From the Westside with Love - Episode 1
Elijah swirled the deep crimson liquid in his glass, watching it catch the fading sunlight streaming through the bay windows. The golden hour bathed their modest Craftsman home in a warm glow, softening the edges of their situation for just a moment.
"So," Loraine sighed, sinking deeper into the plush sectional, "how much longer do we have?”
Elijah's eyes flicked to the pile of papers strewn across the coffee table – a haphazard monument to their dwindling savings. He took a long sip of wine before answering, savoring the bitter notes that matched his mood.
"Until the judge rules on the restitution…" he trailed off, searching for a word that wouldn't send his wife into a panic spiral, “It’s hard to say.”
"It can’t be worse than what they gave Muncie," she offered, a humorless chuckle escaping her lips. "We at least had the decency to not stock up our garage, get a membership at the club house. Hung around white folks so much he thought he became one.”
Despite the knot in his stomach, Elijah couldn't help but smile. Even in the depths of their stress, Loraine's humor shone through. "He did go kind of crazy," he admitted.
The distant howl of coyotes drifted up from the chaparral-covered hills, a haunting reminder of the wild edges that bordered their slice of Southern California suburbia. Loraine shivered, though the evening was warm.
"I just want it to be over," she whispered, her voice small and fragile. "Every time I close my eyes, I see dollar bills with little wings, flying away from us."
Elijah shook his head, “We would have been fine too, without it. I mean, it would have cut into our nest but we’d have survived, better off than where we’re at right now.”
“No, no, no. I get all this personal responsibility shit that you’re on and I love you as a man for it but this is Muncie’s fault, okay? What’s the fucking point of paying for an accountant if he can’t do some accountant shit?”
“He did too much accountant shit is the problem,” he scoffed, “I never should have trusted that slick talking motherfucker.”
“He’ll have plenty of time to do some accounting,” she guffawed, “Five years is…aren’t his kids about to graduate high school?”
“His oldest already graduated last year,” Elijah corrected her, “The youngest is Ke’s grade, I think. I don’t ever want to see no Black man go to jail but…”
“He should have thought about that before if he set us up and set all those other people up too,” she cut him off, “That ain’t on us, that ain’t on you. He would have gotten locked up regardless, don’t make no sense for us to not help our case by keeping our mouths closed.”
“What would folks from the “neighborhood” think about you turning rat?” Elijah teased with a sarcastic tone, “Not the daughter of the OG, triple OG.”
"If you keep talking, I swear I'll throw this very expensive wine towards your head," Loraine interrupted, though a ghost of a smile played at the corners of her mouth.
Elijah mimed zipping his lips, then refilled both their glasses. The weight of their situation settled over them like a heavy blanket, stifling and oppressive. Outside, a neighbor's wind chimes tinkled softly, a discordant melody that seemed to echo their jumbled thoughts.
….
The bass thumped through the floorboards, vibrating up Keshawn's legs as he leaned against the wall, nursing a red Solo cup filled with something that definitely wasn't just punch. He towered over most of the other kids at the party, his tall frame making him stand out even when he was trying his hardest to blend in.
Across the crowded living room, bathed in the pulsing glow of multicolored LED lights, stood the girl he had been eyeing all night. Her curly hair bounced as she laughed at something her friend whispered, the sound barely audible over the trap beat blaring from the speakers. Keshawn's heart did a little flip every time she smiled, revealing a set of perfect teeth that contrasted beautifully with her dark skin.
He took another sip of his drink, grimacing at the burn. Dutch courage, his friends called it. Right now, he needed all the courage he could get. He ran a hand over his hair as if it was a hairbrush, a nervous habit he'd picked up somewhere along the way.
"Just go talk to her, man," his inside voice told him. "What’s the worst that could happen.
Keshawn shook his head, suddenly fascinated by the scuffed toes of his Air Jordans. He glanced up again, catching her eye for a brief moment before they both looked away, cheeks burning. The party swirled around them, a kaleidoscope of teenage energy and hormones. Someone had cranked up the AC to combat the heat generated by dozens of dancing bodies, and goosebumps prickled along Keshawn's arms.
Taking a deep breath, Keshawn straightened up, squaring his broad shoulders. It was now or never. He took one step forward, then another, weaving through the crowd with a grace that belied his size. The closer he got, the more beautiful she became, her features coming into sharper focus.
His feet, which had been moving with such purpose just moments ago, now felt like they were encased in concrete. The noise of the party seemed to amplify, pressing in on him from all sides. He could hear snatches of conversation, punctuated by raucous laughter and the clinking of bottles. The smell of spilled beer and cheap cologne hung heavy in the air, making him feel slightly nauseous.
