This how they gonna roll into her room. We see the vibes.
Neighborhood.
Neighborhood.
"So what do you guys think about the protest coming up?" Tamara asked, sprawling across the living room floor of their apartment, her dark curls falling over a textbook she'd abandoned twenty minutes ago. "I heard it's going to be even bigger than the one earlier this year.”
Judy looked up from her laptop, her glasses reflecting blue light. "I'm definitely going. I heard it got crazy last time." She shrugged. "But like, I'd go anyway."
Chloe, perched on the arm of the sofa, nodded enthusiastically. "For sure, I feel like not going is just as loud as going, you know? Like, which side are you on?”
Nadia sat perfectly still at the kitchen counter, her finger tracing the rim of her coffee mug, pondering whether Chloe’s statement was a direct shot at her or perhaps an innocent mistake of a roommate of only a few weeks. She'd been quiet during the entire conversation, her face a carefully composed mask of neutrality that betrayed nothing of the storm brewing beneath.
"I think I might," Nadia finally chimed in, her voice measured and even. She took a deliberate sip of her coffee, using the moment to gather her thoughts. "I've been following the organizing online."
"Really?" Chloe's eyebrows shot up. "I thought... I mean, aren't you...?"
"Jewish?" Nadia finished for her, arching one perfectly shaped eyebrow. She had her answer, it was a indeed shot across the bow. "Yes. And?"
The room fell into an awkward silence. Nadia mentally counted to three before continuing, maintaining her composure.
"Being Jewish doesn't automatically dictate my politics," she said, her tone preppy and detached, as if discussing something as mundane as a class assignment rather than something that had been gnawing at her since her political awakening a few years back.
Inside, Nadia's stomach was in knots. Her family would be devastated if they knew. They had survived so much, built a life here, a true American bootstraps story.
"That's... cool," Judy said cautiously. "I just remember you saying you weren't comfortable going to the last one."
Nadia shrugged with practiced nonchalance. "I've been doing more research. Reading different perspectives." What she didn't say was how she'd spent hours scrolling through social media, reading testimonies, arguing with herself.
She was a Jew in every sense of the word, having made the pilgrimage to Zion with her family more than she care to ever admit to any of her liberal friends. Her relatives back east in New York and Philadelphia attended temple religiously, a ruse that she’d be forced to carry out whenever they visited during the summer. Her grandmother encouraged her to find a ‘nice Jewish boy’ all the while her grandfather, Coach Bronstein, had built his legacy at Mater Dei, a Catholic school. It was this sort of duality and turmoil that Nadia, whose first name was Esther, was now forced to, as Chloe put it, pick a side.
…
The locker room buzzed with post-practice chatter as Keshawn grabbed an apple and banana from the metal basket. His muscles ached from the two-hour session, though not from exertion—more from the mechanical, half-hearted movements he'd been going through. He peeled the banana slowly, his mind elsewhere, barely registering the squeaking of shoes against the polished floor behind him.
"Your bitch left you or something?" Stefan's voice cut through Keshawn's thoughts.
Keshawn didn't turn around immediately, taking his time to finish peeling the banana. "What you talking about?”
Stefan leaned against the wall beside the snack table, arms crossed over his chest. His practice jersey was soaked with sweat, unlike Keshawn's barely damp one.
"You know exactly what I’m talking about. They had us running that high screen fifty times, and you were moving like you one of them white boys or something?" Stefan's Long Beach accent thickened when he was irritated. "I ain’t used to seeing those type of behavior from you, man.”
Keshawn took a deliberate bite of his banana, avoiding Stefan's gaze. "I guess, I hit the freshman wall or something, right?”
"Nah." Stefan shook his head. "You checking out on me, nigga.”
The locker room was emptying as players headed to the showers. A few lingered by their lockers, stealing glances at the conversation unfolding by the snack table.
"I don’t know why you coming at me," Keshawn said, keeping his voice low, "Not like you play defense or nothing. Ever.”
Stefan stepped closer. "I got a million dollar jump shot, nigga. The same way my defense ain’t what’s going to get me on the court is the same way you acting like you don’t give a fuck is going to keep you off it." His voice was direct but concerned.
Keshawn tossed the banana peel into the trash, his jaw clenching. "Whatever, bro.”
"Listen," Stefan said, lowering his voice and glancing around to make sure they weren't being overheard. "You being watched at all times, my nigga, that’s a fact.”
Keshawn started to turn away, but Stefan grabbed his arm, forcing him to make eye contact. Stefan released his grip and leaned in closer. "That redshirt is a trial run, my nigga. You think they won't cut your ass and bring in a transfer the second they decide you ain't worth the scholarship? UCLA got a waiting list of niggas begging to wear blue and gold."
