Show and Prove (31 page)

I sigh. “I was gonna say…”

“Say what?” Vanessa locks her arms across her chest. “That you're not the father? It ain't like we used anything.”

The conversation I had with Smiles after the first time Vanessa and I did it flashes through my mind. After getting all the juicy details out of me, he asked if Vanessa was on the pill. When I told him I didn't know, Smiles shook his head, patted me on the back, and cracked,
Congratulations! It's a boy. Guillermo the Third.
“C'mon, Nessa, you sayin' that I'm the only guy you've been with?”

“I'm not saying ever, but when I was with you, Nike, I wasn't with anybody else. What you take me for?”

“You didn't mess with Pooh? Or Flex?”

“I went out with them, but I didn't
do it
with them.”

I scoff at her. “Yet.”

“You know what, Nike?” Vanessa charges me until her head is right under my chin. She practically shoves a chipped nail into my nose. “I'm tired of you saying that like you're better than me. Yeah, I mess around. So what? At least I admit it. Unlike somebody I know, if I feel I gotta hide something, then I don't do it.”

“Yo, get your hand out my face.” And like brother like sister, Vanessa practically stands on my shell-tops and jabs her finger into my forehead. I shove her to get her off my dogs and drop down to clean them off. “You are so lucky you're a girl, man!”

“Lucky?” says Vanessa. “When I wasn't ready to do it, I was a tease, so you cheated on me, and that was cool. For you, anyway.
Oh, Nike's a playboy. He's such a Casanova. What a Don Juan.
No matter what you did, you were so high post. Meanwhile, when you were out there messin' with whoever, I stood home alone crying, and what did that make me? A pendeja. Una estúpida. A big dummy. So I say,
Two can play that game,
and go and have some fun. And what happens then? People call me a ho or a crab or whatever just for doing the same thing you were doing. You're the hero and I'm the villain, even though I'm the one telling the truth.”

Now Vanessa is sobbing so hard I'm afraid she might have some kind of attack. I reach out to her. “C'mon, Nessa, calm down.”

“Don't touch me, you stupid jerk!” She slaps me upside my head and then runs down the alley. “And don't tell me I'm lucky I'm a girl!” And just before Vanessa disappears, she pulls something out of the pocket of her shorts and throws it hard on the ground. It makes a loud clang and pops into two pieces as it hits the pavement. I go to see what it is. My buckle. I finally got it back, with the frame and the letters
N, K,
and
E
in one hand and the letter
I
in the other.

I
take a deep breath and walk into Qusay's hospital room.

“Raymond?”

“What's up, Q?”

“Wow.” He offers me his left hand. I take it, and we have an awkward shake. Then we lean into each other for a short hug. “It's good to see you, G.”

“I'd rather see you back on the block, though.”

“You and me both,” he says, sitting up in his bed, careful to lean only on his good arm. “Doctor says a few more days and I can go home.”

“And home is…”

Qusay gives me a big smile. “You really think I'm going to let some kids run me out of my own neighborhood?”

“I don't know, Q,” I say. “That kid had a gun.”

He nods. “Any word on Mark? Have they found him?”

The hard part came so quickly I didn't even have a chance to butter him up with Nana's coconut drops. She had me thinking I was dicing all that coconut for her friends at the community center, only to hand me the bag as I walked out the door. Nana shrugged and said,
Howdy an tenk yu nu bruk no square.

“Yeah, Q, they did.” I shuffle my feet, and that broadcasts just how bad the news is. “They pulled his body out of the Harlem River.”

Qusay knows how these things go down. “He didn't drown, though.”

I shake my head. “He was shot and fell off the Willis Avenue Bridge.” Or more likely was tossed off.

“The cops,” says Q.

“C'mon, G.” I was actually surprised that Junior chose to handle it that way. I kept waiting for Booby to resurface long enough for an addict to wild out on him during a hand-to-hand or another Barbarian to drop him in an alley over a made-up girlfriend. Junior took care of this one personally. And because every block has a drug lord cutting down folks who are Black and poor, the cops will knock a few heads—maybe even score some kills of their own—and then throw their hands up. “You know it was Junior.”

“You don't think Junior has some fuzz in his back pocket? If he didn't pay them to do it, he paid them to look the other way.”

“I don't doubt it, but…” I stop arguing. I didn't come here to do that, and it doesn't matter anyway. Qusay and I agree on one thing. The cops don't have to be on Junior's payroll to decide to ignore Booby's murder.