Keshawn's gaze darted around the room, looking for an escape route. His eyes landed on a group of his friends gathered around a beer pong table in the corner. The red Solo cups were arranged in neat triangles at each end, a battlefield of potential inebriation. The ping pong ball arced through the air, landing with a soft 'plop' in one of the cups.
Relief flooded through him as he changed course, veering away from the girl and towards the familiar faces of his crew. He could feel her eyes on his back as he retreated, and he hunched his shoulders slightly, willing himself to disappear into the crowd.
"Yo, Keshawn!" called out Gavin as he approached the table. "Where you been hiding, big man? We need another player!"
Keshawn forced a grin, hoping it didn't look as fake as it felt. "Just checking out the scene," he said, trying to sound nonchalant. "You guys look like you could use some real competition."
The group erupted in good-natured jeers and trash talk. Keshawn felt himself relaxing as he fell into the familiar rhythm of banter with his friends. He glanced over his shoulder one last time, catching a glimpse of the girl through the crowd. She was still laughing with her friends, seemingly unaware of his aborted attempt to approach her.
As he turned back to the game, Keshawn felt a mixture of relief and regret settle in his chest. He pushed the feelings aside, focusing instead on the task at hand. Gavin handed him a ping pong ball, its surface slightly sticky from countless handling.
"Alright, Kobe," Gavin teased, "show us what you got."
…
Vic trudged up the cracked sidewalk, his gym bag slung over one shoulder as the sweat trickled down his back, his shirt clinging uncomfortably to his skin.
As he approached his house, a faded yellow bungalow with peeling paint and an overgrown lawn, Vic noticed Mrs. Hernandez from next door watering her prized roses. The old woman squinted at him over her thick glasses, raising a gnarled hand in greeting.
"Hola, Victor," she called out, her accent thick and musical. "How was your day, mijo?"
Vic mustered a tired smile. "What’s going on, Mrs. H? It was good, thanks." He paused, eyeing the colorful blooms that lined her immaculate garden. "Your garden putting us to shame, miss.”
Mrs. Hernandez beamed, momentarily forgetting the heat as she launched into a detailed explanation of her latest horticultural techniques. Vic nodded politely, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he tried to edge towards his front door.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. H," he interrupted gently when she paused for breath. "I've got to get ready for work. Maybe you can tell me more about the roses later?"
The old woman waved him off with a fond smile. "Of course, of course. Don't let me keep you, mijo. Say hello to your mama for me."
Vic gave her a final wave before practically sprinting up his own crumbling walkway. He fumbled with his keys, cursing under his breath as he dropped them twice before managing to unlock the door.
The door creaked open, releasing a burst of cool air that made Vic's skin prickle. The living room was neat but worn, with mismatched furniture and faded family photos lining the walls. A threadbare rug covered most of the scuffed hardwood floor, its once-vibrant pattern now muted by years of foot traffic.
As Vic moved further into the house, he noticed his uncle sprawled across the ancient plaid couch. Uncle Quincy's face was ashen, a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead. His hands trembled slightly as he clutched a tattered throw pillow to his chest. Dark circles rimmed his bloodshot eyes, which met Vic's for a brief, intense moment.
The air between them crackled with unspoken words. Vic could almost taste the acrid tang of withdrawal, could feel the desperation radiating off his uncle in waves. He wanted to say something – anything – but the words stuck in his throat. Instead, he gave a small nod, which Quincy returned before closing his eyes and turning his face to the back of the couch.
Vic continued down the narrow hallway, its walls lined with peeling wallpaper in a faded floral print. The floorboards creaked beneath his feet, each step echoing in the quiet house. Family portraits hung crookedly, capturing happier times – his parents' wedding, his own gap-toothed kindergarten smile, a faded Polaroid of his grandparents.
Just as he reached for the doorknob of his room, a voice called out from the kitchen. "Vic?”
He paused, hand hovering over the worn brass knob. "Yeah, Ma. It's me."
His mother, Eleanora, emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a frayed dishtowel. She was a small woman, barely reaching Vic's shoulder, but her presence filled the narrow hallway. The lines around her eyes crinkled as she smiled up at him, though worry lurked in the depths of her gaze.
“You heading out?” she asked, sizing him up.
“Yeah, picked up a shift,” he answered.
His mother nodded, her eyes darting briefly towards the living room. "That's good, that's good," she murmured, almost to herself. Then, more firmly, "You’re uncle and aunt’s court date is tomorrow.”
“So?” Vic shrugged, drawing a furrowed brow from his mother.
“We have to show support, you know how that shit impacts what they get.”
“Exactly, I do know,” he scoffed, “And they weren’t there for Trey’s sentencing or his parole hearings, not a single one of them.”
“That’s a completely different situation,” she waved him off, “Just show up, okay?”
“Whatever,” he sucked his teeth as he opened the door to his room.
“You better be there!” she managed to sneak in before he closed the door behind him.
Neighborhood.
