Saw this shit coming.....
Neighborhood.
-
chosenone58
- Posts: 4532
- Joined: 28 Nov 2018, 19:06
Neighborhood.
Neighborhood.
► Show Spoiler
The terrace came into view, Fat Stacks' unofficial iron throne. He sat sprawled across a weathered lawn chair, gold chains glinting against his dark skin, his substantial frame taking up space in a way that wasn't just physical but somehow territorial. Three of his boys lounged nearby, passing a blunt between them while keeping watchful eyes on the surroundings.
Loraine braced herself as she walked on over, the midday sun beating down on her shoulders as she gripped her purse tightly. The envelope of cash in her purse felt like it weighed fifty pounds instead of the actual two hundred she'd scraped together. Six months in county lockup had taught her many things, chief among them being that debts had to be paid—one way or another.
“I know your ass ain’t copping, Ms. Chase,” Fat Stacks called out when he spotted her, his voice carrying across the concrete expanse with a hint of his usual playfulness, “We fucking done as a society if you on that dog.”
“I just came to settle,” Loraine straightened her spine, channeling the confidence that had once made her the queen of her own domain, “You didn’t come by last week.”
“Y’all heard that? I ain’t on my pivot,” Fat Stacks teased, causing a few of the younger guys to snicker, “If I ain’t show up, it’s a reason to it, Miss Lady.”
Fat Stacks leaned back, his chair creaking under his weight. He studied her face for a long moment, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Put that away," he said finally. "Ain't necessary."
Confusion flashed across Loraine's face. "What do you mean?”
"That debt's been cleared."
"Cleared?" Loraine's hand tightened around the envelope. "I don't understand."
Fat Stacks poured amber liquid into a plastic cup. "What’s there to not understand? I was owed money, now I’m not. If you want to make a donation to this here cause, I ain’t one to turn it down but as far as your debt is concerned? It was paid in full, miss.”
The terrace seemed to tilt beneath Loraine as she tried to make sense of things. Was it Elijah? Maybe even Dro?
“As much as I enjoyed our conversation,” Fat Stacks sat up, “You standing here, looking like this, is gonna scare away my custys so I’m gonna need you to step or cop something, Miss Chase. Respectfully.”
…
The sun hung like a spotlight over the Rose Bowl where UCLA's spring football game was underway. Keshawn sat in the special recruiting section, his long legs cramped in the stadium seating that wasn't built for someone his size.
"Man, them niggas big as hell," Vic scoffed, nudging Keshawn with his elbow. "Look at this one motherfucker, nigga gotta be like six-seven, three something.”
Keshawn nodded, taking in the sea of blue and gold, the roar of the crowd, the electricity in the air. It was different from basketball games—rawer somehow, more primal.
"You think you could've played football?" Vic asked, his eyes not leaving the field. "I feel like that shit is all size for real.”
Keshawn shrugged, his shoulders rolling beneath his provided UCLA hoodie. "You know my ass don’t like getting hit.”
"Yeah, we know," Vic smirked, "I just feel like that shit easier with all them motherfuckers on a roster. If you can’t get a scholarship somewhere, you gotta be sorry as fuck when it’s a hundred niggas on a team.”
Around them sat other recruits—mostly juniors with a few sophomores mixed in who were already on the radar of major programs. Keshawn recognized a few faces from Instagram with both basketball and football players being invited to the spring game. As far as he could tell, he was the only senior among them as the Bruins weren’t letting his commitment to Howard deter their recruitment and Keshawn wasn’t about to turn down an afternoon at the Rose Bowl with free food provided.
“You saw Stef’s story?” Vic asked as a smile crept up on his face.
“Nah,” Keshawn shook his head, “Why? We ain’t linking up with him until after the game.”
“Look who he’s with,” Vic turned his screen towards Keshawn as he replayed his last Instagram story, “That bitch was so fucking bad, bro.”
“You’re playing with fire,” Keshawn shook his head as he examined the video of Stefan, his host from his official visit a few weeks ago, with his girlfriend and few other girls, including Gloria and Jessica, who were gracious hosts as well.
“Man, she’s about to be in D.C. and shit with your ass,” Vic shrugged, “I know her ass don’t think I’m finna be out here with my dick in my hand for four years.”
“She hasn’t even left yet,” Keshawn laughed, “Just say you want Jennifer because she’s some pressure.”
“First off, it’s Jessica, nigga,” Vic corrected him, “And I don’t need no excuse to cheat on my bitch, nigga. It’s my bitch.”
“That nigga serious about his side piece,” Keshawn teased as they returned their attention to the game, “Say less, bro.”
…
The dorm had that distinct collegiate energy—cheap furniture paired with expensive electronics, posters haphazardly taped to walls, and the lingering scent of weed barely masked by scented candles. Stefan's place was on the second floor, a two-bedroom he shared with another basketball player who was conveniently out of town visiting family.
The living room opened to a small balcony overlooking the complex's pool, which glowed an eerie blue in the evening light. Keshawn settled onto the worn couch, his frame making the furniture seem child-sized. Jessica immediately claimed the spot next to Vic on the loveseat, her thigh pressing against his in a way that wasn't accidental.
"You want something to drink?" Gloria asked Keshawn, hovering near him with an expectant smile. She'd been texting him sporadically since his official visit, liking the random picture on Instagram that wasn’t at random at all.