Qusay puts his hand over his eyes and takes a deep breath. When he drops his hand, his eyes are full of tears. “He didn't want to do it, Ray. Mark was close enough to kill me if he wanted to, and I'm still here.”

“What are you saying, Q?” Even though we're in the room alone, I lean in closer to him. “You saying Booby missed you on purpose?”

“I was running into the school for cover, and Cutter got in front of him. I heard Mark beg Cutter to get out the way, with Junior behind him yelling,
Do it, Boob. It's him or you. Finish him already.
” Qusay finally looks me in the face, tearful eye to tearful eye. “That's why I have to go back. My work there is not done. Cutter knew it. Mark knew it. And you know it, too, G.” I nod, and Qusay puts his hand on my shoulder. “Come back to the academy. I need you to help me convince the other brothers to return. I'll pay you.”

I step back away from Qusay, his hand sliding off my shoulder and back onto his hospital bed. “I admire you, Q. Words can't describe how much I do. And the homies need a brother like you. But it's not the place for me.”

“Get this straight, G.” Qusay squints at me. “You belong anyplace you see fit to be.”

As much as I appreciate Qusay's words, I don't believe him. Maybe I can bend myself to fit somewhere, but that doesn't make a place right for me. It's the block, but it isn't, and so I still live there. It isn't Dawkins, but it is, so I still go there. It is and isn't Saint Aloysius, which is why I'll give Barb this last year in the after-school program before moving on to something else. That's probably why I wanted to be part of the academy so much after I didn't become senior counselor. That was supposed to be my place—or so I thought—but it wasn't. For a moment I believed I had finally found my own bridge between Mott Haven and Dawkins at Hebron. Now I know I have to build my own bridges, and I can do that anywhere. On the block, at Dawkins, at Saint Aloysius. I just have to find people who want to build with me. Not for me or around me or despite me.
With
me. It's not where I'm at as much as who I'm with. “But you were right. Not that I regret helping you get a jump start, Q, and I'll still back you up. I just have to go for mine.”

I expect Qusay to give me the hard sell. Instead he just holds out his hand. “Show and prove.”

I take his hand, and we shake. “I got to break out. Pop took the day off. We're going to catch a game at Shea.” Qusay laughs as I steal one of Nana's coconut drops, pop it in my mouth, and head out the door.

I step out of the hospital and onto the boulevard. At the first mailbox, I drop my letter to Russell at Princeton. I hope he answers, but it felt good just to write it.

The sun warms my head as I stroll down the Grand Concourse, admiring both the architecture and the graffiti. Beneath the siren of fire engines and patrol cars, kids are playing kick the can and Aretha Franklin is singing, “We won't stop, not until we get it right…” This street was designed to be New York City's Champs-Elysées, and there is no reason why it can never be. Grace can come through grit, Mama used to say, which is why no one is disposable. Look how we turn litter into toys, abandonment into abandon.

For all the hardship here, and maybe even because of it, this can still be Mecca. I don't have to know how right now. I just have to keep the faith and play my part.

F
or the first time in my life, I want to give one girl all my attention, make things right, and otherwise be the guy she hoped I was, but she doesn't need me. On the contrary, I finally accept that what Sara needs most is for me to leave her alone. I miss being with her—it doesn't matter that we didn't do anything but talk—but Sara needs space, and even though it's killing me, I'm going to give it to her. I guess this is what they mean when they say if you love someone, let 'em go.

It sucks.

Still, I stop calling her and trying to cross paths with her on the block. I don't bring her up when I bump into Cooks. Sounds so simple, but it's the hardest thing I've ever had to do.

It really sucks, yo.

Sometimes I can't help myself, though, and I go to that spot on the roof where I first saw Sara. I never see her, but it turns out to be a good thing. One thought leads to another, and I make some decisions about my life. Good decisions, I think.

First, I'm going to talk to Big Lou about enlisting in the military. I need to see the world, be on my own, the whole nine, and as scary as it is, I don't know another way. Plus I used to think that because I manage to survive in such a tough neighborhood, I'm all worldly and whatnot. Truth is, though, I don't know squat. And maybe I could ask Big Lou about other things in life.

But I'm not going into the army or navy or whatever until after I graduate from high school. No way am I going to drop out for that. Uncle Sam ain't going anywhere, and I want to see what happens in the world first before signing away four years of my life. As much as I want to travel, learn some skills, and grow up, I ain't trying to go to war to do that if I can avoid it.