Neighborhood.
Keshawn sound like the basketball version of Kam. Scared of pussy. 
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 4726
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Neighborhood.
Onto the next 
Let's see where this goes
Let's see where this goesNeighborhood.
first he was too horny over lana now he scared smh pick a slant and stay with it
yessir!
Neighborhood.
From the Westside with Love - Episode 2
Vic jogged up the courthouse steps, checking his watch for the millionth time. He burst through the heavy wooden doors, the cool air conditioning a welcome relief from the sweltering summer heat outside. His eyes darted around the marble-floored lobby, searching for any sign of where he was supposed to go.
"Excuse me," he panted, approaching the security guard. "I'm here for the, uh, Chase hearing?”
The guard raised an eyebrow, looking Vic up and down. "That started 20 minutes ago, kid. No entry once it's in session."
"Shit," Vic muttered. "Are you sure I can't just slip in?”
"Rules are rules," the guard shrugged. "You can wait on the bench if you want. Should be getting wrapped up soon.”
Vic slumped onto the hard wooden bench outside the courtroom. He could hear muffled voices through the door but couldn't make out what they were saying. His leg bounced aimlessly as he waited, scrolling mindlessly through his phone.
A text from Angela popped up: "Hey babe, my shift got cancelled. Wanna hang?"
Vic glanced at the courtroom door, then back at his phone. They probably wouldn't even notice he wasn't there, right? It's not like they were facing serious charges or anything. After all, they were one of the ‘good Blacks’, the type you wouldn’t mind moving into your neighborhood.
"On my way," he texted back, already heading for the exit. As he pushed through the revolving door back into the sticky heat, Vic felt a weight lift off his shoulders. They'd probably just get a slap on the wrist anyway.
…
Keshawn stumbled out of the courtroom, his mind reeling. The world around him seemed to blur at the edges, colors muting and sounds fading in and out like a badly tuned radio. He blinked hard, trying to bring everything back into focus, but it was like looking through frosted glass.
Simone's sobs pierced through the haze, sharp and jagged. Keshawn turned towards the sound, seeing his sister's shoulders shaking, her face buried in her hands. He wanted to reach out, to comfort her, but his arms felt leaden, impossibly heavy.
People bustled around them in the hallway, their voices a distant murmur. Keshawn caught snippets of conversation - "Three years?" "...never saw it coming..." - but the words slipped away before he could grasp their meaning.
A gentle hand on his arm made him flinch. Aunt Eleanora's face swam into view, her brow furrowed with concern. Her lips were moving, but it took a moment for the words to register.
"Keshawn, baby," she was saying, her voice finally cutting through the fog. "Do you want to come with me, or stay here with Simone? I can get your room ready when I get home but I don’t know if you want to…"
He blinked at her, struggling to process the question. Keshawn opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. His throat felt tight, constricted. He swallowed hard, trying again, but all he could manage was a small, choked sound.
Aunt Eleanora squeezed his arm gently. "It's okay, baby. Take your time. I’ll fix you up a room so whenever you’re ready, just let me know. CPS probably ain’t gonna come around for another week.”
…
The microwave beeped, its shrill tone echoing through the eerily quiet house. Simone pulled out the steaming container of lasagna, the rich aroma of tomato sauce and melted cheese filling the kitchen. She grabbed two forks from the drawer, wincing as it squeaked shut.
"Keshawn?" she called out, her voice sounding unnaturally loud in the stillness. "I got us some food, come eat!"
She heard the creak of floorboards as Keshawn made his way down the hall. He appeared in the doorway, eyes red-rimmed and distant. Simone's heart clenched at the sight of him, his spirit not quite filling up his oversized frame.
"Here," she said softly, pushing a fork towards him as he sat at the kitchen table. "It's from that Italian place you like.”
Keshawn nodded mutely, picking at the pasta without really eating. Simone watched him, trying to find the right words to fill the oppressive silence.
"Listen," she started, setting down her own fork. "I... I have to go back to school on Monday. I can’t really afford to keep missing classes, literally.”
Keshawn's head snapped up, panic flashing in his eyes. Simone rushed to continue, "But you can stay here until then, okay?”
"What happens after that?" Keshawn asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Simone sighed, running a hand through her hair. "Well, Auntie Elly said she'd take you in. She technically had to take out in, that’s what the court ordered. Not like we had another choice.”
Keshawn's fork clattered against the plate as he dropped it. "I can’t stay with you?”
"Ke, my dorm is barely enough for me and my roommates," Simone sighed, “If I could, I would, trust me. Maybe next year if I get an apartment but…who knows…Mom might be home by then.”
Keshawn pulled his hand away, pushing back from the table. His chair scraped loudly against the linoleum floor. "What about one of my friend’s house?" he said, voice rising. "Come on, Sissy, you wouldn’t stay at Auntie Elly’s house.”
