Summertime '06 - Episode 11
The antiseptic smell of the hospital lobby was starting to get to Vic. He glanced around at the crew - Dre, Malik, Jamal, and Keshawn hanging back like always. They'd been posted up for hours, waiting on word about A.J., and folks was starting to give them the side-eye.
"Ay yo, let's bounce," Vic muttered, jerking his head towards the exit. "We just begging for them to call them folks on us.”
The squad filed out into the muggy L.A. night, neon signs reflecting off the wet pavement. Once they hit the parking lot, Vic spun around, fire in his eyes.
"I don’t know why these motherfuckers think shit was gonna be sweet. We rolling tonight, ain’t not letting them mark ass busters breathe.”
Dre nodded, “You know I’m always ready to put in that work.”
"Hold up," Malik interjected. "Who we even rolling on? Just because he got jumped over there…”
Vic shook his head. "Nigga, is you scared or something? We know it’s them niggas, a blind man can see that.”
Jamal, always the voice of reason, spoke up. "I don’t know, they probably posted up right now, waiting on our ass.”
"Man, quit being a bitch," Dre snapped. "I ain’t gonna have us looking like we weak or something.”
As the argument heated up, Keshawn hung back, hands in his pockets, mind racing. He knew this could get ugly real quick, but speaking up wasn't his strong suit. Still, the thought of more violence made his stomach churn.
Vic noticed Keshawn's silence. "I ain’t expecting you to put in work with us, cuz. This shit deeper than basketball, my nigga, I ain’t even tripping if you fall back.”
“Nah, I’m good,” Keshawn answered back, not giving it much thought. It was one thing to be a coward, it was another to put it on front street.
“Look,” Jamal pleaded, “I ain’t saying we don’t roll on them niggas…”
“What is you saying then?” Vic fired back.
“You holding?” Jamal asked him, to which Vic shook his head, “Exactly. Them crash out niggas probably got drums and shit in there, waiting on our stupid ass.”
“Them niggas broke as fuck with no fucking motion, they don’t go no fucking drums,” Dre scoffed, “I’m holding my brother shit while he’s away.”
Vic nodded slowly, a grim smile spreading across his face. "Yeah, yeah, for sure. I'ma hit up Charlene's spot, get my brother's heat too. Ain’t no telling what type of crazy shit that motherfucker hiding at his crib.”
Keshawn shifted uncomfortably, the weight of the situation settling on his shoulders like a lead blanket. He could feel the energy of the group changing, morphing from anger into something more focused, more dangerous.
Sensing Keshawn's unease, Vic turned to him, "Look, cuz, we probably ain't even gonna need to bust 'em out. It's just about showing up, you feel me? Letting them know we ain't to be fucked with."
The tall teen nodded hesitantly, not entirely convinced but unwilling to voice his doubts.
Vic continued, his words painting a vivid picture of their plan. "We roll up, deep and strapped. They see we ain't playing, and we run our fades like men. Some real old school shit, squabble it out. Even Smoke bitch ass gonna have to respect that.”
The parking lot seemed to pulse with anticipation as the group absorbed Vic's words. The distant wail of sirens and the hum of the city provided a haunting backdrop to their hushed conversation.
Dre bounced on his toes, barely containing his excitement. "I'm bout to bounce and grab that piece. We meet here or at the spot?”
Jamal, still looking uneasy, suggested, "Nah, if we come back here, draw too much attention. Surprised the police ain’t rolled up yet. At the park?”
The group murmured their agreement, the plan taking shape in the humid night air. As they began to disperse, Keshawn felt a knot forming in his stomach. He knew he was in too deep to back out now, but he couldn't shake the feeling that this night was about to spiral out of control.
…
The flickering light of the television cast a bluish glow across Eleanora's living room, the laugh track from some forgotten sitcom filling the silence of her empty house. She sank deeper into her worn armchair, the fabric molding to her body like an old friend. The clock on the wall ticked away the hours, its steady rhythm a constant companion in the quiet night.
A sudden knock at the door jolted her from her reverie. Mrs. Hernandez had made it a habit to come over for a nightcap the past few nights, her conservative upbringing stopping her from enjoying a stiff beverage by herself at home.
As she shuffled towards the door, her house slippers scuffing against the worn linoleum, another knock echoed through the house. This one was different - a familiar pattern that made her heart skip a beat.
She swung the door open, revealing Quincy standing on her porch, his lean frame silhouetted against the streetlight. His eyes, bright despite the lateness of the hour, met hers with a crooked smile.
"About time," he said, his voice smooth as butter. "You got any of them grits left?"
Eleanora stood there for a moment, drinking in the sight of her brother. His clothes were rumpled, his beard unkempt, but there was a lightness to him that wasn’t there the last time she saw him.
"Quincy," she breathed, stepping aside to let him in. "How you been?"
He sauntered past her, heading straight for the kitchen like he owned the place. "Oh, you know me, Elly. Here and there, making my way."
Eleanora followed him, watching as he emptied his pockets onto her counter. A small pile of coins clinked against the surface.
"Sold some cans today," he explained, not meeting her eyes. "Figured I'd treat myself to some of your cookin'."
There was an unspoken ritual to this, a dance they'd performed countless times before. Eleanora knew the cans were just a story, a way for Quincy to maintain his pride. But she also knew that cooking for her baby brother was the closest thing to mothering she had left these days.
Without a word, she moved to the stove, pulling out a pot for the grits and a pan for the eggs. The familiar motions soothed her, the sizzle of butter in the pan a comforting soundtrack to their midnight reunion.
Quincy settled himself at the kitchen table, his long fingers drumming an absent rhythm on the worn wood. "How's Vic doing? He ain’t leave yet, has he?”
Eleanora nodded, her back to him as she stirred the grits. "He’s not going anywhere, Q. It’s right down the road but he don’t start until August.”
Quincy cleared his throat, his fingers now tapping a more nervous rhythm on the table. "That's good, that's real good. Boy's got a bright future ahead of him." He paused, the silence stretching between them like a rubber band ready to snap. "Listen, Elly... I was just thinking with you here all by yourself…”
Eleanora turned from the stove, a knowing look in her eyes. She'd seen this dance a hundred times before, could practically recite the steps in her sleep. "The couch is yours.”
Quincy's face broke into a sheepish grin, a glimpse of the charming boy he used to be shining through the wear and tear of hard living. "Just for a few days, you know? I got some things lined up, just need a minute to get my feet under me."
Eleanora nodded, a complex mixture of emotions swirling in her chest. Relief that he was here, safe under her roof instead of God-knows-where. Hope that maybe this time would be different, that he'd stick around long enough to truly get back on his feet. And beneath it all, a weary resignation, knowing deep down that this was likely just another brief stopover in Quincy's tumultuous journey.
But she kept these thoughts to herself, instead offering him a warm smile. "You know you're always welcome here, Q.”
Quincy's shoulders sagged with relief, the tension visibly draining from his body. "Thanks, Elly. I mean it. You're a lifesaver, you know that?"
Eleanora turned back to the stove, hiding the glimmer of tears in her eyes. "I know, baby brother. I know."
As she plated up the steaming grits and perfectly fried eggs, Quincy's attention drifted to the TV still flickering in the living room. A rerun of some old sitcom was playing, the canned laughter echoing hollowly through the house.
"Man, what is this mess?" Quincy chuckled, shaking his head. "They still showing 'Who's the Boss?' You'd think Tony Danza woulda figured that out by now."
Eleanora couldn't help but laugh, the familiar sound of her brother's jokes filling the kitchen with a warmth that had been missing for far too long. As she set the plate down in front of him, she allowed herself a moment of hope. Maybe this time would be different. Maybe this time, her brother would stay.
…
The ancient Corolla's suspension creaked and groaned as Vic navigated the pothole-ridden streets of South Central. Keshawn sat in the passenger seat, his long legs cramped in the footwell, his eyes fixed on the gun nestled between them. The weapon seemed to pulse with malevolent energy in the dim glow of the dashboard lights.
Keshawn's mind raced, replaying the events that led them here. The tense wait at the hospital, the heated argument in the parking lot, and now this - speeding towards a confrontation that could change everything. He glanced at Vic, noting his tight grip on the steering wheel, the tightness in his jaw.
Finally, unable to bear the weight of the silence any longer, Keshawn spoke. His voice, usually so quiet and reserved, seemed to fill the car. "Why we doing this? I mean, I get it, but... you always talking about staying out of gang shit. How's this different?"
"It's different, cuz," Vic finally said, his voice low and intense. "This ain't about colors or territory or none of that bullshit. This is about respect. If that was you laid up there, you’d be cool with me just chilling at the hospital, not doing shit?”
He paused, navigating around a group of kids still out on the street despite the late hour. Their laughter, carefree and innocent, seemed to mock the gravity of Vic and Keshawn's mission.
"Look," Vic continued, "You know I don’t fuck with none of that gang banging bullshit, look what that got my brother. That shit's a dead end, no doubt. But this... this is bigger than just us. You give a motherfucker an inch, they gonna take the whole fucking mile.”
Keshawn nodded slowly, trying to reconcile Vic's words with the unease churning in his gut. "I hear you, but... we’re about to roll up on them with guns and shit. You don’t see how this is gonna play out.”
Vic's grip on the steering wheel tightened, “Nigga, they beat the shit out of A.J. What the fuck you want us to do?”
“I’m just saying, this don’t seem…smart.”