I haven't ruled out college, but I don't know. That may have to come later. I really want to get my own place after high school, but I can't afford to do that without working full-time. The other day I was chillin' on the stoop with Ma, and I told her she should think about becoming some kind of teacher because she's good at explaining things. That got her excited, and she wrote away for catalogs from the different CUNY schools, like Lehman and Hunter. I started browsing through them, too, and was shocked to realize that public colleges aren't free like high school.

It's a vicious circle, yo. I have to get an education to make enough money to be on my own without scraping by, but I need to make money to go to school, even with financial aid. Now I have a better understanding of how hard it was for Ma to reinvent herself after Glo and I were born and our father broke out. Even though we're getting along a little bit better, I don't want to push it. That means moving out after graduation and, in the meantime, helping her with the bills. No leather bomber or sheepskin for me this winter. Whether I get a full-time job or enlist in the military, I'll still send a little bit of money Ma's way.

I head up to the roof to do some more thinking about life, and I find the Professor playing with his Frogger ColecoVision. Usually, I don't like sharing this spot, but instead of chasing him off, I sit down on the tar beside him and watch him play for a while. Over the game's audio, I hear a bunch of kids running through a pump on the street below. “Afraid those pooh-butts will get your game wet, huh?” Jerry just shrugs, squinting at the screen as he jogs the joystick. “You should be down there getting wet, too. You can play Frogger all winter long, but summer's gonna be over soon.”

After he finishes his game, Jerry says, “You want to play?”

“Nah, I'll just watch you.” I do want to play, but I can't take Jerry's toy away from him. “Although if you want someone to play against, there are bound to be some takers downstairs.”

With a game like that, the Professor should be Mr. Popularity. When Booby got the new Atari, Smiles, the homies, and me used to be in his apartment for hours every day after school and before
Kung Fu Theater
on Saturdays, playing Missile Command, Defender, Centipede, you name it. It wasn't as cool as the game room, but we could save our quarters for snacks and avoid Don Silvio's hawk eye.

The Professor says, “Yeah, but then I never get to play.”

“What you talking about? It's your game.”

“I always have to fight to get it back, even when it's time for me to go home. Last time I came home late, my dad went off. Said I shouldn't bring my stuff outside anyway. That if it breaks or gets stolen, don't come crying to him expecting to buy another one.”

I get where his father's coming from, but he doesn't need to be so hard on the Professor. It's not easy for a kid like him to make friends, so how can you blame him for using his things to break the ice? Still, your friends should like you for who you are and not what you rock. I start to wonder why the Professor never went to day camp. It would've done him some good. He can be a know-it-all, but I would much rather've been Jerry's counselor than Stevie's any day. Even though sometimes I find myself missing that brat.

And if the Professor's parents have the money for telescopes and video games, surely they could afford day camp. Hell, they could probably send him to one of those sleepaway camps where Jerry could visit another part of the state and learn cool things like how to fish or ride a horse. The toys go out of style, but the experiences last forever.

“Professor, wait right here,” I say, crawling to my feet. “I'ma be right back.” I run to my apartment to get my boom box and linoleum. Then I decide to drop the mat, keep the radio, and grab my Little League mitt and an old baseball. When I return to the roof, I put on the boom box. I motion for Jerry to come over and stuff his hand in the mitt. “So who do you like? I mean like a girlfriend.” Jerry's cheeks go pink, and I laugh. “You can tell me. I promise not to say nothing to nobody.”

He grins at me. “You know who.”

I shake my head. “Nah, B. Vanessa too old for you. You need to be realistic. There's got to be some girl you know who's into history and video games and all that stuff that you like.” Jerry goes from pink to red. “Ah, see! Don't pretend to not like that stuff to impress some girl who's not into those things. There's nothing wrong with you. Or her. Y'all just don't fit. Stand over there.” Jerry backs up. “What's her name?” I roll my shoulders and set to pitch.

“Tasha.”

“Tasha? Wait. Booby's little sister?” Jerry nods. “Wow.” At first, I want to warn him to stay away from her. But instead I say, “She could probably use a friend right now.” I pitch and Jerry's arm shoots up, the baseball landing squarely in the mitt.

Who would've thought the Professor had athletic skills? Not always a bad thing to let people surprise you. It inspires you to try to surprise yourself.