Simone felt tears pricking at her eyes. She blinked them back, trying to keep her voice steady. "I know, Ke. But you can’t stay here and here might not even still be ours in a few weeks. They’ve got to pay back all that money…”
Simone watched as Keshawn's face hardened, his jaw clenching tight. She could almost see the walls going up, brick by brick, shutting her out. The silence stretched between them, taut as a rubber band about to snap.
"Have you... have you talked to Mom or Dad yet?" Simone ventured, her voice barely above a whisper.
Without a word, he turned on his heel and stalked out of the kitchen. His footsteps echoed through the house, each one a dull thud that seemed to reverberate in Simone's chest. She heard his bedroom door slam shut, the sound making her flinch.
In his room, he flopped onto his bed, fumbling for the game controller on his nightstand. The familiar weight of it in his hands was comforting, a lifeline to normalcy in a world that had suddenly gone sideways.
The TV flickered to life, bathing the darkened room in a soft blue glow. The opening menu of NBA 2K23 appeared, the upbeat music a stark contrast to the heaviness in his chest. Keshawn navigated through the options on autopilot, his fingers moving of their own accord.
As the game loaded, his eyes darted around his room, taking in the familiar sights. The faded posters on the walls, the overflowing laundry basket in the corner, the stack of comic books teetering precariously on his bookshelf. How much longer would this be his space? How much of it would he be able to take with him to Aunt Eleanora's?
The game's opening cutscene began to play, the familiar music swelling. Keshawn let himself be drawn in, grateful for the distraction. Here, in this digital world, he wasn't Keshawn Chase, the kid whose parents were in jail. He was the starting small forward for the Charlotte Hornets, blessed with all the swag that virtual currency — and real currency — could buy.
Vic jogged up the courthouse steps, checking his watch for the millionth time. He burst through the heavy wooden doors, the cool air conditioning a welcome relief from the sweltering summer heat outside. His eyes darted around the marble-floored lobby, searching for any sign of where he was supposed to go.
"Excuse me," he panted, approaching the security guard. "I'm here for the, uh, Chase hearing?”
The guard raised an eyebrow, looking Vic up and down. "That started 20 minutes ago, kid. No entry once it's in session."
"Shit," Vic muttered. "Are you sure I can't just slip in?”
"Rules are rules," the guard shrugged. "You can wait on the bench if you want. Should be getting wrapped up soon.”
Vic slumped onto the hard wooden bench outside the courtroom. He could hear muffled voices through the door but couldn't make out what they were saying. His leg bounced aimlessly as he waited, scrolling mindlessly through his phone.
A text from Angela popped up: "Hey babe, my shift got cancelled. Wanna hang?"
Vic glanced at the courtroom door, then back at his phone. They probably wouldn't even notice he wasn't there, right? It's not like they were facing serious charges or anything. After all, they were one of the ‘good Blacks’, the type you wouldn’t mind moving into your neighborhood.
"On my way," he texted back, already heading for the exit. As he pushed through the revolving door back into the sticky heat, Vic felt a weight lift off his shoulders. They'd probably just get a slap on the wrist anyway.
…
Keshawn stumbled out of the courtroom, his mind reeling. The world around him seemed to blur at the edges, colors muting and sounds fading in and out like a badly tuned radio. He blinked hard, trying to bring everything back into focus, but it was like looking through frosted glass.
Simone's sobs pierced through the haze, sharp and jagged. Keshawn turned towards the sound, seeing his sister's shoulders shaking, her face buried in her hands. He wanted to reach out, to comfort her, but his arms felt leaden, impossibly heavy.
People bustled around them in the hallway, their voices a distant murmur. Keshawn caught snippets of conversation - "Three years?" "...never saw it coming..." - but the words slipped away before he could grasp their meaning.
A gentle hand on his arm made him flinch. Aunt Eleanora's face swam into view, her brow furrowed with concern. Her lips were moving, but it took a moment for the words to register.
"Keshawn, baby," she was saying, her voice finally cutting through the fog. "Do you want to come with me, or stay here with Simone? I can get your room ready when I get home but I don’t know if you want to…"
He blinked at her, struggling to process the question. Keshawn opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. His throat felt tight, constricted. He swallowed hard, trying again, but all he could manage was a small, choked sound.
Aunt Eleanora squeezed his arm gently. "It's okay, baby. Take your time. I’ll fix you up a room so whenever you’re ready, just let me know. CPS probably ain’t gonna come around for another week.”
…
The microwave beeped, its shrill tone echoing through the eerily quiet house. Simone pulled out the steaming container of lasagna, the rich aroma of tomato sauce and melted cheese filling the kitchen. She grabbed two forks from the drawer, wincing as it squeaked shut.
