a laugh from everybody and a “Yeah, right. Shawn, you know you got a thing for her!” from Trent.

“I don’t have a ‘thing’ for her,” I said, shifting on the bench and staring at the court.

That got another laugh.

“Come on, Shawn, we
know
you got a thing for her,” Andre said, before Lorenzo interrupted with, “And I
know
you wanna show it to her, right?”

He rolled off the bench howling with laughter. Andre slapped five with ’Zo as he stood, and Trent chuckled under his breath. I sucked my teeth and shook my head.

“Suck your teeth all you want, Shawn, but Marisol is fine. And with all them guys at Marshall, if you don’t make a move, I guarantee you,” ’Zo said, suddenly serious, “somebody else will, brutha man. Know what’m sayin’?”

I did. He had my attention, but I tried to hide it.

“I’m just saying . . . you better do something.”

“Yeah, Shawn, ’cause if you don’t . . . I will.”

Who said that? Trent?

“Just kidding. You my boy, Shawn”— he slapped my back —“but at Marshall she’s gonna be fair game.”

“And that’s a game
many
bruthas are gonna wanna play,” ’Zo added, with a devilish look in his eyes.

The thought of him picturing Marisol in his head made me shift on the bench. “I get the picture, Lorenzo. Can we talk about something else now?”

“We could, but this is too much fun. Every time we even say her name, your head goes all up in the clouds and your eyes get all twitchy like Master in kung-fu flicks,” Trent said.

“Look at you . . . squirming in your seat,” Andre observed.

Am I?

“I’m not squirming; my legs hurt.”

“Yeah right, and Lorenzo hates food,” Trent said.

Lorenzo sniff-sniffed the air and faced Trent.

“What’s that smell?” ’Zo started.

“Oh no, here we go,” Trent muttered.

He dropped his head into his hands and stared at the peeling paint on the wood bench.

“Ah-um . . .” Lorenzo cleared his throat. “Ya Mama is so dirty . . . pigs tell her to use a bib!”

“OOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHH!”

Me and ’Dre fell off the bench, slapping our legs.

Trent stuck his feet out and folded his arms in angry silence while Lorenzo’s Buddha belly jiggled at his own bag.

“He got you good, Trent,” Andre said, then shouted, “A bib!” and stomped his feet. He snatched up the ball and headed toward the court. “Y’all coming?”

“Nah,” me and Trent said.

“Not me. I’m done for the day,” Lorenzo said. “My legs are tired and I’m hungry.”

“So what else is new?” Trent shot back.

Is he really that dumb?

“That’s all right, Trent. I already bagged you up. You not even worth sharpening my blade,” Lorenzo said, making his way over to a spot on the grass near the court.

Andre shot free throws as Trent and I shot the breeze on the bench.

“Shawn, listen, Black Bruce was telling me how he’s had his black belt for a few years now, and he said that if we worked at it, we could earn ours in about four years; that’s how long it took him. He said we could —”

“Hold up . . . what’s this ‘we’? You wanna get a black belt in kung fu?” I asked, turning to him. “Are you serious?”

“Why not? Even if it takes four years, we’d have it by the time we graduate Marshall.”

Images of Trent snapping kicks, punching boards, and shouting, “WAAAAAA-TAAAA” leaped into my head, and as strange as it was, I could see him doing that, maybe even me. But when the words “graduate” and “Marshall” were mentioned together, I couldn’t see us doing that.

What then? We had a hard enough time figuring out how to spend our summer days. Now, hearing Trent talk about having a black belt by graduation reminded me that four years stood between me and my future.

“Shawn, what time is it?” Lorenzo shouted from his spot near the court.

“Time for you to get a watch!” I said without shouting.

“What?”

“I said it’s about four.”

“Dang! That mean you gotta get to steppin’ soon, huh?” Trent said.

“I got a little time. We can still do something — we just gotta hurry up and figure out what.”

We stood in the middle of the court in the middle of the park, deciding on a direction.

Lorenzo rubbed his belly and said, “I’m hungry, and as hard as we been playing, you guys probably are too, right?”

Right. It felt like we ate those chicken wings yesterday the way my stomach rumbled. On top of that my mouth was dry.

“Yeah, and thirsty,” I said.

“Well, we gonna have to go to somebody’s house ’cause we outta money,” Lorenzo said.

Yeah but whose house? Lorenzo’s is probably the closest. But after his dad got on his case, I’m sure that’s the last place he wants to go, especially with no food in the house.

“You wanna go back to your crib, Lorenzo?” Trent asked.

Great minds think alike.

“Why did I know you were gonna ask me that, Trent?” Lorenzo said.

“Because your house is the closest.”

The park, once hopping with activity, stood silent except for our four voices as we made a decision. The silence was broken when muffled laughter echoed onto the court. That turned my head. But not nearly as much as the smell that tickled my nose. Weed-Choker and the hyenas barged back into my brain.