"Water's cool," Keshawn replied, nodding politely but keeping his eyes on the NBA playoff game playing on the living room’s massive TV. The Milwaukee Bucks were up by twelve in the third quarter.
"Water?" Stefan laughed, pulling beers from the fridge. "Man, your season over with nigga.”
"Nah, I'm good," Keshawn said. "Got an early morning tomorrow.”
“Come on,” Stefan teased, “You ain’t gotta work out every day to play at Howard, them niggas sorry as hell.”
Gloria returned with a glass of water, sitting close enough that her perfume—something floral and expensive—enveloped him like a cloud. She tucked her hair behind her ear, leaning forward to make sure she was in his line of sight.
"So, you're really going to Howard?" she asked, her voice pitched just for him despite the music that Andrea had started playing. "That's like, really far."
Keshawn nodded, taking a sip of water. "Yeah, it’s definitely going to be different.”
Across the room, Vic had his arm draped casually over the back of the loveseat, his fingers just barely grazing Jessica's shoulder. She was laughing at something he'd said, her head tilted back to reveal the smooth column of her throat.
"Different how?" Gloria pressed, shifting closer until her knee gently bumped against his. "I mean, D.C. is super far and it’s probably cold all the time.”
Keshawn's eyes remained fixed on the TV as Giannis executed a perfect euro-step through the lane. "That's part of it. I just want to experience something different.”
Gloria twirled a strand of hair around her finger, undeterred by his brief answers.
"You know, UCLA has seasons too. It gets cold here sometimes," she said with a practiced laugh that sounded like wind chimes.
"I know, I've lived in LA my whole life," Keshawn nodded, wincing as the Bucks' point guard missed an open three. "I guess that’s why I kind of want to see something different.”
The background music shifted to something slower, more sensual. Stefan and Andrea had disappeared into his bedroom, the door clicking shut behind them. The absence of Stefan's boisterous laughter left the common area feeling suddenly intimate, the space shrinking around the four remaining occupants.
From across the room came Jessica's distinctive giggle, followed by Vic's lower murmur. Keshawn resisted the urge to glance over, knowing exactly what game his cousin was running. Instead, he reached for his water glass, accidentally brushing Gloria's fingers as she simultaneously moved to adjust her position.
"Sorry," they said in unison.
Gloria's smile widened, “So what do you like to do for fun? Besides basketball, obviously.”
The TV erupted with noise as someone dunked, drawing Keshawn's attention back momentarily. When he looked back at Gloria, her smile had tightened slightly.
"I like documentaries," he offered. "Mostly history stuff, things that happened before my time, you know.”
"Oh yeah?" Her eyebrows arched with genuine interest. "What’s a good one you’ve watched recently?”
"There was a pretty good on on Malcolm X that I just finished the other day.”
Gloria nodded enthusiastically. "That's so cool. I'm taking African American Studies as my minor. We should totally—"
The crowd on TV roared again, and Keshawn's head swiveled back to the screen where an instant replay showed a controversial blocking foul. "Man, that's bullshit," he muttered, forgetting Gloria mid-conversation.
The couch shifted as Gloria stood abruptly, smoothing her tight dress, “I should probably get going.”
Keshawn finally tore his eyes away from the game. "You sure?”
"Yeah," Gloria shrugged, gathering her purse. She stood there for a moment, as if waiting for him to protest her departure. When he simply nodded, she added, "It was really nice seeing you again, Keshawn. Good luck at Howard, I guess."
"Thanks," he replied, oblivious to the bitterness lacing her well-wishes. "You too. I mean, good luck here and everything."
Gloria lingered another moment before heading toward the door. "Jess?" she called over her shoulder, her voice carrying a forced lightness that failed to mask her frustration.
"I'm good here," Jessica announced, catching Gloria’s eye with a mischievous smile. She ran her fingertips along Vic's arm, tracing invisible patterns on his skin. "Vic can take me home later. Right, Vic?"
Vic's grin spread slowly across his face, victorious. "For sure. I got you."
"You sure?" Gloria asked, more out of obligation than real concern. "It's getting kind of late."
Jessica laughed, the sound warm and knowing. "Trust me, I'm exactly where I want to be right now." She shifted her weight, sliding even closer to Vic as Gloria exited the dorm.
The implication hung heavy in the air. Keshawn glanced at the closed bedroom door where occasional muffled laughter emerged, then back at the increasingly entangled pair on the loveseat. Vic caught his eye and gave an almost imperceptible nod—the universal signal between men that meant: get lost.
"I think I'm gonna go for a walk," Keshawn announced, standing up and stretching his long frame.
The couple’s mouths were too busy to even pretend to care as Keshawn headed for the door, throwing the hood of his hoodie over his head as he came down the stairs, slowing his pace to make sure he didn’t run into Gloria on her exit as well. He followed the street lights down the brick road, wishing he had some headphones to get lost in a podcast or some music underneath the moon’s light. Instead, he had his thoughts.
Signing Day was approaching and with it loomed a decision that Keshawn recognized would change the trajectory of his life. He wanted to pick UCLA, he should pick UCLA. They were the better basketball program, closer to home, offered him the most money and on-par academically. There was just an itch that UCLA, despite their best attempts, couldn’t scratch. An itch that had been bore out of the past eighteen months of Keshawn’s mind. UCLA embodied everything that the Chase family once had and everything they had lost. His friends at Thornwood that he had spent all of his school years up to that point with? Nothing but the occasional text, asking if he wanted to hop on the game. The teachers and administrators that had labeled him gifted? Not to be heard from once the tuition stopped coming in.