"Keshawn?" she called out, her voice sounding unnaturally loud in the stillness. "I got us some food, come eat!"
She heard the creak of floorboards as Keshawn made his way down the hall. He appeared in the doorway, eyes red-rimmed and distant. Simone's heart clenched at the sight of him, his spirit not quite filling up his oversized frame.
"Here," she said softly, pushing a fork towards him as he sat at the kitchen table. "It's from that Italian place you like.”
Keshawn nodded mutely, picking at the pasta without really eating. Simone watched him, trying to find the right words to fill the oppressive silence.
"Listen," she started, setting down her own fork. "I... I have to go back to school on Monday. I can’t really afford to keep missing classes, literally.”
Keshawn's head snapped up, panic flashing in his eyes. Simone rushed to continue, "But you can stay here until then, okay?”
"What happens after that?" Keshawn asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Simone sighed, running a hand through her hair. "Well, Auntie Elly said she'd take you in. She technically had to take out in, that’s what the court ordered. Not like we had another choice.”
Keshawn's fork clattered against the plate as he dropped it. "I can’t stay with you?”
"Ke, my dorm is barely enough for me and my roommates," Simone sighed, “If I could, I would, trust me. Maybe next year if I get an apartment but…who knows…Mom might be home by then.”
Keshawn pulled his hand away, pushing back from the table. His chair scraped loudly against the linoleum floor. "What about one of my friend’s house?" he said, voice rising. "Come on, Sissy, you wouldn’t stay at Auntie Elly’s house.”
Simone felt tears pricking at her eyes. She blinked them back, trying to keep her voice steady. "I know, Ke. But you can’t stay here and here might not even still be ours in a few weeks. They’ve got to pay back all that money…”
Simone watched as Keshawn's face hardened, his jaw clenching tight. She could almost see the walls going up, brick by brick, shutting her out. The silence stretched between them, taut as a rubber band about to snap.
"Have you... have you talked to Mom or Dad yet?" Simone ventured, her voice barely above a whisper.
Without a word, he turned on his heel and stalked out of the kitchen. His footsteps echoed through the house, each one a dull thud that seemed to reverberate in Simone's chest. She heard his bedroom door slam shut, the sound making her flinch.
In his room, he flopped onto his bed, fumbling for the game controller on his nightstand. The familiar weight of it in his hands was comforting, a lifeline to normalcy in a world that had suddenly gone sideways.
The TV flickered to life, bathing the darkened room in a soft blue glow. The opening menu of NBA 2K23 appeared, the upbeat music a stark contrast to the heaviness in his chest. Keshawn navigated through the options on autopilot, his fingers moving of their own accord.
As the game loaded, his eyes darted around his room, taking in the familiar sights. The faded posters on the walls, the overflowing laundry basket in the corner, the stack of comic books teetering precariously on his bookshelf. How much longer would this be his space? How much of it would he be able to take with him to Aunt Eleanora's?
The game's opening cutscene began to play, the familiar music swelling. Keshawn let himself be drawn in, grateful for the distraction. Here, in this digital world, he wasn't Keshawn Chase, the kid whose parents were in jail. He was the starting small forward for the Charlotte Hornets, blessed with all the swag that virtual currency — and real currency — could buy.
Last edited by Soapy on 04 Dec 2024, 15:35, edited 1 time in total.
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 4726
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Neighborhood.
Y'all just love to traumatize your characters from the jump, huh?
Neighborhood.
yessir, get to cooking earlyCaptain Canada wrote: ↑02 Dec 2024, 11:17Y'all just love to traumatize your characters from the jump, huh?
Neighborhood.
From the Westside with Love - Episode 3
Keshawn stood in the middle of the cramped bedroom, surrounded by a handful of cardboard boxes and worn down furniture. The faded wallpaper peeled at the corners, revealing glimpses of ancient plaster beneath.
Vic appeared in the doorway, jangling a set of keys, the metal clinking like loose change. "Here," he said, tossing a single key to Keshawn. "Don't lose it. Motherfuckers will try this bitch on every door down this street if you do.”
Keshawn caught the key, its weight suddenly feeling like an anchor in his palm. He nodded silently, unsure of what to say to this cousin he barely spoke to in recent years.
Vic shifted awkwardly, his eyes darting around the room as if searching for a safe place to land. "Listen, um, just a heads up. Uncle Quincy's going through some stuff right now so if he ask you for something, especially money, just say no, aight?”
Keshawn's brow furrowed. "Stuff?"
"Yeah, nigga, stuff," Vic waved his hand dismissively, “Just avoid the nigga if you can, aight?”
Keshawn nodded, his memories of his uncle being few and far in between. He was pretty funny, from what he recalled, and certainly the life of the party. A far cry from the corpse that was laid out on the living room sofa, barely acknowledging Keshawn in his entrance.