The words hit Keshawn like a punch to the gut. He hadn't considered that possibility. "I ain’t come here to sit for a whole fucking year bro," he said, his voice losing some of its edge, “The whole reason I came here was because they said I would play and we’re not even halfway through the summer and they basically telling me I’m sorry as fuck or something.”
Stefan let out a bitter laugh. "They tell everybody that, nigga, how you think they’re going to come here? The way Cronin and them was talking, I thought I was going to average fifteen a game. I don’t think I even played fifteen minutes in a game all of last year."
Keshawn set his apple down, no longer hungry. The locker room had emptied except for them and a couple of walk-ons organizing gear in the corner.
"It’s just frustrated," Keshawn finally admitted. "It’d be one thing if they gave me a shot and I fucked it up but it’s like, the season ain’t even started yet and you’re already telling me that I can’t even compete?”
"College ball is frustrating," Stefan nodded. "You think I like being a catch-and-shoot guy? In Long Beach, I had the ball in my hands every possession. Now I'm lucky if Coach let me do a two dribble pull up without yanking my ass."
Keshawn leaned against the wall, suddenly exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with practice.
“When they need a stop against Kobe, Eric, who they switch onto them?” Stefan asked, making eye contact with his roommate, forcing him to crack a smile, “Exactly, nigga.”
“That shit fucked me up bro, I’m not going to lie to you,” Keshawn found himself being brutally honest with a teammate he’d only known intimately for a few weeks.
“They watching you, bro,” Stefan reminded him, “Show these motherfuckers who you be and how you dougie, my nigga.”
…
The dinner rush had finally slowed to a trickle at New Panda Buffet, giving Vic a chance to wipe down the sticky tables near the window. He moved methodically from table to table, his black apron dotted with duck sauce from a particularly messy party of four that had just left.
"I know that ain’t who I think it is."
Vic recognized the voice immediately and turned to see Tasha leaning against the hostess stand, her long braids cascading over one shoulder. She wore a form-fitting dress that hugged every curve, her lips shimmering with gloss under the restaurant's dim lighting.
"What’s up, Tasha," Vic said, continuing to wipe the table. "I didn’t know you fucked with the Chinese like that.”
"I fuck with a lot of things," she replied, sauntering over to where he stood. She slid into a booth, crossing her legs slowly.
Vic glanced at his watch. "The buffet closed a few minutes ago but I can get you a menu."
"I’m good for now," Tasha said, her fingernails tapping a rhythm on the tabletop. "Heard you was working down here is all, wanted to see for myself I guess. I thought you would have ran off to Washington with her, to be honest.”
Vic's jaw tightened slightly. He tossed the rag over his shoulder and faced her directly. "She’s doing her thing, I’m doing mine.”
"I’m sure she is," Tasha tilted her head, studying him. "They call that bitch Chocolate City, you know that, right?”
"I know that, yes," Vic said evenly. "And I know we talk every night."
While Tasha’s intentions and aim lacked in subtlety, they were abundantly clear. Whatever Vic’s shortcomings were as a short, community college attendee that bused tables at various local restaurant, he was a warm-blooded Black man without a criminal record, no documented gang ties, a paying job and no reputation of hitting or abusing women. Men like him, in The Jungle, were worth their weight in gold.
Tasha leaned forward, her perfume wafting toward him—something sweet and heavy. "You’re trying to save up to visit her?”
Vic shrugged. "Maybe. What's it to you?"
"Just curious," she smiled, her eyes never leaving his face. "A man working that hard, he deserves some... appreciation. I don’t know if Ang really appreciate you, Vic, you’re a good man.”
"She appreciated me plenty," Vic caught himself. "She appreciates me.”
Tasha laughed, a melodic sound that drew the attention of a nearby table. "She’s like a hundred states away.”
"That don’t mean nothing," Vic replied, his voice dropping lower. "Nothing has changed just because she moved to pursue her dreams."
“Where does that leave you?” Tasha scoffed, shaking her head as she stood up, “If you can’t see that you deserve better, maybe you don’t.”
…
Quincy scratched at his neck as he paced the cracked sidewalk outside the liquor store, keeping one eye on the street corner. The ten-dollar bill in his pocket felt like it was burning a hole through the thin fabric of his jeans—not nearly enough for what he needed, but it was all he had after a day of scavenging and trading.
"Come on, come on," he muttered, checking his watch for the third time in as many minutes. Withdrawal was setting in, his skin crawling like it was host to a thousand invisible insects.
"Quincy?" a voice called out, squinting in the afternoon sun. "That you?”