UCLA was Thornwood. UCLA was Baldwin Hills. Howard was Hamilton. Howard was Baldwin Villages. Howard was where he had learned to call home.
Neighborhood.
► Show Spoiler
“No problem, Coach, thanks for being so understanding.”
Keshawn hung up the phone before navigating to his notes app, crossing off another row of schools that he had informed of his decision to go elsewhere, heeding Coach Bronstein’s advice to notify them all personally. The first few calls were nerve wrecking and awkward but by the time Keshawn was halfway through the list, the rehearsed lines were now coming out naturally.
As Keshawn was making his way down the list, Coach Cronin’s contact info loomed large. The decision had been made, stewed over, reaffirmed and doubled down on for weeks now with Keshawn’s mind made up but he was not naive enough to believe that the call to Westwood would be as simple as the calls to Texas Southern, Pepperdine and the others were. Even USC, who had made a late offer just because, turned out to be a quick call that lasted less than one minute. Shit, they barely knew Keshawn’s name.
“Fuck this,” Keshawn muttered to himself, skipping the order of the list as he scrolled down to Coach Cronin’s name and clicked on the hyperlinked phone number, “Hey, Coach.”
…
"Look, I know Tay's numbers dipped after 'Westside Slide,'" Lamont told the executives seated around him, his voice steady and assured despite the tension in the room. "But we're building something here. The kid’s hungry, he’s practically living in the studio with me and I'm telling you, by next quarter, we'll have his breakthrough track ready to drop."
Francis Phelps, VP of A&R, raised an eyebrow. "That's what you said last quarter, Lamont. The budget we allocated for his project is—"
"Is being put to good use," Lamont cut in smoothly. "We’re talking about an artist that already has local buzz, is already doing well on social.”
“Within a pretty small niche audience,” Francis countered.
“Niche is cash,” Lamont scoffed, “A smart lady taught me that, ain’t that right?”
Carol couldn’t help but smirk, amused by her former protege’s confidence, “We do need to see some movement on Tay. He’s a solid artist with decent metrics but at some point, we have to determine what his ceiling is.”
“You can’t expect to see the growth we saw in the first year, year over year,” Lamont interjected, “He was starting from the ground fucking floor so yeah, he’s leveling off a bit but he’s only just now tapping into his artistry and his audience. The motherfucker was just saying shit that sounded cool to his friends eighteen months ago, we can’t be surprise he’s not a platinum artist by now.”
“We trust your vision,” Francis assured him, “We’re just here to offer pushback, is all.”
“Get ready then,” Lamont scoffed as he leaned back into his chair, “I’d like to introduce a new artist into the marketplace by this summer.”
“Get the fuck out of here,” Francis laughed, “We’re having a hard time breaking Tay!”
"Won’t interfere with Tay,” Lamont shook his head, “Completely different sound, completely different audience, completely different everything.”
“What you got? A backpack rapper from El Segundo or something?” Francis sneered.
“Even better,” Lamont smirked, “I got the West Coast’s Sexxy Red.”
…
The Hamilton High School library had been transformed. Gone were the silent study carrels and reference desks, replaced by a stage adorned with college pennants from across the country. Green and white balloons—the school colors—clustered at the corners of the room, while a hand-painted banner proclaimed "BLACK EXCELLENCE PRESENTS: COLLEGE ANNOUNCEMENT DAY" in bold lettering.
Angela adjusted the Howard University cap in her hands, running her thumb over the bison emblem. It still felt surreal, not going to Charles Drew University, leaving everything behind to go across the country to a school she had only visited in passing once. She had already signed her financial aid papers and accepted the scholarship but this day more than any other made it feel real, like it was set in stone.
"You need to chill," Ronnie said, sidling up next to her with a clipboard. "Everything's looking good. We've got the order set, the AV club is handling the livestream, and Ms. Washington already teared up twice during setup."
Angela nodded, scanning the room where members of Black Excellence bustled about, arranging chairs and setting up refreshment tables. "I just want it to be perfect. Everyone in here busted their ass to get to these schools, they deserve to go out in style.”
"That's why we started this group, right?" Ronnie grinned, his easy confidence a counterbalance to her intensity. "Nobody else was going to highlight these people since they ain’t playing ball, we are.”
"Future Howard Bison," came Vic's voice from behind them. He wore a Howard shit, a choice that brought a warm smile to Angela’s face.
"Look who decided to help after all," Angela said, leaning in for a quick kiss. "Thought you had exams today.”
"Teacher let me take it early, told her I had some 'important business’ to take care of." Vic made air quotes with his fingers. "Plus, I figured I should see what all this fuss is about. My girl going three thousand miles away and all."
Ronnie laughed. "Man, you act like she's joining the Peace Corps. It's Howard. It's like, what, five hours by plane?"
"Five hours, seventeen minutes, direct flight," Angela corrected, then caught herself. "Not that I've been obsessively checking or anything."
"Uh-huh," Vic said, “Keshawn here yet?”
“He was but he stepped out for a phone call,” Ronnie answered.