“Sometimes you gotta do dumb shit when you dealing with dumb niggas,” Vic’s annoyance might have been aimed at Keshawn but it stemmed from his own internal conflict, realizing the errors in his ways but still feeling like he had to go through it. After all, he was still Trey 300’s brother and he didn’t duck no smoke.
“I told your ass you didn’t have to come,” Vic continued to lash out, hoping to quiet his inner voice, “If you wanna stay back, stay the fuck back then. It’s some real treacherous shit we about to step into and I don’t need to be worried about your scary ass.”
Keshawn remained quiet, opting to aimlessly look out the window instead. Every fiber in his being was screaming at him to get out of the car, head on home and spend the night away playing video games or binging something on Netflix. Hell, even see what Gayle was up to. But he couldn’t and he wouldn’t. The neighborhood’s fabric had seeped into him.
The car’s headlights swept across the empty playground as Vic pulled into the park. The swings swayed gently in the night breeze, their chains creaking softly like whispered warnings. As they rolled to a stop, Keshawn's eyes widened in surprise. The park wasn't empty as they'd expected.
Standing under the flickering yellow glow of a streetlight was a group of men, their silhouettes etched against the darkness. At the center, unmistakable even from a distance, was the hulking figure of Fat Stacks. His gold chains glinted as he turned towards the approaching car, a wolfish grin spreading across his face.
"Fuck," Vic cursed under his breath. He went to grab the gun but thought better of it, stuffing it into the glove compartment.
As they stepped out of the car, Keshawn could feel the tension in the air, thick and oppressive as the summer heat. Dre was already there, pacing back and forth like a caged animal, his face twisted in a scowl. Malik and Jamal stood off to the side, relief evident in their postures despite the unexpected company.
Fat Stacks sauntered over, his gait slow and deliberate, each step punctuated by the jingle of his chains. "It’s a little late for y’all to be hooping," he drawled, his voice carrying across the empty park. "Y’all motherfuckers really got hoop dreams, huh?"
Vic stepped forward, chin jutted out defiantly. "We just got some shit to handle.”
Stacks chuckled, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. "Talking like you grown or something.”
Dre, unable to contain himself any longer, exploded. "Man, fuck this shit! We ain't here to chop it up with you, Stacks.”
Stacks' eyes narrowed, all trace of amusement gone from his face. "Watch your mouth, little nigga. You might be the homie’s little nigga, but that don't mean I won't slap the shit out of you."
The tension ratcheted up another notch, the air between them seeming to crackle with barely contained violence. Keshawn found himself holding his breath, acutely aware of how quickly things could spiral out of control.
Stacks turned his gaze to Vic, his expression unreadable in the harsh streetlight. "You think I don't know what y'all out here for? You really think I’m gonna sanction that?”
Vic's eyes narrowed, his jaw clenching as he stared down Fat Stacks. The park seemed to hold its breath, the distant hum of traffic and the soft rustle of leaves the only sounds breaking the tense silence.
"Sanction?" Vic spat the word out like it was poison. "We ain't asking for your permission, Stacks. This ain't about you or your set. This is about A.J. and what them punk-ass motherfuckers did to him."
Stacks shook his head. "You too smart to be talking that dumb shit, Vic. Your brother thought you better than that, even if your ass wasn’t always listening. It’s politics in everything, you know that. This shit ain’t gonna end tonight, you know that.”
He took a step closer, his massive frame looming over Vic. The younger man stood his ground, but Keshawn could see the slight tremor in his hands.
"You think you can just roll up on them, get your squabble on and that’s that?" Stacks continued, his voice low and menacing. "Nah, little niggas. That's how wars start. That's how bodies start dropping. That’s what fucks up my business."
Dre, still fuming, interjected, "Man, fuck that! They can't just—"
"Shut the fuck up!" Stacks roared, silencing Dre instantly. He turned back to Vic, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "You ain’t on the set. None of y'all niggas are. I ain’t gonna get into it with them niggas over you non-affiliated, square ass bitches.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Keshawn could feel the weight of them pressing down on his chest, making it hard to breathe. He glanced around, noting the mix of anger, fear, and uncertainty on his friends' faces.
Vic, however, wasn't backing down. "I ain’t going for that, no way. My brother done put in too much work for your ass to be standing here telling me I can’t ride for my homie.”
Stacks' eyes glinted dangerously in the flickering streetlight, a predatory smile spreading across his face. He took a step back, spreading his arms wide in a mocking gesture of welcome.
"Oh, you wanna ride? You wanna be about that life?" His voice dripped with sarcasm, each word carefully chosen to cut deep. "Well, shit, why didn't you say so, little homie? We can fix that right here, right now."
Stacks began to pace, "Y'all want to play gangster? Let's play gangster. Who wants to step up? Who wants to get jumped in right now?"
His gaze swept over the group, lingering on each face in turn. "Come on, don't be some bitch ass niggas now. You wanted to roll so bad, here's your chance. East Side Bloods, baby. We always got room for new soldiers."
The silence that followed was deafening. Vic, who had been so full of righteous anger moments before, suddenly found the ground incredibly interesting. Dre, usually so quick with a comeback, seemed to shrink into himself, his earlier bravado evaporating like morning dew.
Malik and Jamal exchanged nervous glances, their eyes darting between Stacks and the safety of their car. Even in the dim light, beads of sweat were visible on their foreheads.
Keshawn felt rooted to the spot, his legs refusing to move. He could feel Stacks' eyes on him, burning into his skin like hot coals. The weight of the moment pressed down on him, making it hard to breathe.
Stacks' laughter cut through the tension like a knife, loud and mocking. "Exactly," he sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. "That's what I thought. A bunch of square-ass, non-affiliated bitches trying to play grown-up games."
He stepped closer to Vic, looming over him like a dark cloud. "You lucky you’re Trey’s people. This could have gone done a whole lot differently but out of respect for your brother, I’m gonna let you off with a real good lesson here."
Stacks' voice dropped to a menacing whisper, audible only to Vic but sending chills down the spines of everyone present. "Y’all dead this shit right here, right now. If I hear about this shit ever again, it ain’t gonna be a lot of talking. Now, get the fuck out of here, little nigga.”
Neighborhood.
Neighborhood.
You posted the same update twice, brodie.
Neighborhood.
Summertime '06 - Episode 12 (Season Finale)
The news of Keshawn Chase's visit to Texas Southern spread through the SWAC grapevine like wildfire, eventually reaching the hallowed halls of Howard University. In the coaches' office, Bison head coach Kenny Blakeney leaned back in his leather chair, his brow furrowed in contemplation.
"The California kid," he mentioned to his staff. "That kid's got game. I mean, if he’s considering Texas Southern, he’ll definitely consider us."
Assistant Coach Darius Wells nodded, his eyes fixed on the highlight reel playing on the large screen before them.
"He's something special, no doubt," Darius agreed. "But this is a bit different than Makur. Even if we get him to buy into the vision of changing the culture, which clearly he seems to be about, he’s going to cost us. A lot.”
Kenny sighed, running a hand over his close-cropped hair. The memory of signing Makur Maker, their five-star prospect from last season, was still fresh. He only played two games for the Bison before shutting his season down due to injury, hardly the difference maker they were hoping for when they signed him as the highest-ranked recruit to commit to an HBCU in the modern recruiting era.
"I hear you, Darius, it’s a whole different ball game now." Kenny paused, his gaze drifting to the window overlooking the campus. The cherry blossoms were in full bloom, painting the quad in delicate shades of pink and white. "But we’re still Howard and he’s a big city kid. We get him here, explore the local talent.”
Darius nodded slowly, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I could think of a few worse places to spend a few semesters than here, Coach.”
…
Keshawn leaned against the wall, nursing a red cup filled with something that tasted vaguely of fruit and a lot of alcohol. His eyes scanned the room, taking in the scene but not really part of it.
Vic stood a few feet away, his jaw clenched and eyes dark. He hadn't said more than two words since they arrived, the memory of his confrontation with Stacks still fresh in his mind. Angela hovered nearby, her frustration evident in the set of her shoulders and the way she kept glancing at Vic, willing him to engage.
"You gonna just stand like that all night?" Angela finally snapped, her voice barely audible over the music.
Vic's eyes flicked to her, then away. "Like what?"
"Whatever," she retorted, crossing her arms. "Why were even stepped out if you just gonna be like this?”
Keshawn watched the exchange, feeling the tension crackle between them.
"You drag my ass to a bunch of shit I don’t want to do,” Vic fired back, “You don’t see my ass complaining.”
“You must think I’m blind or something,” Angela rolled her eyes.
Keshawn shifted uncomfortably, feeling like an intruder in their private moment. He considered slipping away, losing himself in the crowd. As he looked for a potential exit route, he spotted a familiar face in the crowd.
Gayle was leaning against the wall, her body angled towards a tall, athletic guy Keshawn didn't recognize, possibly someone from the football team. The guy's hand rested casually on the wall beside her head, his body language screaming confidence and interest.
Gayle's eyes sparkled as she threw her head back, laughing at something the guy said. The guy leaned in closer, his lips almost brushing her ear as he whispered something. Gayle's smile widened, and she playfully swatted his chest. Keshawn felt a twinge in his gut, an uncomfortable tightness that he couldn't quite name.
He tried to look away, to focus on anything else in the crowded room, but his eyes kept being drawn back to Gayle and her companion. The guy's hand had found its way to her waist now, his thumb tracing small circles on the exposed skin between her top and skirt.