“You guys smell something?” I asked.

I approached the rec room, hoping to get a closer sniff.

Trent stuck his nose in the air and said, “What
is
that?”

Lorenzo sniff-sniffed and said, “Somebody getting high around here.”

He swiveled his head side to side, then added, “It smells like it’s coming from over here.” His feet carried him in the direction of the handball courts, a notorious hangout for Crips
and
Pirus.

We did our color check this morning, so we knew we were cool. But still . . . with the Crips and Pirus, you never know what’s gonna happen when you breathe their same air.

The laughter got louder as the scent got stronger. We crept around the big wall that bounces back handballs and found five guys seated on the concrete. Black shades covered their eyes. Four of them were covered in blue, from the Stars on their feet to the L.A. Dodger caps on their heads. Crips. The fifth was in black from head to toe and looked familiar. He sat in the middle, bookended on either side by two Crips, with a cloud of smoke streaming out his mouth. None of them noticed us as we listened in.

“Man, I’d be all up in that . . . raw dog and e’rything,” the bookend on the far left said, slapping hands with the Crip next to him.

“Who? Kendra over on Grape Street? Mannnn, she ain’t gonna talk to your gap-toothed face, because she gone be too busy with me!” the bookend at the other end shouted.

Soul claps from two in the middle snapped through the laughter. The one in black pulled down his shades and acknowledged us. “LORENZO? Boy, what you doing here?”

Wait . . . is that . . .

“Dayshaun? Is that you behind that smoke?” Lorenzo asked.

Lorenzo’s older brother. I knew he looked familiar.

“Boy . . . what you doing here?”

“We was playing ball,” Lorenzo said, nodding toward Andre, who still had the basketball. “I could ask you the same thing, but I can see that with my own eyes,” he added, folding his arms across his chest and looking at his big brother like a parent catching his kid stealing from the cookie jar.

“Ain’t no thang but a chicken wang” came Dayshaun’s reply.

He tried to stand, but a downpour of giggles tumbled out of his mouth as he slid back to earth. The Crip to Dayshaun’s left got passed the joint and took a long drag, making the lit end turn bright red as he inhaled.

“Dang, Tyrone . . . take two and pass. Two . . . and pass,” the bookend on the left said.

Tyrone held the smoke in his lungs, closing his eyes as it traveled down to his toes and out of his mouth. His eyes and mouth opened as he soaked me and Andre, standing inches away, in a thick cloud of stinky smoke.

We coughed and took a step back.

He laughed and thrust the joint at us. “Y’all don’t toke?”

“Nahh, I’m cool,” I said.

“Me too,” Andre said.

The smell made my stomach hurt.

“So what you doing here, little brother?”

The bookend who told Tyrone to “take two and pass” started cracking up. He shook his head and said, “Ain’t nothing little ’bout yo’ brother, D.”

That squeezed a snicker from me and Andre.

’Zo sucked his teeth and said, “I already told you: playing ball.”

The joint made its way down the line as we stood there watching like idiots.

Lorenzo lingered over his brother. “I hope you ain’t planning on going home for a while. Pop was mad earlier when he couldn’t find no food in the house. And I know he won’t be happy to see you all —”

“What? Shoooot. I ’on’t care. I ain’t even thinking about him,” Dayshaun interrupted.

“You better hope he don’t find out you on that stuff,” Lorenzo said.

“What you mean ‘that stuff’? It ain’t like I’m tappin’ my veins like a fiend. It’s just weed, little brother. Shoot, I been doing this longer than a minute, and Pop ain’t found out yet.”

The three of us looked at Lorenzo. He broke through the smoke with “Dayshaun, you got any money? We hungry.”

Dayshaun filled his lungs with smoke as the question floated his way. His answer came out in a slow, high-pitched puff aimed to the blue sky: “You lucky it’s county day; otherwise I wouldn’t have squat. How much you need?”

“How much you got?” Lorenzo pounced.

“Boy, how much you need?”

I held up five fingers. ’Zo had other ideas.

“Ten bucks.”

“Thas it? Ten? Hol’ up,” he said.

Again Dayshaun tried to stand, this time holding on to the wall for dear life as he staggered to an upright position.

“Wooooo, I’m high as a mug.” Dayshaun laughed, rubbing his scalp and shaking his head.

He punched a paw into his black Dickies and pulled out a thick wad of bills rolled up and squeezed tight by a rubber band.

We rushed him to take a look.

“Dang, where you get all that money from, Day?” Lorenzo asked.

“Bag on up. Y’all don’t worry ’bout this here,” Dayshaun said, pushing us back with his words and his arm as he thumbed through his roll. He went through it twice and couldn’t find a ten or even a couple of fives.

“It’s your lucky day, little brother; the smallest I got is a twenty.” He peeled one off and thrust it at Lorenzo.