The silence that followed was thick enough to cut with a knife. Keshawn turned back to his boxes, methodically unpacking shirts and arranging them on hangers. He could feel Vic's eyes on his back, a mixture of curiosity and something that might have been concern if Keshawn didn't know any better.
"So, uh, you need any help with all this?" Vic asked, gesturing vaguely at the chaos of the room.
Keshawn paused, a faded graphic t-shirt clutched in his hands. "Nah, I'm good," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper.
Vic nodded, relief flickering across his face. "Cool, cool. Well, if you need anything, just holler. I'm right down the hall." He lingered for a moment longer, as if waiting for Keshawn to say something more. When nothing came, he shrugged and retreated, his footsteps echoing down the creaky hallway, pausing halfway through.
He turned, his hand resting on the peeling wallpaper, fingers tracing the raised pattern absent-mindedly. His eyes drifted back to Keshawn's - no, Trey's - room. The sight of those unfamiliar boxes and the stranger occupying his brother's space made something twist in his gut.
He watched as Keshawn continued unpacking, each item seeming to erase a little more of Trey's presence. The faded Lakers poster that had hung crooked for years was now replaced by a blank wall. Trey's collection of snapbacks that used to litter the dresser were gone, supplanted by Keshawn's neat stack of textbooks.
Vic cleared his throat, causing Keshawn to look up. "Yo, for tomorrow, I ain’t driving you to school or nothing. But I can drop you at the bus stop, pretty sure one of them bitches take you all the way over there."
Keshawn nodded, his face a mask of neutrality. "Thanks, appreciate it."
…
The bus lurched forward, its ancient suspension groaning under the weight of the morning commuters. Keshawn gripped the sticky handrail, his knuckles white as he swayed with each pothole and sharp turn. The acrid smell of diesel fumes mixed with the musty odor of unwashed bodies and cheap cologne, creating a nauseating cocktail that made his stomach churn.
As the bus rumbled through unfamiliar streets, Keshawn's eyes darted nervously from passenger to passenger. A sea of tired faces stared blankly ahead, their expressions etched with the weariness of another day's grind. An old woman with wizened hands clutched a worn Bible to her chest, her lips moving in silent prayer. A young mother bounced a fussy baby on her knee, dark circles under her eyes betraying a sleepless night.
The neighborhoods outside the smudged windows seemed to grow more dilapidated with each passing block. Boarded-up storefronts covered in graffiti gave way to crumbling apartment buildings, their windows covered with iron bars. Groups of young men loitered on street corners, their hard eyes following the bus as it lumbered past.
At one stop, a hulking man with a shaved head boarded, his muscular arms covered in intricate tattoos. Keshawn's breath caught in his throat as he recognized the distinctive symbols of the East Side Crips. The man's gaze swept over the bus, settling briefly on Keshawn before moving on. Keshawn exhaled slowly, his heart pounding in his chest.
As the journey stretched on, more passengers boarded – men and women in worn work uniforms, their faces lined with exhaustion and resignation. A woman in scrubs slumped into the seat across from Keshawn, her eyes closing almost immediately as she grabbed a few precious moments of sleep.
The bus wheezed to a stop in front of a liquor store, its windows covered in iron grates. A group of teenagers in baggy clothes sauntered on, their voices loud and boisterous. One of them, a lanky boy with a teardrop tattoo under his eye, bumped Keshawn's shoulder as he passed. "Watch it, loco," he sneered, his friends snickering behind him.
Keshawn mumbled an apology, his eyes fixed on the grimy floor. He could feel the weight of their stares on the back of his neck, his skin prickling with anxiety. The bus jerked forward again, and Keshawn stumbled, nearly losing his balance.
As they crossed into yet another unfamiliar neighborhood, Keshawn's fingers tightened around the straps of his backpack. The streets here were lined with run-down houses, their yards overgrown and littered with debris. A group of men huddled around a burning trash can, their laughter carrying through the bus's open windows.
Keshawn's eyes flicked to his watch, the ordeal taking longer than expected or advertised when he looked up the buses’ route that morning. He had half a mind to get off and order an Uber but between his dwindling account and not wanting to be leave the safety of the bus, he decided to stay on as he continued his arduous journey.
…
Angela's hand shot up, her eyes blazing with determination. Mr. Hawkins had barely finished his sentence about the importance of "To Kill a Mockingbird" when she interjected.
"With all due respect, Mr. Hawkins, I think we need to diversify our reading list," Angela said, her voice steady but tinged with frustration. The classroom fell silent, all eyes turning to her. "We're constantly reading about Black people through the lens of white authors. Don't you think it's time we heard our own voices?"
Mr. Hawkins adjusted his glasses, a hint of annoyance crossing his face. "Angela, we've discussed this before. These are classic works of literature that have stood the test of time."