Keshawn felt a surge of emotions he wasn't prepared for. Jealousy, anger, disappointment - they all swirled together in a confusing mix. He and Gayle weren't official, their relationship still in that nebulous stage where nothing had been defined and her latest stunt with Lakisha didn’t help matters, even if it didn’t lead to anything.
Keshawn's fingers hovered over his phone screen, his mind racing. Before he could talk himself out of it, he opened his messages and fired off a text to Lakisha with their awkward encounter only ending with their numbers being swapped.
"Hey, you up to anything tonight?"
The response came almost immediately, making his phone buzz in his hand.
"Just chilling right now, what’s up?”
Keshawn glanced up at Gayle, still engrossed in conversation with the football player. His jaw clenched as he watched the guy's hand slide lower on her back.
"wanna hang?"
He hit send, his heart pounding. This wasn't like him, reaching out, initiating. All of his encounters with the fairer sex were at the result of them taking charge, not him. But he was fueled by something much greater than a lustful nature as he took another gander at Gayle and her football player.
His phone buzzed again. "heading to my girl’s Tanya later tonight if you’re tryna link”
Keshawn's thumb hovered over the screen. He looked up once more toward Gayle and the smile on her face as she was engaged in conversation. That was all it took. Keshawn typed out a quick reply: "Text me the address. I'll be there."
He pocketed his phone and drained the last of his drink, grimacing at the overly sweet taste that resided at the bottom.
"Yo, I'm about to bounce," Keshawn told Vic, raising his voice to be heard over the music.
Vic barely glanced at him, his eyes fixed on Angela. "Yeah, whatever man. This shit's dead anyway."
Keshawn waited a moment, half-expecting Vic to ask where he was going. But his cousin remained silent, lost in his own world of relationship drama.
"Aight, catch you later," Keshawn said, but Vic was already turning away, moving towards Angela with a determined set to his shoulders.
As Keshawn made his way to the door, he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Lakisha had sent the address, along with a string of party emojis. He paused in the doorway, looking back one last time. Gayle was still with the football player, her hand now resting on his arm as she laughed at something he said.
…
Keshawn's lips moved against Lakisha's, tentative at first but growing bolder with each passing moment. Lakisha's fingers reached around to the back of his neck, pulling him closer. She tasted like cherry lip gloss and the sweet rum punch they'd been drinking. Her body pressed against his, warm and inviting.
Lakisha pulled back slightly, her breath warm against his cheek. "Damn," she murmured, a note of pleasant surprise in her voice. "I didn't think you were feeling me like this."
Keshawn's hands tightened slightly on her waist. "Why?" he asked, his voice low.
Lakisha shrugged. "After Gayle set us up, you seemed... I don't know, off? Like you weren't really interested."
A flash of guilt shot through Keshawn at the mention of Gayle's name, but he pushed it aside. He was here now, with Lakisha, and that's what mattered. "It was just weird with her there," he said, leaning in to brush his lips against her jaw.
Lakisha tilted her head, giving him better access. "She told me y’all aren’t together like that. Y’all aren’t, right? This wasn’t one of her petty mind-fucks?”
Instead of answering, Keshawn captured her lips again, pouring all his confusion, frustration, and desire into the kiss. Lakisha responded eagerly, her body melting against his.
As they came up for air, Lakisha's eyes met his, dark and intense. "You wanna get out of here?" she asked, her voice husky.
Keshawn hesitated for a moment, his mind racing. This wasn't like him, moving so fast, juggling these different women. But then again, nothing about this night had been like him.
As Keshawn nodded his assent to Lakisha's suggestion, his eyes scanned the room one last time as he looked for the nearest exist. The party was in full swing now, bodies swaying to the pulsing beat, the air thick with the scent of sweat and alcohol. Colored lights flashed across faces, transforming familiar features into strange, otherworldly masks.
And then he saw him.
The shock of blue dreads stood out like a beacon in the crowded room. It was unmistakable - the same guy who had gotten into it with A.J. at the basketball game. With Stacks’ warning, they had been relegated to just watching from Instagram as they went out about their business, cryptically boasting about taking care of their ‘opps’. Dre couldn’t help himself, sending vague threats in their comments that both sides knew would be unrealized.
Time seemed to slow as Keshawn watched the red-haired guy weave through the crowd, laughing and exchanging high-fives with his friends. The guy's carefree demeanor only fueled the anger simmering in Keshawn's gut.
Vic's words echoed in his head: "Sometimes you gotta do dumb shit when you dealing with dumb niggas." The phrase took on a new meaning now, charged with alcohol and frustrations from earlier in the night.
Keshawn turned to Lakisha, his heart racing. "Hey, can you do me a favor?" he asked, his voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins.
Lakisha looked up at him, her eyes slightly unfocused from the alcohol. "Yeah, what’s up?”
Keshawn pulled out his phone and handed it to her. "Can you text Vic and let him know where we're at?”
Lakisha nodded, her fingers already tapping at the screen. "Why?”
Keshawn didn't answer Lakisha's question. Instead, his eyes were fixed on the blue-haired figure across the room, his jaw clenched tight. Without a word, he began to move through the crowd, leaving a confused Lakisha behind.
The alcohol coursing through his system dulled his inhibitions, amplifying his determination. Each step brought him closer to his target, closer to finally standing up for himself, putting on for the neighborhood.
Without warning, Keshawn's fist flew through the air. It connected with the intended target’s jaw with a sickening crack. Pain shot through Keshawn's hand, the impact reverberating up his arm. He'd never thrown a punch before, and the shock of it momentarily stunned him.
The guy with the blue dreads stumbled back, more surprised than hurt. His eyes widened as he recognized Keshawn, then narrowed dangerously. Before Keshawn could react, he lunged forward, tackling him to the ground.
The crowd around them scattered, forming a rough circle. Shouts and cheers filled the air as the two grappled on the sticky floor. Keshawn managed to land a few more punches, his fists connecting with their ribs and face as he used his long limbs for leverage and better positioning.
Suddenly, Keshawn felt hands grabbing at him. Their friends had joined the fray, pulling him off their comrade. Fists and feet came at him from all directions. He curled into a ball, trying to protect his head as blows rained down on him.
The world became a blur of pain and noise. He could taste blood in his mouth, feel it trickling down his face. The alcohol in his system dulled the pain, but each impact still sent shockwaves through his body. Yet, even as the blows continued to rain down, a strange sense of pride began to well up inside Keshawn.
He had put on for his hood, put on for his people in the only way that he felt they respected. No matter how many jump shots he made, no matter how many layups he plastered against the backboard. No matter how many exams he aced or scholarships he collected. In his alcohol-addled mind, this was how he was going to be accepted. This was how he was going to pay his dues. Every punch he took was a badge of honor, every kick a testament to his resilience. He was finally, one of them.
The news of Keshawn Chase's visit to Texas Southern spread through the SWAC grapevine like wildfire, eventually reaching the hallowed halls of Howard University. In the coaches' office, Bison head coach Kenny Blakeney leaned back in his leather chair, his brow furrowed in contemplation.
"The California kid," he mentioned to his staff. "That kid's got game. I mean, if he’s considering Texas Southern, he’ll definitely consider us."
Assistant Coach Darius Wells nodded, his eyes fixed on the highlight reel playing on the large screen before them.
"He's something special, no doubt," Darius agreed. "But this is a bit different than Makur. Even if we get him to buy into the vision of changing the culture, which clearly he seems to be about, he’s going to cost us. A lot.”
Kenny sighed, running a hand over his close-cropped hair. The memory of signing Makur Maker, their five-star prospect from last season, was still fresh. He only played two games for the Bison before shutting his season down due to injury, hardly the difference maker they were hoping for when they signed him as the highest-ranked recruit to commit to an HBCU in the modern recruiting era.
"I hear you, Darius, it’s a whole different ball game now." Kenny paused, his gaze drifting to the window overlooking the campus. The cherry blossoms were in full bloom, painting the quad in delicate shades of pink and white. "But we’re still Howard and he’s a big city kid. We get him here, explore the local talent.”
Darius nodded slowly, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I could think of a few worse places to spend a few semesters than here, Coach.”
…
Keshawn leaned against the wall, nursing a red cup filled with something that tasted vaguely of fruit and a lot of alcohol. His eyes scanned the room, taking in the scene but not really part of it.
Vic stood a few feet away, his jaw clenched and eyes dark. He hadn't said more than two words since they arrived, the memory of his confrontation with Stacks still fresh in his mind. Angela hovered nearby, her frustration evident in the set of her shoulders and the way she kept glancing at Vic, willing him to engage.
"You gonna just stand like that all night?" Angela finally snapped, her voice barely audible over the music.
Vic's eyes flicked to her, then away. "Like what?"
"Whatever," she retorted, crossing her arms. "Why were even stepped out if you just gonna be like this?”
Keshawn watched the exchange, feeling the tension crackle between them.
"You drag my ass to a bunch of shit I don’t want to do,” Vic fired back, “You don’t see my ass complaining.”
“You must think I’m blind or something,” Angela rolled her eyes.
Keshawn shifted uncomfortably, feeling like an intruder in their private moment. He considered slipping away, losing himself in the crowd. As he looked for a potential exit route, he spotted a familiar face in the crowd.