“I don’t know how y’all did it,” Vic shook his head, “You? I get. But Ke? Man, he turning down UCLA for y’all? That’s some crazy shit, borderline stupid in every month but February.”
"Because Howard is the HBCU of all HBCUs," Angela said, straightening her Black Excellence t-shirt. "Because if its good enough for Thurgood Marshall, it’s good enough for Keshawn fucking Chase.”
“I ain’t mad at it,” Vic shrugged, “Shit, the whole school be named after him after he’s done. I’m going to get him right before he leaves in the summer though.”
"Oh, I didn’t know he was enrolling with us,” Ronnie replied, the 'us' stinging Vic more than he cared to admit, "We should look at dorming together or something.”
“That high sitting negro got his own apartment and everything,” Vic shook his head, “He ain’t staying where y’all staying at, believe me.”
“Must be nice,” Angela nodded, “Where is he? We’re about to start?”
…
The staircase leading to the library was bathed in afternoon light from the high windows, dust motes dancing in the golden beams. Elijah stood with his back straight, one hand in the pocket of his tailored slacks, the other checking his watch for the third time in as many minutes.
"He's still on the phone," Loraine said, smoothing an invisible wrinkle from her royal blue dress.
"He needs to wrap it up," Elijah replied, his deep voice resonating in the stairwell. "These announcements are scheduled precisely. It's disrespectful to keep everyone waiting."
Simone rolled her eyes, the gold hoops in her ears catching the light. "Dad, chill. He's probably talking to the coaches, telling them he’s not coming. That's not an easy conversation."
"He had all morning for that," Elijah said, but his tone softened slightly. "I just want today to go smoothly, it’s all I’ve been looking forward to since that day.”
Eleanora stood a step below them, her warm presence filling the space despite her small stature. "It’s called being fashionably late, Elijah. Besides, he is the show, ain’t no show without him anyway.”
Loraine laughed, the sound echoing up the stairwell. “So y’all the ones that done gassed him up? I ain’t mad at it, everyone needs a little battery in their back.”
"On the other side of the country, he’s going to need it," Eleanora added, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Y’all raised a good boy, both of y’all. He just needs to remember that, is all.”
The sound of footsteps at the bottom of the staircase got their attention. Quincy suddenly appeared, his gait unsteady but determined. He wore a button-up shirt that might have been crisp yesterday, but now bore the wrinkles of a night spent somewhere other than hanging in a closet. Still, he'd made an effort—his beard was trimmed, his eyes clear.
"Am I late?" he asked, his voice carrying a forced cheerfulness that couldn't quite mask his nervousness.
The temperature in the stairwell seemed to drop ten degrees as Elijah's jaw tightened. "What are you doing here, Quincy?"
"Same as you," Quincy replied, climbing another step. "Supporting my nephew on his big day."
"After being absent for how many others?" Elijah's words were sharp enough to cut most people deep but it bounced off Quincy who adjusted his shirt.
"You look good, Q,” Eleanora commented.
Elijah opened his mouth but his wife’s calming touch made him think otherwise, “Glad you could make it,” he changed his tune, “We’re just waiting on him.”
As if on cue, Keshawn emerged from the corner, shoving his phone deep into his pocket, the weight of the conversation still hanging heavy in his chest.
"About damn time," Elijah said, his voice cutting through Keshawn's thoughts. "We've been waiting. Everyone's inside already."
Keshawn nodded, trying to gather himself. "Sorry, I was just—"
"We’re running late," his father interrupted, checking his watch again. "The program started five minutes ago. They're waiting on you."
Loraine stepped forward, adjusting Keshawn's collar with gentle fingers. "You okay, baby? You look pale."
"I'm fine, Mom. I just need to—"
"We need to go," Elijah insisted, already turning toward the library doors. "They've rearranged the order twice now."
Keshawn swallowed hard. "Dad, I need to tell you something before we—"
"Whatever it is, it can wait until after," Elijah said, his hand finding the small of Keshawn's back, guiding him forward with firm pressure. "This is your moment. Don't keep them waiting any longer."
The double doors swung open, and a wall of sound hit Keshawn—applause, cheers, the buzz of excitement that filled the transformed library. The room was packed tighter than he'd expected, with students, teachers, and family members crammed into every available space. Phones were raised, recording, livestreaming. Howard had sent an actual camera crew for the announcement, a watershed moment for the program with Keshawn earning his fourth star in the latest ranking. The Black Excellence banner hung proudly above the stage where four empty chairs waited beside a podium.
His heart hammered against his ribs as his family fanned out behind him. Quincy gave him a subtle thumbs up from the back, while Eleanora beamed with pride. The crowd parted as they moved through, hands reaching out to pat his shoulders, voices calling his name.
Keshawn forced a smile, nodding mechanically as he made his way toward the stage. His eyes caught Vic's, standing near the front with Angela, both of them grinning wide.
Ms. Washington approached the microphone, tapping it twice. "And now, the moment we've all been waiting for. Please welcome to the stage, Hamilton High's very own, Keshawn Chase!"
The microphone hummed with feedback as Keshawn approached, the sound cutting through the applause like a knife through butter. The faces before him blurred into a sea of expectation, all eyes fixed on his trembling hands as he adjusted the mic stand to accommodate his towering frame. The Howard University cap sat prominently on the table beside him, its blue and white colors bold against the polished wood, the bison emblem staring back at him accusingly.