"But why are they classics?" Angela pressed, leaning forward in her seat. "Who decided that? And why aren't there any Black authors on this list of so-called classics?"
A few students shifted uncomfortably in their seats, while others nodded in agreement. But most of them didn’t care.
Mr. Hawkins sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. "Look, I understand your concern, but these books provide valuable insights into the human condition and important historical contexts."
Angela scoffed, her pen tapping rapidly against her notebook. "And Black authors don't? What about Toni Morrison? James Baldwin? Zora Neale Hurston? They've got plenty to say about the human condition and historical contexts."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the class. Mr. Hawkins' face flushed, his composure slipping. "Those authors are certainly worthy of study, but-"
"But what?" Angela interrupted, her voice rising. "But they're not part of the curriculum? Or you're not comfortable teaching them? Or is it because they might make some people in this room uncomfortable?"
The classroom erupted into a cacophony of voices, their tension drawing the attention of the class, even among those that could care less about the topic of discussion. They were just interested in the drama. The teacher raised his hands, trying to regain control of the situation.
"Enough!" he shouted, his voice cracking slightly. "Angela, I appreciate your passion, but this is not the time or place for this discussion."
Angela stood up, her chair scraping loudly against the linoleum floor. "Then when is the time, Mr. Hawkins? When are we going to talk about representation in literature? When are we going to acknowledge that there's more to Black literature than stories about racism written by white people?"
The bell rang, cutting through the tension like a knife. Students began gathering their things, casting furtive glances between Angela and Mr. Hawkins. The teacher's jaw clenched as he struggled to maintain his composure.
"We'll continue this discussion another time," he said tightly.
As the students filed out, Angela lingered, her eyes locked with Mr. Hawkins'. The air between them crackled with unresolved tension as she gathered her belongings and walked out, shaking her head.
Keshawn stood in the middle of the cramped bedroom, surrounded by a handful of cardboard boxes and worn down furniture. The faded wallpaper peeled at the corners, revealing glimpses of ancient plaster beneath.
Vic appeared in the doorway, jangling a set of keys, the metal clinking like loose change. "Here," he said, tossing a single key to Keshawn. "Don't lose it. Motherfuckers will try this bitch on every door down this street if you do.”
Keshawn caught the key, its weight suddenly feeling like an anchor in his palm. He nodded silently, unsure of what to say to this cousin he barely spoke to in recent years.
Vic shifted awkwardly, his eyes darting around the room as if searching for a safe place to land. "Listen, um, just a heads up. Uncle Quincy's going through some stuff right now so if he ask you for something, especially money, just say no, aight?”
Keshawn's brow furrowed. "Stuff?"
"Yeah, nigga, stuff," Vic waved his hand dismissively, “Just avoid the nigga if you can, aight?”
Keshawn nodded, his memories of his uncle being few and far in between. He was pretty funny, from what he recalled, and certainly the life of the party. A far cry from the corpse that was laid out on the living room sofa, barely acknowledging Keshawn in his entrance.
The silence that followed was thick enough to cut with a knife. Keshawn turned back to his boxes, methodically unpacking shirts and arranging them on hangers. He could feel Vic's eyes on his back, a mixture of curiosity and something that might have been concern if Keshawn didn't know any better.
"So, uh, you need any help with all this?" Vic asked, gesturing vaguely at the chaos of the room.
Keshawn paused, a faded graphic t-shirt clutched in his hands. "Nah, I'm good," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper.
Vic nodded, relief flickering across his face. "Cool, cool. Well, if you need anything, just holler. I'm right down the hall." He lingered for a moment longer, as if waiting for Keshawn to say something more. When nothing came, he shrugged and retreated, his footsteps echoing down the creaky hallway, pausing halfway through.
He turned, his hand resting on the peeling wallpaper, fingers tracing the raised pattern absent-mindedly. His eyes drifted back to Keshawn's - no, Trey's - room. The sight of those unfamiliar boxes and the stranger occupying his brother's space made something twist in his gut.
He watched as Keshawn continued unpacking, each item seeming to erase a little more of Trey's presence. The faded Lakers poster that had hung crooked for years was now replaced by a blank wall. Trey's collection of snapbacks that used to litter the dresser were gone, supplanted by Keshawn's neat stack of textbooks.
Vic cleared his throat, causing Keshawn to look up. "Yo, for tomorrow, I ain’t driving you to school or nothing. But I can drop you at the bus stop, pretty sure one of them bitches take you all the way over there."
Keshawn nodded, his face a mask of neutrality. "Thanks, appreciate it."
…
The bus lurched forward, its ancient suspension groaning under the weight of the morning commuters. Keshawn gripped the sticky handrail, his knuckles white as he swayed with each pothole and sharp turn. The acrid smell of diesel fumes mixed with the musty odor of unwashed bodies and cheap cologne, creating a nauseating cocktail that made his stomach churn.