Gayle was leaning against the wall, her body angled towards a tall, athletic guy Keshawn didn't recognize, possibly someone from the football team. The guy's hand rested casually on the wall beside her head, his body language screaming confidence and interest.
Gayle's eyes sparkled as she threw her head back, laughing at something the guy said. The guy leaned in closer, his lips almost brushing her ear as he whispered something. Gayle's smile widened, and she playfully swatted his chest. Keshawn felt a twinge in his gut, an uncomfortable tightness that he couldn't quite name.
He tried to look away, to focus on anything else in the crowded room, but his eyes kept being drawn back to Gayle and her companion. The guy's hand had found its way to her waist now, his thumb tracing small circles on the exposed skin between her top and skirt.
Keshawn felt a surge of emotions he wasn't prepared for. Jealousy, anger, disappointment - they all swirled together in a confusing mix. He and Gayle weren't official, their relationship still in that nebulous stage where nothing had been defined and her latest stunt with Lakisha didn’t help matters, even if it didn’t lead to anything.
Keshawn's fingers hovered over his phone screen, his mind racing. Before he could talk himself out of it, he opened his messages and fired off a text to Lakisha with their awkward encounter only ending with their numbers being swapped.
"Hey, you up to anything tonight?"
The response came almost immediately, making his phone buzz in his hand.
"Just chilling right now, what’s up?”
Keshawn glanced up at Gayle, still engrossed in conversation with the football player. His jaw clenched as he watched the guy's hand slide lower on her back.
"wanna hang?"
He hit send, his heart pounding. This wasn't like him, reaching out, initiating. All of his encounters with the fairer sex were at the result of them taking charge, not him. But he was fueled by something much greater than a lustful nature as he took another gander at Gayle and her football player.
His phone buzzed again. "heading to my girl’s Tanya later tonight if you’re tryna link”
Keshawn's thumb hovered over the screen. He looked up once more toward Gayle and the smile on her face as she was engaged in conversation. That was all it took. Keshawn typed out a quick reply: "Text me the address. I'll be there."
He pocketed his phone and drained the last of his drink, grimacing at the overly sweet taste that resided at the bottom.
"Yo, I'm about to bounce," Keshawn told Vic, raising his voice to be heard over the music.
Vic barely glanced at him, his eyes fixed on Angela. "Yeah, whatever man. This shit's dead anyway."
Keshawn waited a moment, half-expecting Vic to ask where he was going. But his cousin remained silent, lost in his own world of relationship drama.
"Aight, catch you later," Keshawn said, but Vic was already turning away, moving towards Angela with a determined set to his shoulders.
As Keshawn made his way to the door, he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Lakisha had sent the address, along with a string of party emojis. He paused in the doorway, looking back one last time. Gayle was still with the football player, her hand now resting on his arm as she laughed at something he said.
…
Keshawn's lips moved against Lakisha's, tentative at first but growing bolder with each passing moment. Lakisha's fingers reached around to the back of his neck, pulling him closer. She tasted like cherry lip gloss and the sweet rum punch they'd been drinking. Her body pressed against his, warm and inviting.
Lakisha pulled back slightly, her breath warm against his cheek. "Damn," she murmured, a note of pleasant surprise in her voice. "I didn't think you were feeling me like this."
Keshawn's hands tightened slightly on her waist. "Why?" he asked, his voice low.
Lakisha shrugged. "After Gayle set us up, you seemed... I don't know, off? Like you weren't really interested."
A flash of guilt shot through Keshawn at the mention of Gayle's name, but he pushed it aside. He was here now, with Lakisha, and that's what mattered. "It was just weird with her there," he said, leaning in to brush his lips against her jaw.
Lakisha tilted her head, giving him better access. "She told me y’all aren’t together like that. Y’all aren’t, right? This wasn’t one of her petty mind-fucks?”
Instead of answering, Keshawn captured her lips again, pouring all his confusion, frustration, and desire into the kiss. Lakisha responded eagerly, her body melting against his.
As they came up for air, Lakisha's eyes met his, dark and intense. "You wanna get out of here?" she asked, her voice husky.
Keshawn hesitated for a moment, his mind racing. This wasn't like him, moving so fast, juggling these different women. But then again, nothing about this night had been like him.
As Keshawn nodded his assent to Lakisha's suggestion, his eyes scanned the room one last time as he looked for the nearest exist. The party was in full swing now, bodies swaying to the pulsing beat, the air thick with the scent of sweat and alcohol. Colored lights flashed across faces, transforming familiar features into strange, otherworldly masks.
And then he saw him.
The shock of blue dreads stood out like a beacon in the crowded room. It was unmistakable - the same guy who had gotten into it with A.J. at the basketball game. With Stacks’ warning, they had been relegated to just watching from Instagram as they went out about their business, cryptically boasting about taking care of their ‘opps’. Dre couldn’t help himself, sending vague threats in their comments that both sides knew would be unrealized.
Time seemed to slow as Keshawn watched the red-haired guy weave through the crowd, laughing and exchanging high-fives with his friends. The guy's carefree demeanor only fueled the anger simmering in Keshawn's gut.
Vic's words echoed in his head: "Sometimes you gotta do dumb shit when you dealing with dumb niggas." The phrase took on a new meaning now, charged with alcohol and frustrations from earlier in the night.
Keshawn turned to Lakisha, his heart racing. "Hey, can you do me a favor?" he asked, his voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins.
Lakisha looked up at him, her eyes slightly unfocused from the alcohol. "Yeah, what’s up?”
Keshawn pulled out his phone and handed it to her. "Can you text Vic and let him know where we're at?”
Lakisha nodded, her fingers already tapping at the screen. "Why?”
Keshawn didn't answer Lakisha's question. Instead, his eyes were fixed on the blue-haired figure across the room, his jaw clenched tight. Without a word, he began to move through the crowd, leaving a confused Lakisha behind.
The alcohol coursing through his system dulled his inhibitions, amplifying his determination. Each step brought him closer to his target, closer to finally standing up for himself, putting on for the neighborhood.
Without warning, Keshawn's fist flew through the air. It connected with the intended target’s jaw with a sickening crack. Pain shot through Keshawn's hand, the impact reverberating up his arm. He'd never thrown a punch before, and the shock of it momentarily stunned him.
The guy with the blue dreads stumbled back, more surprised than hurt. His eyes widened as he recognized Keshawn, then narrowed dangerously. Before Keshawn could react, he lunged forward, tackling him to the ground.
The crowd around them scattered, forming a rough circle. Shouts and cheers filled the air as the two grappled on the sticky floor. Keshawn managed to land a few more punches, his fists connecting with their ribs and face as he used his long limbs for leverage and better positioning.
Suddenly, Keshawn felt hands grabbing at him. Their friends had joined the fray, pulling him off their comrade. Fists and feet came at him from all directions. He curled into a ball, trying to protect his head as blows rained down on him.
The world became a blur of pain and noise. He could taste blood in his mouth, feel it trickling down his face. The alcohol in his system dulled the pain, but each impact still sent shockwaves through his body. Yet, even as the blows continued to rain down, a strange sense of pride began to well up inside Keshawn.
He had put on for his hood, put on for his people in the only way that he felt they respected. No matter how many jump shots he made, no matter how many layups he plastered against the backboard. No matter how many exams he aced or scholarships he collected. In his alcohol-addled mind, this was how he was going to be accepted. This was how he was going to pay his dues. Every punch he took was a badge of honor, every kick a testament to his resilience. He was finally, one of them.
Neighborhood.
Keshawn getting shot. Calling it now.
Neighborhood.
Big Fish Theory - Episode 1
The squeak of sneakers on polished hardwood echoed through the gymnasium as Keshawn stepped up to the free throw line. His jersey clung to his lanky frame, drenched in sweat from the grueling game. The scoreboard glowed harshly overhead: Hamilton 68, Dorsey 67. Only three minutes left, but to Keshawn's aching muscles, it might as well have been an eternity.
He bounced the ball once, twice, his eyes fixed on the rim. The familiar routine usually calmed him, but tonight, doubt crept in like a shadow. Would it have been this hard at Oaks Christian? The question nagged at him as he took a deep breath, trying to center himself.
The crowd's dull roar faded to a distant hum as Keshawn's mind wandered. He thought of what life would have been like at Oaks Christian with the state-of-the-art facilities and more importantly, teammates that didn’t require him to score or assist on nearly seventy percent of their points against a Dorsey team that won just ten games last year.
Keshawn's arms trembled slightly as he raised the ball. He'd been carrying the team all night, getting to the rim through brute force, crashing the boards and leading the break. But now, fatigue gnawed at his resolve. His earlier grace had given way to a bone-deep weariness that threatened to undo all his hard work.
He released the ball, watching its arc with bated breath. It kissed the rim, circled teasingly, and then fell through with a soft swish. The Hamilton fans erupted in cheers, but Keshawn barely heard them. One more shot to go, and then back to the grind of defense, offense, push, push, push until the final buzzer.
The ball left his hands, sailing through the air in a perfect arc. As it slipped through the net, Keshawn allowed himself a small smile. Hamilton 70, Dorsey 67.
But there was no time to celebrate. As he jogged back to defend, Keshawn could feel the fatigue settling into his bones like lead. Keshawn's legs felt like jelly as he backpedaled into Hamilton's defensive formation. The Dorsey point guard, a quick, wiry kid with braids, brought the ball up court with purpose. Keshawn tried to focus, but his vision swam, the court seeming to tilt beneath his feet.