"Good afternoon," Keshawn began, his voice catching. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Good afternoon, everyone. Thank you all for coming today."
The crowd settled, a collective hush falling over the library. In the front row, Vic gave him an encouraging nod, while Angela's smile radiated pure confidence. On the periphery of his vision, he could see his father standing tall, arms crossed, a rare smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
"I want to start by thanking my family," Keshawn continued, gaining steadiness with each word. "My mom and dad, who've been there for me and served as an ever guiding force. My Aunt Eleanora, who’s really like my second mom." He paused, swallowing hard before adding, "My sister Simone for always setting the standard, my cousin Vic for really helping me take my game to the next level. Uncle Quincy, I love you, we all do."
A murmur rippled through the crowd as Quincy, standing at the back, raised a hand in acknowledgment, his eyes suspiciously bright.
"I also need to thank the Black Excellence program," Keshawn gestured toward Ronnie and Angela, "for showing me what's possible beyond the court. Y'all pushed me to see myself as more than just an athlete, to understand the power of our history and the responsibility we have to each other."
The weight of the Howard cap seemed to grow heavier beside him. Keshawn could feel the sweat beading on his forehead, his collar suddenly too tight against his neck. The call he just had replayed in his mind – the genuine surprise, the barely contained excitement, the promises made in hushed tones.
"I've been blessed with opportunities that most kids only dream about," Keshawn continued, his voice growing stronger. "Seventeen scholarship offers from schools across the country. Each one representing not just basketball, but a chance to redefine my future. I'd like to thank every single coach that has helped me on this journey, especially Coach Stewie and Coach Bronstein. I'm appreciative of every single college coach that has taken their time to evaluate my game, recruit me and offer me a scholarship."
He glanced down at his notes, the carefully prepared speech about Howard's legacy, about following in the footsteps of giants, about building something new at an HBCU. The words he'd rehearsed a dozen times now felt foreign, disconnected from the truth burning in his chest.
"The decision I've made wasn't easy," Keshawn said, looking directly at Angela now, whose smile had begun to falter. "It's been the hardest choice of my life."
In the crowd, Loraine tensed, her hand finding Elijah's arm. Something in her gut told her to brace herself, the sort of instinct that only a mother could possess.
"With that being said, I’d like to announce that I’ll be signing with UCLA to play for the Bruins and Coach Cronin.”
Neighborhood.
That boy going to UCLA for that latke he saw, huh? 
Neighborhood.
The day was buzzing with an electric energy that Keshawn tried desperately to contain beneath his calm exterior. The late August sun beat down on the sprawling campus, turning the concrete walkways into heat-reflecting runways as students and parents hauled mini-fridges, plastic storage bins, and overstuffed duffel bags toward their designated dormitories.
“Lord, this place is huge,” Loraine muttered, fanning herself with a folded campus map, “You’re not on the second floor, are you?”
"Third floor, room 312," Keshawn repeated for the third time that morning, “I think there’s an elevator though.”
The elevator ride to the third floor was cramped, with Keshawn's long limbs folded awkwardly around their belongings. When they finally reached room 312, the door was already propped open, music spilling into the hallway.
“My nigga,” a voice boomed from the inside, catching himself upon the sight of Keshawn’s mother and sister. Stefan Parker emerged, arms spread wide like he was welcoming Keshawn to his personal kingdom. His smile wide and genuine beneath sharp, observant eyes. "My fault, Miss, I didn’t see you there.”
“Y’all sure love that word,” Loraine shook her head, intentionally ignorant to her own usage of it, before leaning in for a hug. The two had only met once before but the embrace mimicked that of loved ones; an uncanny talent of Stefan, one that Keshawn had quickly noticed in their brief interactions.
He eagerly retrieved the boxes from Loraine and Simone’s hands and led them into the apartment, the same apartment that Keshawn had frequented during his visits on campus. It was a three-bedroom with a spacious yet cozy living room that felt lived in with Stefan being the only hold over from the spring.
Their roommate, Tommy, was hanging out on the couch, scrolling through his phone. He seemed unperturbed by their entrance until Stefan aggressively tapped him on the shoulder, getting him to his feet.
“Rook,” Tommy, a redshirt freshman, welcomed him before greeting his family, “How are you guys doing?”
“A bit overwhelmed but we’re getting through it,” Loraine was surprisingly honest to the complete stranger, giving credence to her words.
"Let me show you your room," Stefan said, navigating the small hallway with the familiarity of someone who'd called this place home for months. "I looked out for you and got you the middle room.”
As Keshawn followed, lugging his duffle bag over one shoulder, he couldn't help but glance into Tommy's open doorway. What caught his eye wasn't the expected college clutter, but a meticulous arrangement. Tommy's MacBook Pro sat casually on a sleek standing desk that looked more Silicon Valley than student housing, clearly not the one originally provided. Next to it, a pair of Bose noise-canceling headphones rested on a dedicated stand, not tossed carelessly like Keshawn's dollar store earbuds that were perpetually tangled in his pocket.
Against the wall, a collection of sneakers lined up like soldiers—not just the regular Nike and Jordan pairs, but Rick Owens and Balenciaga, still in their original box.
"You can put your stuff down here," Stefan said, snapping Keshawn into his reality as he took a step back to allow his mom and sister to go in before him.