As the bus rumbled through unfamiliar streets, Keshawn's eyes darted nervously from passenger to passenger. A sea of tired faces stared blankly ahead, their expressions etched with the weariness of another day's grind. An old woman with wizened hands clutched a worn Bible to her chest, her lips moving in silent prayer. A young mother bounced a fussy baby on her knee, dark circles under her eyes betraying a sleepless night.
The neighborhoods outside the smudged windows seemed to grow more dilapidated with each passing block. Boarded-up storefronts covered in graffiti gave way to crumbling apartment buildings, their windows covered with iron bars. Groups of young men loitered on street corners, their hard eyes following the bus as it lumbered past.
At one stop, a hulking man with a shaved head boarded, his muscular arms covered in intricate tattoos. Keshawn's breath caught in his throat as he recognized the distinctive symbols of the East Side Crips. The man's gaze swept over the bus, settling briefly on Keshawn before moving on. Keshawn exhaled slowly, his heart pounding in his chest.
As the journey stretched on, more passengers boarded – men and women in worn work uniforms, their faces lined with exhaustion and resignation. A woman in scrubs slumped into the seat across from Keshawn, her eyes closing almost immediately as she grabbed a few precious moments of sleep.
The bus wheezed to a stop in front of a liquor store, its windows covered in iron grates. A group of teenagers in baggy clothes sauntered on, their voices loud and boisterous. One of them, a lanky boy with a teardrop tattoo under his eye, bumped Keshawn's shoulder as he passed. "Watch it, loco," he sneered, his friends snickering behind him.
Keshawn mumbled an apology, his eyes fixed on the grimy floor. He could feel the weight of their stares on the back of his neck, his skin prickling with anxiety. The bus jerked forward again, and Keshawn stumbled, nearly losing his balance.
As they crossed into yet another unfamiliar neighborhood, Keshawn's fingers tightened around the straps of his backpack. The streets here were lined with run-down houses, their yards overgrown and littered with debris. A group of men huddled around a burning trash can, their laughter carrying through the bus's open windows.
Keshawn's eyes flicked to his watch, the ordeal taking longer than expected or advertised when he looked up the buses’ route that morning. He had half a mind to get off and order an Uber but between his dwindling account and not wanting to be leave the safety of the bus, he decided to stay on as he continued his arduous journey.
…
Angela's hand shot up, her eyes blazing with determination. Mr. Hawkins had barely finished his sentence about the importance of "To Kill a Mockingbird" when she interjected.
"With all due respect, Mr. Hawkins, I think we need to diversify our reading list," Angela said, her voice steady but tinged with frustration. The classroom fell silent, all eyes turning to her. "We're constantly reading about Black people through the lens of white authors. Don't you think it's time we heard our own voices?"
Mr. Hawkins adjusted his glasses, a hint of annoyance crossing his face. "Angela, we've discussed this before. These are classic works of literature that have stood the test of time."
"But why are they classics?" Angela pressed, leaning forward in her seat. "Who decided that? And why aren't there any Black authors on this list of so-called classics?"
A few students shifted uncomfortably in their seats, while others nodded in agreement. But most of them didn’t care.
Mr. Hawkins sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. "Look, I understand your concern, but these books provide valuable insights into the human condition and important historical contexts."
Angela scoffed, her pen tapping rapidly against her notebook. "And Black authors don't? What about Toni Morrison? James Baldwin? Zora Neale Hurston? They've got plenty to say about the human condition and historical contexts."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the class. Mr. Hawkins' face flushed, his composure slipping. "Those authors are certainly worthy of study, but-"
"But what?" Angela interrupted, her voice rising. "But they're not part of the curriculum? Or you're not comfortable teaching them? Or is it because they might make some people in this room uncomfortable?"
The classroom erupted into a cacophony of voices, their tension drawing the attention of the class, even among those that could care less about the topic of discussion. They were just interested in the drama. The teacher raised his hands, trying to regain control of the situation.
"Enough!" he shouted, his voice cracking slightly. "Angela, I appreciate your passion, but this is not the time or place for this discussion."
Angela stood up, her chair scraping loudly against the linoleum floor. "Then when is the time, Mr. Hawkins? When are we going to talk about representation in literature? When are we going to acknowledge that there's more to Black literature than stories about racism written by white people?"
The bell rang, cutting through the tension like a knife. Students began gathering their things, casting furtive glances between Angela and Mr. Hawkins. The teacher's jaw clenched as he struggled to maintain his composure.
"We'll continue this discussion another time," he said tightly.
As the students filed out, Angela lingered, her eyes locked with Mr. Hawkins'. The air between them crackled with unresolved tension as she gathered her belongings and walked out, shaking her head.
Neighborhood.
Janelle Monáe ahh character entering the chat.