"Switch!" his teammate yelled as Dorsey set a pick. Keshawn's reaction was a beat too slow. He stumbled, allowing his man to slip free for an open three. The shot went up, and Keshawn's heart sank as it swished through. 70-70.
On the next possession, Keshawn received the inbound pass. He dribbled upcourt, his much improved handle now erratic. The Dorsey defenders swarmed, their fresh legs a stark contrast to Keshawn's leaden limbs. He tried to execute a crossover, but his fingers fumbled. The ball squirted free, and a Dorsey player scooped it up, sprinting for an easy layup. 70-72.
Panic rose in Keshawn's chest as he brought the ball up again. The clock ticked down mercilessly. He drove hard to his right, looking to create space for a pull-up jumper. But his fatigued mind misjudged the angle. He stepped on his defender's foot, losing balance. As he stumbled, he desperately flung the ball towards a teammate, but it sailed wide, landing in the hands of a Dorsey player instead.
Dorsey called a timeout with ten seconds left. Keshawn hunched over, hands on his knees, gulping for air.
“Come on, boychick, focus!” Coach Bronstein yelled at him but his words barely registered as Keshawn fought to stay upright.
As play resumed, Dorsey inbounded the ball. Keshawn was supposed to deny the pass, but his leaden feet refused to move quickly enough. The Dorsey guard caught the ball and immediately attacked the basket. Keshawn backpedaled, trying to stay in front, but his reflexes were shot. He could no longer recall the coaches demands. Was he supposed to foul? Trap him? Let him score? The guard executed a lightning-quick hesitation move, and Keshawn bit hard, his tired mind unable to process the fake. The Dorsey player blew past him, laying the ball in as the buzzer sounded.
The gym erupted in cheers, but not for Hamilton. Keshawn stood rooted to the spot, staring at the scoreboard in disbelief. Hamilton 70, Dorsey 74. In the span of three minutes, his exhaustion had cost them the game. As his teammates slumped off the court, Keshawn felt the weight of their disappointment settle on his shoulders, heavier than any fatigue he'd ever known.
Just as he reached for the locker room door, a gruff voice cut through the air. "Boychick! Hold up." Coach Bronstein's weathered face appeared from around the corner, his eyes unreadable beneath his bushy eyebrows.
Keshawn's heart sank. Here it comes, he thought. The constant lecturing, the constant brow beating. He braced himself, squaring his shoulders as best he could in his exhausted state.
But Coach Bronstein surprised him. Instead of launching into a tirade, he simply jerked his head towards the exit. "Follow me, boychick," he said, his voice oddly calm.
Puzzled, Keshawn trailed after the coach as they made their way through the emptying gymnasium. The cool night air hit his sweat-soaked skin as they stepped outside, sending a shiver down his spine. The outdoor basketball court loomed before them, its surface bathed in the harsh glow of floodlights.
Coach Bronstein strode to the baseline, his footsteps crunching on the asphalt. He turned to face Keshawn, his expression inscrutable. "Run," he said simply.
Keshawn blinked, confusion etched across his features. "Coach?"
"Baseline to baseline. Now." There was steel in Bronstein's voice, brooking no argument.
For a moment, Keshawn stood frozen, his mind reeling. His legs screamed in protest at the mere thought of more exertion, but something in the coach's eyes told him this wasn't optional.
…
Vic sat on the bench, his eyes following the blur of blue and white jerseys as his teammates battled on the court. The scoreboard above showed less than two minutes remaining in the game, and Vic's heart sank as he realized, once again, he wouldn't be stepping onto the hardwood tonight.
This was the fifth game of the season, and he had yet to play a single minute. He shifted uncomfortably on the hard bench, his muscles tense with unused energy. The coach paced back and forth in front of him, shouting instructions to the players on the court, but Vic might as well have been invisible.
As the final seconds ticked away, Vic's eyes drifted to the stands. He scanned the sea of faces, searching for one in particular, but Angela's familiar features were nowhere to be seen. A mixture of relief and disappointment washed over him. Part of him was glad she wasn't here to witness another game where he warmed the bench, but her absence also stung as she had only managed to make it to the opener.
The buzzer sounded, signaling the end of the game. Life Pacific had won, but Vic felt no joy in the victory. As his teammates celebrated, exchanging high-fives and back slaps, he remained seated, feeling more like a spectator than a member of the team.
The crowd began to filter out of the gym, their excited chatter fading into the background. Vic pulled out his phone, hoping to see a message from Angela explaining her absence. The screen remained stubbornly blank, save for the time glowing accusingly: 9:47 PM.
He sighed, pocketing the phone and slowly rising to his feet. The locker room beckoned, filled with the sounds of his victorious teammates. Vic hesitated at the threshold, feeling like an impostor in his own uniform. He hadn't broken a sweat, hadn't contributed a single point or assist. What right did he have to join in their celebration?
…
Keshawn's lungs burned as he gasped for air, his legs trembling beneath him. The cool metal of the locker pressed against his back as he slumped against it, utterly spent. The harsh fluorescent lights of the empty locker room cast long shadows across the floor, accentuating the hollows under his eyes and the sharp angles of his cheekbones.
Coach Bronstein stood before him, blocking the exit. The old man's face was impassive, but his eyes gleamed with an intensity that made Keshawn want to look away. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the steady drip of a leaky shower head and Keshawn's ragged breathing.
"Tomorrow morning," Coach Bronstein said finally, his gravelly voice echoing in the empty room. "6 AM. Meet me here."
Keshawn's head snapped up, his eyes wide with disbelief. "Coach, I-"
"No excuses, boychick," Bronstein cut him off, holding up a gnarled hand. "You want to lead this team? You want to be great? Then you show up. 6 AM."
"Yes, sir," Keshawn managed to croak out, his throat raw from exertion. With Vic gone, he had grown accustomed to being able to sleep in, relying on his mother once again to wake him up for school.
Coach Bronstein nodded once, sharply. He turned to leave, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous room. At the door, he paused, looking back over his shoulder. "Ice those legs, boychick. You'll need them tomorrow."
The squeak of sneakers on polished hardwood echoed through the gymnasium as Keshawn stepped up to the free throw line. His jersey clung to his lanky frame, drenched in sweat from the grueling game. The scoreboard glowed harshly overhead: Hamilton 68, Dorsey 67. Only three minutes left, but to Keshawn's aching muscles, it might as well have been an eternity.
He bounced the ball once, twice, his eyes fixed on the rim. The familiar routine usually calmed him, but tonight, doubt crept in like a shadow. Would it have been this hard at Oaks Christian? The question nagged at him as he took a deep breath, trying to center himself.
The crowd's dull roar faded to a distant hum as Keshawn's mind wandered. He thought of what life would have been like at Oaks Christian with the state-of-the-art facilities and more importantly, teammates that didn’t require him to score or assist on nearly seventy percent of their points against a Dorsey team that won just ten games last year.
Keshawn's arms trembled slightly as he raised the ball. He'd been carrying the team all night, getting to the rim through brute force, crashing the boards and leading the break. But now, fatigue gnawed at his resolve. His earlier grace had given way to a bone-deep weariness that threatened to undo all his hard work.
He released the ball, watching its arc with bated breath. It kissed the rim, circled teasingly, and then fell through with a soft swish. The Hamilton fans erupted in cheers, but Keshawn barely heard them. One more shot to go, and then back to the grind of defense, offense, push, push, push until the final buzzer.
The ball left his hands, sailing through the air in a perfect arc. As it slipped through the net, Keshawn allowed himself a small smile. Hamilton 70, Dorsey 67.
But there was no time to celebrate. As he jogged back to defend, Keshawn could feel the fatigue settling into his bones like lead. Keshawn's legs felt like jelly as he backpedaled into Hamilton's defensive formation. The Dorsey point guard, a quick, wiry kid with braids, brought the ball up court with purpose. Keshawn tried to focus, but his vision swam, the court seeming to tilt beneath his feet.
"Switch!" his teammate yelled as Dorsey set a pick. Keshawn's reaction was a beat too slow. He stumbled, allowing his man to slip free for an open three. The shot went up, and Keshawn's heart sank as it swished through. 70-70.
On the next possession, Keshawn received the inbound pass. He dribbled upcourt, his much improved handle now erratic. The Dorsey defenders swarmed, their fresh legs a stark contrast to Keshawn's leaden limbs. He tried to execute a crossover, but his fingers fumbled. The ball squirted free, and a Dorsey player scooped it up, sprinting for an easy layup. 70-72.
Panic rose in Keshawn's chest as he brought the ball up again. The clock ticked down mercilessly. He drove hard to his right, looking to create space for a pull-up jumper. But his fatigued mind misjudged the angle. He stepped on his defender's foot, losing balance. As he stumbled, he desperately flung the ball towards a teammate, but it sailed wide, landing in the hands of a Dorsey player instead.
Dorsey called a timeout with ten seconds left. Keshawn hunched over, hands on his knees, gulping for air.
“Come on, boychick, focus!” Coach Bronstein yelled at him but his words barely registered as Keshawn fought to stay upright.
As play resumed, Dorsey inbounded the ball. Keshawn was supposed to deny the pass, but his leaden feet refused to move quickly enough. The Dorsey guard caught the ball and immediately attacked the basket. Keshawn backpedaled, trying to stay in front, but his reflexes were shot. He could no longer recall the coaches demands. Was he supposed to foul? Trap him? Let him score? The guard executed a lightning-quick hesitation move, and Keshawn bit hard, his tired mind unable to process the fake. The Dorsey player blew past him, laying the ball in as the buzzer sounded.