"My room don’t look like Tommy’s," Keshawn commented, trying to sound casual.
Stefan snorted. "Nig…neither does mine, man, I ain’t play you. Tommy's pops is some hedge fund nig..dude in Newport. Why you think he’s on the team bro? I ain’t hating though because if I’m giving y’all all this money, that’s the least y’all could do.”
...
...
The studio lights casted a violet-blue glow across the room, the kind of artificial twilight that made time feel suspended. Gayle tapped her acrylic nails against the microphone stand, her frustration building with each hollow click. Three hours in and they had nothing but scrapped verses and half-formed melodies floating in digital limbo.
"Let's run it back one more time," Lamont said from behind the mixing board, his voice steady despite the tension that had been building since coming back from lunch. Now into the evening, the veteran producer’s patience was a marvel, something Gayle both appreciated and resented. Part of her wanted him to get angry, to match the irritation bubbling in her chest.
"We've ran it back twenty times, Lamont," she sighed, pulling the headphones off and letting them hang around her neck. "Maybe we should just call it."
The booth felt smaller than usual tonight, closing in on her with each failed attempt. Gayle wasn't used to failure, especially not when it came to expressing herself. But here she was, words trapped behind her teeth, melodies slipping through her fingers like water.
Lamont pushed back from the console and swiveled his chair to face her through the glass. "We can take a break.”
She stepped out of the booth, the temperature change immediate as the air conditioning hit her skin.
"You're thinking too much," he said, gesturing for her to take the seat beside him. "You're trying to sound like what you think I want to hear."
"Isn't that the point?" Gayle asked, collapsing into the chair. "You're the one with all them plaques on the wall."
Lamont chuckled, the sound deep and genuine. "Those plaques ain't worth shit if the artist behind them ain't speaking their truth." He pulled up a folder on his computer and clicked through several files before finding what he was looking for. "Listen to this."
Through the studio monitors came the unmistakable voice of a young woman, raw and unpolished, rapping along to a melody that twisted and turned unexpectedly. It took Gayle a moment to recognize it as her own voice—a recording from their first session together several months ago.
“That’s what I need and that’s what I want,” Lamont explained, “Raw, uncut, just you. I’ll polish it up after that but the origin, the essence? Nah, that’s all you, baby girl.”
The studio suddenly felt different—not confining, but intimate. The violet-blue lights no longer felt artificial but like twilight over the ocean, a liminal space where anything was possible. Gayle's fingers tingled with that familiar electricity she got when a good verse was forming, words arranging themselves in her mind like puzzle pieces finally finding their home.
"I got you," she said, standing up and stretching her arms above her head. The frustration that had been knotting her shoulders began to dissolve. "I’m just going to pop my shit then and you can figure that shit out.”
Lamont's smile spread slow and knowing across his face. "Now we're talking."
She rolled her shoulders back, took a deep breath that filled her lungs completely. The words that had been eluding her all day suddenly surfaced, clear as crystal. It was simpler than what she'd been forcing, but it felt right—felt like her.
Three sharp knocks cut through the moment. Lamont frowned, checking his watch with a muttered curse.
"Hold that thought," he said, rolling his chair back and heading for the door.
When he pulled it open, Gayle caught sight of a woman with box braids cascading down her back, dressed in tailored slacks and a blouse that screamed corporate America. Beside her stood two children—a boy who was the spitting image of Lamont, down to the slight furrow between his eyebrows, and a girl whose skeptical expression could cut glass.
"You're late," the woman said, her voice cool but not hostile. "I texted you three times."
"Shit, Tanya, my bad," Lamont said, running a hand over his face. "We were supposed to be out of here by now.”
"Language," Tanya replied automatically, glancing past him to where Gayle stood. Something flickered across her face—not quite judgment, but assessment. "Hey, girl.”
Gayle straightened her posture instinctively. "Hey.”
The woman's gaze lingered on Gayle for a moment longer than was comfortable, her eyes taking in every detail from Gayle's cropped tank top to her high-waisted jeans. Gayle suddenly felt conscious of the studio's intimate lighting, the way it had transformed from creative sanctuary to something that might be misinterpreted.
"Kids, say hi to..." Tanya paused, eyebrows slightly raised, waiting for an introduction that Lamont was slow to provide.
"Gayle," she offered, her voice sounding smaller than it had moments before when she'd been ready to step into the booth.
"Gayle," Tanya repeated with a polite smile whose genuineness betrayed her. "These are the twins, Junior and Layla.”
The children, who couldn't have been more than nine or ten, stared up at Gayle with unabashed curiosity. Layla, the girl, had her mother's scrutinizing gaze, while Junior fidgeted with the sleeve of his Nike hoodie.
"You rap or something?" Layla asked, her voice carrying a precocious confidence that reminded Gayle of herself at that age.
"Trying to," Gayle answered, forcing a smile.
Tanya glanced at her Apple Watch, its rose gold face catching the studio lights. "I've got that dinner with the Anderson account at seven. You’re on your own tonight, think you can handle that?”
"Yeah, I think I can manage a couple of hours," Lamont shook his head playfully. "Burgers and fries, maybe even a milkshake too. No homework, TV all night, the usual, right?”
“Boy, bye,” she leaned in and kissed him briefly on the lips, a casual gesture so natural it spoke volumes about their shared life. "I should be home by nine, but I'll text if I get held up.”