The gym erupted in cheers, but not for Hamilton. Keshawn stood rooted to the spot, staring at the scoreboard in disbelief. Hamilton 70, Dorsey 74. In the span of three minutes, his exhaustion had cost them the game. As his teammates slumped off the court, Keshawn felt the weight of their disappointment settle on his shoulders, heavier than any fatigue he'd ever known.
Just as he reached for the locker room door, a gruff voice cut through the air. "Boychick! Hold up." Coach Bronstein's weathered face appeared from around the corner, his eyes unreadable beneath his bushy eyebrows.
Keshawn's heart sank. Here it comes, he thought. The constant lecturing, the constant brow beating. He braced himself, squaring his shoulders as best he could in his exhausted state.
But Coach Bronstein surprised him. Instead of launching into a tirade, he simply jerked his head towards the exit. "Follow me, boychick," he said, his voice oddly calm.
Puzzled, Keshawn trailed after the coach as they made their way through the emptying gymnasium. The cool night air hit his sweat-soaked skin as they stepped outside, sending a shiver down his spine. The outdoor basketball court loomed before them, its surface bathed in the harsh glow of floodlights.
Coach Bronstein strode to the baseline, his footsteps crunching on the asphalt. He turned to face Keshawn, his expression inscrutable. "Run," he said simply.
Keshawn blinked, confusion etched across his features. "Coach?"
"Baseline to baseline. Now." There was steel in Bronstein's voice, brooking no argument.
For a moment, Keshawn stood frozen, his mind reeling. His legs screamed in protest at the mere thought of more exertion, but something in the coach's eyes told him this wasn't optional.
…
Vic sat on the bench, his eyes following the blur of blue and white jerseys as his teammates battled on the court. The scoreboard above showed less than two minutes remaining in the game, and Vic's heart sank as he realized, once again, he wouldn't be stepping onto the hardwood tonight.
This was the fifth game of the season, and he had yet to play a single minute. He shifted uncomfortably on the hard bench, his muscles tense with unused energy. The coach paced back and forth in front of him, shouting instructions to the players on the court, but Vic might as well have been invisible.
As the final seconds ticked away, Vic's eyes drifted to the stands. He scanned the sea of faces, searching for one in particular, but Angela's familiar features were nowhere to be seen. A mixture of relief and disappointment washed over him. Part of him was glad she wasn't here to witness another game where he warmed the bench, but her absence also stung as she had only managed to make it to the opener.
The buzzer sounded, signaling the end of the game. Life Pacific had won, but Vic felt no joy in the victory. As his teammates celebrated, exchanging high-fives and back slaps, he remained seated, feeling more like a spectator than a member of the team.
The crowd began to filter out of the gym, their excited chatter fading into the background. Vic pulled out his phone, hoping to see a message from Angela explaining her absence. The screen remained stubbornly blank, save for the time glowing accusingly: 9:47 PM.
He sighed, pocketing the phone and slowly rising to his feet. The locker room beckoned, filled with the sounds of his victorious teammates. Vic hesitated at the threshold, feeling like an impostor in his own uniform. He hadn't broken a sweat, hadn't contributed a single point or assist. What right did he have to join in their celebration?
…
Keshawn's lungs burned as he gasped for air, his legs trembling beneath him. The cool metal of the locker pressed against his back as he slumped against it, utterly spent. The harsh fluorescent lights of the empty locker room cast long shadows across the floor, accentuating the hollows under his eyes and the sharp angles of his cheekbones.
Coach Bronstein stood before him, blocking the exit. The old man's face was impassive, but his eyes gleamed with an intensity that made Keshawn want to look away. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the steady drip of a leaky shower head and Keshawn's ragged breathing.
"Tomorrow morning," Coach Bronstein said finally, his gravelly voice echoing in the empty room. "6 AM. Meet me here."
Keshawn's head snapped up, his eyes wide with disbelief. "Coach, I-"
"No excuses, boychick," Bronstein cut him off, holding up a gnarled hand. "You want to lead this team? You want to be great? Then you show up. 6 AM."
"Yes, sir," Keshawn managed to croak out, his throat raw from exertion. With Vic gone, he had grown accustomed to being able to sleep in, relying on his mother once again to wake him up for school.
Coach Bronstein nodded once, sharply. He turned to leave, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous room. At the door, he paused, looking back over his shoulder. "Ice those legs, boychick. You'll need them tomorrow."
Neighborhood.
Big Fish Theory - Episode 2
"Too much fucking dribbling," Coach Bronstein chastised Keshawn before blowing his whistle, "From the top."
Keshawn took a deep breath as he picked up the basketball, repositioning himself at the elbow. Coach Bronstein blew the whistle and Keshawn took a hard jab step to the right before putting the ball on the floor and posted up and imaginary defender.
"One dribble, two dribble," he counted to himself before leaning towards the basket and then rotated away, fading away as he rose up for a shot.
"A lot better," Coach Bronstein told him, not caring that he missed the shot, "Remember, when you're spinning into the shot, we want to take a bigger step to create that separation. You've got long legs, boychick, fucking use them. Again."
Keshawn nodded as they went over the same post move once more, taking up the majority of the workout since they had walked into the empty gym at the crack of dawn. He had came in anticipating another session of hard running and conditioning but instead, it was a methodical practice session, going over the intricacies of playing in the post. As helpful as Vic was in helping develop Keshawn's game over the past twelve months, they primarily focused on ball handling and shooting. The only post game Keshawn had ever been taught was to hold the ball high, hard dribble and rise up.
"Fifty ups and we're done," Coach Bronstein grabbed his cellphone out of his pocket, "You know what those are, right?"
Keshawn shook his head, which was his usual response when Coach Bronstein introduced a drill.
"What the fuck is my son teaching y'all?" Coach Bronstein let out a hearty laugh, "You start under the basket, lay it up, grab the rebound, go up again without dribbling. If it touches the floor, you start over. If you miss, you start over. Got it?"
It sounded a lot more challenging than it was once Keshawn got into a groove, even daring to finish with his left hand a couple of times. He even challenged himself by trying to rise up as soon as the ball touched his hand, decreasing the amount of time between each basket. Coach Bronstein kept a watchful eye, secretly hoping for a miss but it never came as he blew his whistle on the fiftieth make.
"Maybe we need to move to practice to in the morning," he commented as they began their walk to the locker room with the sun starting to pierce through the windows in the gym.
"It's been a while but my cousin used to workout with me in the morning," Keshawn shrugged, "I don't know, feels kind of good to put in that work so early, feels like you're tapping into something that everyone else isn't doing. I don't miss waking up the early, though."
"Vic, right?"
"Yeah, he played with us last year," Keshawn replied, "He's at LPU now."
"He was pretty good," Coach Bronstein recollected, "At the next level, it's all about size which you've got plenty of."
It was a reminder that Keshawn had grown tired of but grew to accept as well.
"Sounds like we need to make this a habit," Coach Bronstein told him as they opened the doors into the locker room, "Where'd you guys workout, here?"
"Nah, some church. It was really my cousin Vic that put it together, I was just following him. We don't live together anymore," Keshawn was surprising himself with how talkative and forthcoming he was, "So I haven't really been going in the morning."
"I'm up this time anyway," Coach Bronstein told him, "I'll pick you up, so you don't have any excuse for being late."
...
"Thanks for coming in," the sharply dressed lawyer, Andrew Caselotti, told Loraine, not bothering to get up from their seat as they pointed her to one of the available chairs in the large conference room.
She winced as she took a seat, shuddering away the memories of her sitting down in those same chairs with Elijah at their side. Back then, the biggest of their worries would be how much they'd have to pay in restitution, never once thinking they'd spend a single day in prison. Now, here she was, having already served her time while her husband was still in there with another year to go.
"I don't want to waste your time," Andrew motioned towards his assistant to begin taking minutes of the meeting, "Everything good with you and your parole officer?"
"No issues there," Loraine quickly answered, acutely aware of Andrew's hourly rate. He had been retained back when their net worth was in the millions instead of in the red but she couldn't quite stomach downgrading Elijah's representation, not while he was still in prison.
"That's good, that's good," he looked over the notes in front of him, "You guys are still a team, don't forget that. Especially when he's in front of the board, it looks good that his co-defendant, is wife, is back out here, being a productive member of society."
"I don't know that I would call shifts at Dollar Tree and Reyes' that," she scoffed, catching herself, "Sorry."
"Frustration is natural, it's expected," Andrew flashed a smile, "That's what I'm here for. When we're in front of the board, we need to project...gratitude, contrition, humility.”
“I know,” Loraine sighed, “I just want him home.”
“The judge and the DA’s office wanted to make a statement,” Andrew explained, “They’ve made that statement, unfortunately, they used your situation as their canvas to send that statement. He’s been a model inmate, the same way you were, and you’ve been a model parolee. The statement made, he’s already been there for over a year, I really like our chances here.”
Loraine tried to contain her excitement, having learned her lesson the last time she sat in those same chairs, hearing similar words before they went into their sentencing hearing, irrevocably changing their lives.
“Now, restitution,” Andrew cleared his throat, “I’m sure you have noticed in your last few paychecks, like we discussed, the deductions. How are you managing with that?”
“We’re managing,” Loraine was short, the few hundred dollars stinging more than Andrew and his thousand dollar suit would ever know.
“If you need perhaps an alternative option, there are things we can discuss.”
“I mean, I don’t have any more money to give them. We don’t have any more money to give them, we’ve sold the house, everything we could. I don’t know what else the judge could want from us.”
Andrew looked towards his assistant, who stopped typing, “I’m referring to our payment plan.”
"We’re out of hours, already?”
“Since June,” Andrew explained, nodding towards his assistant who got up and left the room, “Look, Loraine, you’re a family friend and I don’t mind doing this pro-bono but…”
“It looks a way for us to be petitioning for income-based payment plan when we have you as a lawyer,” Loraine interjected, finishing his sentence, “You can’t explain that to the judge? That we’re friends?”
“We want to project…”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Loraine cut him off, “Fuck.”
…
Angela's phone vibrated in her pocket. She usually kept it on silent during study hall, but in the rush to get everything set up in time for the kids, she had forgotten to. She pulled it out, her heart dropping as soon as she saw the subject of the email.
From: admissions@cdrewu.edu
Subject: Your Application to Charles Drew University
Her hand trembled slightly as she tapped to open it. Charles Drew was her top choice - a historically Black university with an excellent pre-med program and it’d be right in Los Angeles. It wasn't as prestigious as some of the other schools she'd applied to, but something about it just felt right.
“You good?” Ronnie asked as he was making his rounds around the room, “Look like you just got an unsolicited dick pic.”
“Worse,” she laughed, “It’s CDU.”
“I don’t know why you’re stressing that,” Ronnie chuckled, “If you’re good enough for Howard, you’re sure as shit good enough for CDU.”
“Your whole vibe just matches Howard,” she teased back, welcoming the delay.
“Come on,” Ronnie grabbed her phone, “You want me to do it for you?”
“No,” she snatched it back, “What if it really was a dick pic?”
“I’d just have to scroll up and see what you sent instead,” he fired back with a wry smile.
She shook her head as she clicked on the notification, no longer amused.
Dear Angela,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted for admission to Charles Drew University for the Fall 2024 semester. Additionally, based on your outstanding academic achievements and commitment to community service, you have been selected as a recipient of our full-tuition Martin Luther King Jr. Scholarship.
Angela's eyes widened, barely able to process what she was reading. She reread the first paragraph, hardly daring to believe it. There were the things that dreams were made for.
“I’m guessing you got in,” Ronnie laughed, surprising her with a tight hug.
“Holy shit,” she caught herself, covering her mouth and making sure none of the young students heard it, “Can you cover for me?”
“Cover for what? We ain’t at work,” he smiled, “Go on, go phone your little boo thang.”
Angela burst through the double doors of the cafeteria, her heart racing with excitement. She paced back and forth on the courtyard, her fingers trembling as she pulled up Vic's contact. Taking a deep breath, she rehearsed what she would say.
The phone rang once, twice, three times. No answer. Angela frowned, checking the time. Vic should be done with practice by now and they don’t have a game tonight. She tried again, this time sending over a text: "Call me back as soon as you can. I've got amazing news!"
As she waited, Angela's mind raced with possibilities. Maybe they could find an apartment together in LA with the extra money she could be pocketing with her scholarship. But after five minutes of anxious waiting, there was still no call back from Vic. Angela's excitement began to deflate like a balloon losing air. She stared at her phone, willing it to ring, but it remained stubbornly silent.
With a heavy sigh, she trudged back inside the community center. The elation she had felt moments ago was now tinged with disappointment. As she re-entered the study hall, Ronnie looked up from where he was helping a young student with math homework.
"I’m surprised you didn’t scream your head off out there," he pulled away from the student.
Angela shrugged, trying to hide her disappointment. "Not like it’s Howard or anything.”
“You’re right about that,” he had noticed her change of tone, “I know you don’t got no friends, outside of Vic, so what we on tonight?”
She rolled her eyes, unable to suppress a small smile. "Shut up. You know I've got friends."
“Hanging out with the homies after this, not just guys, so don’t worry. I keep a diverse and eclectic group of friends.”
“You straight guys get one gay friend and all of a sudden it’s a diverse group,” she joked, “Does he know you walk around telling people that you have a gay friend?”
“I’m as open minded as they come,” Ronnie held his hands out, “I know your ass ain’t talking.”
“What does that mean?”
“Vic’s friend group, which are your only quasi-friends, are like straight out of Central Casting,” Ronnie explained, “Pretty much the basketball team and some Damus.”
“What are you, CRASH?”
“I’m just saying,” Ronnie shrugged, “You rolling or what?”
…
Keshawn leaned back in the desk chair, displeased by how little give it had. It wasn’t the worst apartment, having seen much worse in the limited campus tours he had done over the summer, particularly at UC - Santa Barbara and UC - San Diego who immediately eliminated themselves from his list of potential suitors.
Gayle had began to give the room some life, adorning it with LED lights and various accoutrements that made it aesthetically okay for social media. He continued to size up the room, his eyes constantly going back to the bed, hoping he was the first one to christen it and hopefully would be the only one for a very long time.
She was in front of the full-length mirror, putting on her work outfit which looked very different than what his mother left this morning in. She slipped on the tight, shimmering dress that barely covered her curves. Keshawn watched as she adjusted the plunging neckline, his discomfort growing with each tug and pull of the revealing fabric.
"What the hell do the strippers wear then?" Keshawn asked, trying to keep his voice neutral.
Gayle smirked at him through the mirror. "Wouldn’t you like to know? And they prefer the term dancers, a bitch done got at me about that already."
She turned to face him, striking a pose that accentuated every curve. The dress hugged her body like a second skin, leaving little to the imagination. Keshawn shifted uncomfortably in the chair.
"How does that even work with you not being twenty-one?" he blurted out, immediately regretting the question, “How are you going to serve somebody drinks that you can’t even drink yet?”
Gayle let out a sharp laugh. "Be for real, Ke. I ain’t the only motherfucker in there that ain’t twenty-one. Shit, some of the st—dancers I done went to school with.”
Keshawn fell silent, his mind racing. They had just finished doing their business, the sheets on the bed still rumpled from their encounter. But now, watching Gayle prepare for her shift, a knot formed in his stomach.
He wanted to say something, to tell her how it made him feel. But the words caught in his throat. Who was he to judge? They weren't exclusive, and she was just trying to make money like everyone else and he enjoyed the fact that she had her own spot, even if it came with apartment mates. Still, the thought of other men ogling her, maybe even touching her, made his skin crawl.
Gayle applied a thick layer of shimmering eyeshadow, her movements practiced and precise. "You gonna wait for me here?" she teased, noticing his troubled expression.
Keshawn forced a smile. "Nah, I've got some shit to do," he lied, not wanting to see her once everyone else was done with her.
"Alright," Gayle shrugged, slipping on a pair of impossibly high heels. She grabbed her purse, pausing at the door. "Get to stepping then, nigga.”
"Too much fucking dribbling," Coach Bronstein chastised Keshawn before blowing his whistle, "From the top."
Keshawn took a deep breath as he picked up the basketball, repositioning himself at the elbow. Coach Bronstein blew the whistle and Keshawn took a hard jab step to the right before putting the ball on the floor and posted up and imaginary defender.
"One dribble, two dribble," he counted to himself before leaning towards the basket and then rotated away, fading away as he rose up for a shot.
"A lot better," Coach Bronstein told him, not caring that he missed the shot, "Remember, when you're spinning into the shot, we want to take a bigger step to create that separation. You've got long legs, boychick, fucking use them. Again."
Keshawn nodded as they went over the same post move once more, taking up the majority of the workout since they had walked into the empty gym at the crack of dawn. He had came in anticipating another session of hard running and conditioning but instead, it was a methodical practice session, going over the intricacies of playing in the post. As helpful as Vic was in helping develop Keshawn's game over the past twelve months, they primarily focused on ball handling and shooting. The only post game Keshawn had ever been taught was to hold the ball high, hard dribble and rise up.
"Fifty ups and we're done," Coach Bronstein grabbed his cellphone out of his pocket, "You know what those are, right?"
Keshawn shook his head, which was his usual response when Coach Bronstein introduced a drill.
"What the fuck is my son teaching y'all?" Coach Bronstein let out a hearty laugh, "You start under the basket, lay it up, grab the rebound, go up again without dribbling. If it touches the floor, you start over. If you miss, you start over. Got it?"
It sounded a lot more challenging than it was once Keshawn got into a groove, even daring to finish with his left hand a couple of times. He even challenged himself by trying to rise up as soon as the ball touched his hand, decreasing the amount of time between each basket. Coach Bronstein kept a watchful eye, secretly hoping for a miss but it never came as he blew his whistle on the fiftieth make.
"Maybe we need to move to practice to in the morning," he commented as they began their walk to the locker room with the sun starting to pierce through the windows in the gym.
"It's been a while but my cousin used to workout with me in the morning," Keshawn shrugged, "I don't know, feels kind of good to put in that work so early, feels like you're tapping into something that everyone else isn't doing. I don't miss waking up the early, though."
"Vic, right?"
"Yeah, he played with us last year," Keshawn replied, "He's at LPU now."
"He was pretty good," Coach Bronstein recollected, "At the next level, it's all about size which you've got plenty of."
It was a reminder that Keshawn had grown tired of but grew to accept as well.