Her gaze eventually returned to Gayle, different this time due to either being disarmed or emboldened. Or perhaps both as Gayle stood there, feeling like a stranger in what was supposed to be her sanctuary.
Neighborhood.
"Get you ass over here, nigga!" Stefan barked, dribbling between his legs as he sized up his teammate on the opposite squad. "You know I'm about to cook you, right?”
Lyle, more known for his shooting than defense, just shook his head. Stefan had no issues going past him and laying it in.
The Mo Ostin Basketball Center hummed with squeaking sneakers and shouted commands, the practiced chaos of a UCLA basketball scrimmage in full swing. The coaching staff was there but there presence was hardly felt as they just watched from the sidelines, eyes darting from player to player as they evaluated it all.
Keshawn tried to catch his breath, his lungs burning as he sprinted back on defense. Everything moved faster here—the ball zipped through passing lanes that materialized and vanished in milliseconds, screens appeared out of nowhere, and defensive rotations required split-second decisions that his brain wasn't processing quickly enough.
"Baseline! Baseline!" someone shouted, and Keshawn pivoted, already a step too slow. A blur of blue practice jersey flashed past him, forcing him to chase from behind.
Lyle caught the ball on the wing and immediately attacked, his quickness catching Keshawn by surprise as he blew past him and rose up for the easy jumper.
“Cut him off!” Dominick, one of the senior guards, schooled Keshawn.
Sweat dripped into Keshawn's eyes as he nodded, trying to absorb the critique amid the sensory overload. Dominick continued to bark out instructions that melded together in his ears. He'd played against good competition at Hamilton, but this was different—these were mostly third and fourth year players that had the advantages of years in a college strength and conditioning program and anything they lacked in physicality, they more than made up for it with their edge in experience and training.
Dominick motioned for a screen and Keshawn nodded, jogging to the top of the key, eager to make an impact. He planted his feet, squared his shoulders for the screen, but his timing was off. He collided awkwardly with his defender, earning a sharp whistle from the assistant coach.
"Moving screen, Chase! Gotta get set, son!"
Keshawn's cheeks burned. There had been flashes, moments of both brilliance and potential with Keshawn being arguably the only player on the team that could switch onto any player — big or small — and not be at a noticeable disadvantage. He was a sight to behold on the fastbreak as well, capable of being both the outlet to finish it off with a thunderous slam or grabbing the rebound and hurling it down the court with precision.
But as the players settled into the scrimmage, those plays became fewer and farther in between as the slower pace neutralized any edge that Keshawn had.
…
"If I have to read one more sentence about Weber's Protestant ethic, I might actually die," Angela groaned, dropping her forehead onto the open textbook with a soft thud. The Howard University library was filled with the quiet energy of students preparing for their first round of college exams, the air conditioning fighting a losing battle against the summer heat.
Ronnie glanced up from his economics textbook, amusement dancing in his eyes. "At least you're reading stuff you've already devoured for fun. I'm over here trying to understand why the aggregate demand curve shifts the way it does." He tapped his pencil against his notebook, where neat diagrams contrasted with Angela's highlighted pages and margin notes.
"For fun?" Angela lifted her head, her high bun slightly askew. "I’m not that much of a nerd.”
"Please," he scoffed, leaning back in his chair. "I've seen your bookshelf. Critical theory, Black feminist thought, sociological frameworks—all of that is a good time for you." He reached across the table and flipped her textbook closed to check the cover. "Introduction to Sociological Theory? That's like remedial reading for Angela Edwards."
Angela snatched the book back, reopening it to her page. "There's a difference between reading something and understanding it well enough to ace Professor Wilson's exam. The man is notorious for trick questions."
"Meanwhile, I'm over here with Professor Harrington expecting us to predict the entire economic future of the country by next week." Ronnie shook his head.
Angela's eyes flickered back to her notes, the margins crowded with her precise handwriting dissecting Weber's theories on capitalism and religion. "The man literally wrote that accumulating wealth was a sign of God's favor. How convenient for the colonizers," she muttered.
Ronnie chuckled, his laugh warm and resonant even in the hushed library atmosphere. A few students at nearby tables glanced over, some with annoyed expressions, others with appreciative smiles directed at Ronnie. Angela noticed a girl two tables away who had been stealing glances at him for the past hour.
"Listen," Ronnie said, lowering his voice and leaning forward, "a bunch of us are heading to Marvin’s spot after this if you want to come with.”
Angela's fingers traced the spine of her book, feeling the slight indentations of the title. She knew exactly who would be at Marvin's—the ones who couldn't talk about anything except which fraternity or sorority they planned to pledge in the fall.
"And before you say anything," Ronnie continued, his voice taking on that persuasive tone he used when he was trying to win her over, "it's not just going to be me and the guys. Zara will be there, and Nia, and—"
"Let me guess," Angela interrupted, rolling her eyes with practiced precision, "Nia, who can't stop talking about her aunt who's a Delta? And Zara, who's already practicing stepping routines in her dorm room mirror?" She closed her textbook with a soft thump.
Ronnie's smile faltered slightly. "Come on, Ang. They're not that bad."
"Last time I hung out with them, one of them spent forty-five minutes explaining why pledging is 'the ultimate test of Black manhood.'" She made air quotes with her fingers.
"Besides," Angela continued, gathering her books and sliding them into her worn backpack, the canvas fabric faded from years of use, "I have my own plans tonight."