"Sounds like we need to make this a habit," Coach Bronstein told him as they opened the doors into the locker room, "Where'd you guys workout, here?"
"Nah, some church. It was really my cousin Vic that put it together, I was just following him. We don't live together anymore," Keshawn was surprising himself with how talkative and forthcoming he was, "So I haven't really been going in the morning."
"I'm up this time anyway," Coach Bronstein told him, "I'll pick you up, so you don't have any excuse for being late."
...
"Thanks for coming in," the sharply dressed lawyer, Andrew Caselotti, told Loraine, not bothering to get up from their seat as they pointed her to one of the available chairs in the large conference room.
She winced as she took a seat, shuddering away the memories of her sitting down in those same chairs with Elijah at their side. Back then, the biggest of their worries would be how much they'd have to pay in restitution, never once thinking they'd spend a single day in prison. Now, here she was, having already served her time while her husband was still in there with another year to go.
"I don't want to waste your time," Andrew motioned towards his assistant to begin taking minutes of the meeting, "Everything good with you and your parole officer?"
"No issues there," Loraine quickly answered, acutely aware of Andrew's hourly rate. He had been retained back when their net worth was in the millions instead of in the red but she couldn't quite stomach downgrading Elijah's representation, not while he was still in prison.
"That's good, that's good," he looked over the notes in front of him, "You guys are still a team, don't forget that. Especially when he's in front of the board, it looks good that his co-defendant, is wife, is back out here, being a productive member of society."
"I don't know that I would call shifts at Dollar Tree and Reyes' that," she scoffed, catching herself, "Sorry."
"Frustration is natural, it's expected," Andrew flashed a smile, "That's what I'm here for. When we're in front of the board, we need to project...gratitude, contrition, humility.”
“I know,” Loraine sighed, “I just want him home.”
“The judge and the DA’s office wanted to make a statement,” Andrew explained, “They’ve made that statement, unfortunately, they used your situation as their canvas to send that statement. He’s been a model inmate, the same way you were, and you’ve been a model parolee. The statement made, he’s already been there for over a year, I really like our chances here.”
Loraine tried to contain her excitement, having learned her lesson the last time she sat in those same chairs, hearing similar words before they went into their sentencing hearing, irrevocably changing their lives.
“Now, restitution,” Andrew cleared his throat, “I’m sure you have noticed in your last few paychecks, like we discussed, the deductions. How are you managing with that?”
“We’re managing,” Loraine was short, the few hundred dollars stinging more than Andrew and his thousand dollar suit would ever know.
“If you need perhaps an alternative option, there are things we can discuss.”
“I mean, I don’t have any more money to give them. We don’t have any more money to give them, we’ve sold the house, everything we could. I don’t know what else the judge could want from us.”
Andrew looked towards his assistant, who stopped typing, “I’m referring to our payment plan.”
"We’re out of hours, already?”
“Since June,” Andrew explained, nodding towards his assistant who got up and left the room, “Look, Loraine, you’re a family friend and I don’t mind doing this pro-bono but…”
“It looks a way for us to be petitioning for income-based payment plan when we have you as a lawyer,” Loraine interjected, finishing his sentence, “You can’t explain that to the judge? That we’re friends?”
“We want to project…”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Loraine cut him off, “Fuck.”
…
Angela's phone vibrated in her pocket. She usually kept it on silent during study hall, but in the rush to get everything set up in time for the kids, she had forgotten to. She pulled it out, her heart dropping as soon as she saw the subject of the email.
From: admissions@cdrewu.edu
Subject: Your Application to Charles Drew University
Her hand trembled slightly as she tapped to open it. Charles Drew was her top choice - a historically Black university with an excellent pre-med program and it’d be right in Los Angeles. It wasn't as prestigious as some of the other schools she'd applied to, but something about it just felt right.
“You good?” Ronnie asked as he was making his rounds around the room, “Look like you just got an unsolicited dick pic.”
“Worse,” she laughed, “It’s CDU.”
“I don’t know why you’re stressing that,” Ronnie chuckled, “If you’re good enough for Howard, you’re sure as shit good enough for CDU.”
“Your whole vibe just matches Howard,” she teased back, welcoming the delay.
“Come on,” Ronnie grabbed her phone, “You want me to do it for you?”
“No,” she snatched it back, “What if it really was a dick pic?”
“I’d just have to scroll up and see what you sent instead,” he fired back with a wry smile.
She shook her head as she clicked on the notification, no longer amused.
Dear Angela,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted for admission to Charles Drew University for the Fall 2024 semester. Additionally, based on your outstanding academic achievements and commitment to community service, you have been selected as a recipient of our full-tuition Martin Luther King Jr. Scholarship.
Angela's eyes widened, barely able to process what she was reading. She reread the first paragraph, hardly daring to believe it. There were the things that dreams were made for.
“I’m guessing you got in,” Ronnie laughed, surprising her with a tight hug.
“Holy shit,” she caught herself, covering her mouth and making sure none of the young students heard it, “Can you cover for me?”
“Cover for what? We ain’t at work,” he smiled, “Go on, go phone your little boo thang.”
Angela burst through the double doors of the cafeteria, her heart racing with excitement. She paced back and forth on the courtyard, her fingers trembling as she pulled up Vic's contact. Taking a deep breath, she rehearsed what she would say.
The phone rang once, twice, three times. No answer. Angela frowned, checking the time. Vic should be done with practice by now and they don’t have a game tonight. She tried again, this time sending over a text: "Call me back as soon as you can. I've got amazing news!"
As she waited, Angela's mind raced with possibilities. Maybe they could find an apartment together in LA with the extra money she could be pocketing with her scholarship. But after five minutes of anxious waiting, there was still no call back from Vic. Angela's excitement began to deflate like a balloon losing air. She stared at her phone, willing it to ring, but it remained stubbornly silent.
With a heavy sigh, she trudged back inside the community center. The elation she had felt moments ago was now tinged with disappointment. As she re-entered the study hall, Ronnie looked up from where he was helping a young student with math homework.
"I’m surprised you didn’t scream your head off out there," he pulled away from the student.
Angela shrugged, trying to hide her disappointment. "Not like it’s Howard or anything.”
“You’re right about that,” he had noticed her change of tone, “I know you don’t got no friends, outside of Vic, so what we on tonight?”
She rolled her eyes, unable to suppress a small smile. "Shut up. You know I've got friends."
“Hanging out with the homies after this, not just guys, so don’t worry. I keep a diverse and eclectic group of friends.”
“You straight guys get one gay friend and all of a sudden it’s a diverse group,” she joked, “Does he know you walk around telling people that you have a gay friend?”
“I’m as open minded as they come,” Ronnie held his hands out, “I know your ass ain’t talking.”
“What does that mean?”
“Vic’s friend group, which are your only quasi-friends, are like straight out of Central Casting,” Ronnie explained, “Pretty much the basketball team and some Damus.”
“What are you, CRASH?”
“I’m just saying,” Ronnie shrugged, “You rolling or what?”
…
Keshawn leaned back in the desk chair, displeased by how little give it had. It wasn’t the worst apartment, having seen much worse in the limited campus tours he had done over the summer, particularly at UC - Santa Barbara and UC - San Diego who immediately eliminated themselves from his list of potential suitors.
Gayle had began to give the room some life, adorning it with LED lights and various accoutrements that made it aesthetically okay for social media. He continued to size up the room, his eyes constantly going back to the bed, hoping he was the first one to christen it and hopefully would be the only one for a very long time.
She was in front of the full-length mirror, putting on her work outfit which looked very different than what his mother left this morning in. She slipped on the tight, shimmering dress that barely covered her curves. Keshawn watched as she adjusted the plunging neckline, his discomfort growing with each tug and pull of the revealing fabric.
"What the hell do the strippers wear then?" Keshawn asked, trying to keep his voice neutral.
Gayle smirked at him through the mirror. "Wouldn’t you like to know? And they prefer the term dancers, a bitch done got at me about that already."
She turned to face him, striking a pose that accentuated every curve. The dress hugged her body like a second skin, leaving little to the imagination. Keshawn shifted uncomfortably in the chair.
"How does that even work with you not being twenty-one?" he blurted out, immediately regretting the question, “How are you going to serve somebody drinks that you can’t even drink yet?”
Gayle let out a sharp laugh. "Be for real, Ke. I ain’t the only motherfucker in there that ain’t twenty-one. Shit, some of the st—dancers I done went to school with.”
Keshawn fell silent, his mind racing. They had just finished doing their business, the sheets on the bed still rumpled from their encounter. But now, watching Gayle prepare for her shift, a knot formed in his stomach.
He wanted to say something, to tell her how it made him feel. But the words caught in his throat. Who was he to judge? They weren't exclusive, and she was just trying to make money like everyone else and he enjoyed the fact that she had her own spot, even if it came with apartment mates. Still, the thought of other men ogling her, maybe even touching her, made his skin crawl.
Gayle applied a thick layer of shimmering eyeshadow, her movements practiced and precise. "You gonna wait for me here?" she teased, noticing his troubled expression.
Keshawn forced a smile. "Nah, I've got some shit to do," he lied, not wanting to see her once everyone else was done with her.
"Alright," Gayle shrugged, slipping on a pair of impossibly high heels. She grabbed her purse, pausing at the door. "Get to stepping then, nigga.”
Neighborhood.
That boy got post nut depression