"Oh yeah?" Ronnie perked up. Any time he had spotted on her campus, she was always by herself, headphones in as she walked to and from lecture halls.
“Yeah,” she lied as she got up, “So y’all enjoy your Greek hangouts.”
…
Keshawn grabbed a towel from the rack, wiping sweat from his forehead as his chest still heaved from exertion. His calves ached with a dull throb and his practice jersey clung to his back, soaked through.
"Chase," called a voice from the sideline. "Got a minute?"
One of the assistant coaches, Nate Georgeton, stood with one foot on the baseline, clipboard tucked under his arm, his expression unreadable.
Keshawn's stomach tightened. He'd been waiting for this conversation, dreading it even as he hoped for different news. He tossed his towel aside and jogged over, his sneakers squeaking against the polished floor.
"Yes, Coach?" Keshawn straightened his posture, trying to project confidence he didn't feel.
Coach Georgeton guided him a few steps away from the others, into the shadow of the bleachers where conversations couldn't be easily overheard. The distant sounds of basketballs bouncing and teammates laughing created a soundtrack to what Keshawn already knew would be a difficult moment.
"You've got good instincts," Georgeton began. "And I can see why Coach Cronin was so high on you during recruitment. That length, your timing on weakside help—those aren't things we can teach."
Keshawn nodded, not trusting himself to speak. The "but" was coming; he could feel it hovering in the air between them.
"But," Georgeton continued, confirming Keshawn's fears, "there's a big gap between high school ball and what we're doing here." He gestured toward the court where Eric, a transfer from Oklahoma State, was casually draining three-pointers in a post-practice shooting routine. "Those guys have been at the college level, they’ve gone through this period already. They've had time to adjust to the speed, the physicality."
"Eligibility is gold these days,” Georgeton finally came out with it, “So don’t look at redshirting as a bad thing, if that’s what ends up happening.”
“Yes, sir,” Keshawn tightened his jaw as understanding the decision didn’t help him accept it any easier.
…
Fat Stacks leaned against the hood of his matte-black Dodge Charger, eyes scanning the concrete courtyard where three of his corner boys counted out small stacks of bills.
"Yo, what's the count looking like?" Fat Stacks called out, his voice carrying across the lot. The youngest of the three, a skinny kid they called Peanut, flinched slightly at the sound.
"We almost there," replied Benji, the oldest of the three at twenty-two. "Stevley was bumping today, ain’t really slow down all day. Even before I left niggas was still serving.”
Fat Stacks nodded, satisfaction spreading across his face. He pulled his phone from his pocket, thumb scrolling through a series of texts. The last one from Dro had come in three hours ago: "8pm”
He pocketed the phone and pushed himself off the car, adjusting his fitted cap as he approached the three counters.
"How's Hillcrest?" Fat Stacks asked, keeping his tone casual despite the weight of the question.
Benji glanced up, hesitation visible in his eyes before he answered. "It's... it's doing alright. Not like before though.”
Fat Stacks fought to keep his expression neutral, but inside, his joy was uncontrollable. This was exactly what he'd been waiting for—signs of weakness in his uncle's operation.
Dro had controlled The Jungle within months of his release, partly due to his own competence but mostly due to the incompetence of others as lengthy prison sentences and petty neighborhood feuds that had turned deadly had left the East Side Bloods with very few candidates even qualified to raise their hand to lead. Dro was eager and managed to do just that for the past decade, using the fractured gang’s nature to his own advantage by granting different cliques different areas of The Jungle. He of course kept the central areas to himself, free of rival neighborhood gangs and plenty of apartment complexes to run dope out of.
"Final count," Benji announced, his voice low but steady. "Eight thousand, four hundred and twenty-three."
Fat Stacks didn't react immediately. "And everyone brought the price down?" Fat Stacks finally asked.
Peanut nodded eagerly, his thin frame practically vibrating with nervous energy.
Fat Stacks smiled, the expression transforming his face from menacing to almost boyish for a fleeting moment. The numbers didn't lie. Even with the reduced prices, they were pulling in serious cash. The strategy was working exactly as he'd planned.
"Niggas noticing too," the third corner boy added, a stocky kid named Tyriq who rarely spoke unless spoken to. "It wasn’t just our regulars today at the spot, a bunch of new niggas too.”
Fat Stacks nodded slowly, savoring this information like fine whiskey. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of bills secured with a rubber band, peeling off several hundreds and distributing them to the three counters. "Y'all did good today."
The corner boys pocketed the money quickly, the extra bonus clearly unexpected. Fat Stacks rarely gave out anything beyond their standard cut.
"Listen up," Fat Stacks said, his voice dropping to a near whisper that somehow carried more weight than his usual bark. The three leaned in, sensing the importance of what was coming. "Starting tomorrow, we cutting prices another ten.”
Benji's eyes widened. "Another—" he started, but quickly caught himself. "I mean, yeah, okay. Whatever you say."
Fat Stacks continued as if he hadn't heard the interruption. "And serve wherever the fuck niggas trying to cop." He gestured vaguely toward the east, where his uncle's territory began in earnest. "Hillcrest, Potomac, Buckingham —I don't give a fuck. They got money, they get product."
Neighborhood.
Angela gonna be getting trains run on her by the bruhs by sophomore year. Nasty work