He hesitated before approaching, sizing her up. It was Debra. "Hey, Deb. Wasn't expecting to see you around here."
Debra sniffed, pushing back her stringy hair. The tight leopard-print top she wore hung off her bony shoulders, revealing collarbones that jutted like coat hangers. "Looking for Ray. You seen him?"
"Nah," Quincy replied, shifting his weight. "Been waiting on him myself."
They stood in uncomfortable silence, two planets orbiting the same miserable sun. Quincy glanced at Debra's purse, noticing how she clutched it close to her side. She caught his look and narrowed her eyes.
"How much you got?" she finally asked.
"Ten," he admitted. "You?"
"Fifteen," she said, then hesitated. "Maybe we could pool together? I know another spot."
Quincy weighed his options quickly. Debra was a free spirit, a quick footed woman that would readily leave you in a compromising situation if you weren’t careful.
"Yeah, alright," he nodded. "Your car work?"
"Long as we don't go too far," she said with a harsh laugh. "Gas light's been on for two days."
Twenty minutes later, they were back in Debra's living room, the blinds drawn tight against the fading daylight. The house smelled of stale cigarettes and something sour underneath. Dirty dishes were piled in the sink visible from the doorway, and clothes were scattered across the furniture.
Debra cleared a space on the coffee table, pushing aside empty beer cans and old magazines. Her hands trembled as she unwrapped the small packet they'd purchased, revealing three whitish rocks that caught the dim light.
"This is better than what Ray-Ray's been selling anyway," she said, her voice taking on an excited edge as she reached for her pipe, “That boy Peanut a little weird but I don’t mind.”
“He just wants to fuck you,” Quincy joked, never taking his eyes off the pipe as he allowed Debra, who had put up most of the money, to take a hit.
Debra inhaled deeply, her gaunt cheeks hollowing further as she drew the smoke into her lungs. She held it there, eyes closing in momentary bliss before exhaling a thick cloud that danced in the dim light filtering through the ratty curtains.
"You know what's fucked up?" she said, passing the pipe to Quincy with fingers that trembled slightly. "Angela being gone is the best damn thing that's happened to me in years."
Quincy took the pipe, the warm glass familiar against his calloused fingertips. He lit it carefully, watching the rock melt and bubble before taking his hit.
"How you figure?" he asked, his voice strained as he held the smoke in his chest, “I still miss my babies.”
Debra leaned back against the threadbare couch, a strange smile playing across her cracked lips. "Man, fuck that. That bitch was always judging me, asking me if I was high when she knew good and goddamn well that I was. What’s it to her anyway? I raised her good, kept her in school and she now at that fancy fucking college in D.C. Why? Because of me, goddamn it. Now, I can do whatever the fuck I want, how it always should have been.”
She laughed, the sound hollow and brittle. "Last week? I smoked right here on this couch at two in the afternoon with the windows open. Felt like the goddamn Queen of England."
Last edited by Soapy on 25 Mar 2025, 11:38, edited 1 time in total.
Neighborhood.
Keshawn bet not go nowhere near Esther 
Neighborhood.
The glass doors slid open to the balcony overlooking the Pacific, letting in the salty ocean breeze that immediately filled the spacious living room. Tommy tossed his keys onto the granite kitchen counter with a casual flick of his wrist.
Stefan whistled as he wandered through the open-concept living space, running his fingers along the expensive furniture. "This is how y’all niggas living? I picked the wrong family to be born into."
Keshawn stood quietly by the entrance, taking in the view of the ocean through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The house was perched on a small cliff, giving an unobstructed panorama of the waves crashing against the shore below. It was worlds away from the neighborhood.
"Yo, Ke, you good?" Stefan called out, already rummaging through the refrigerator. "Don't just stand there, nigga. You is a house nigga now, Toby.”
"Shit,” Keshawn shook his head, still in dismay of the beach house which was not even Tommy’s parents but his older brother’s. He could only wonder what theirs looked like.”
Stefan emerged from the kitchen with three beer bottles. "Your brother is cool with us drinking his shit, right?”
"By the time he comes back from Cabo, he probably won’t even remember what he left in here. Just don't break anything worth more than your scholarship," Tommy warned, accepting a bottle. "As long as we clean up after ourselves, he doesn’t mind it.”
Keshawn hesitated before taking the offered beer. The first week of training had been brutal - the coaching staff had pushed them to their limits, skirting the NCAA rules around how many hours they could work them during the summer by instituting player led workouts that were only optional in name. Between the early morning shootarounds and the morning strength training, they’d easily log hours and hours of uncounted training hours before the start of the official timer and when practice ended, it was pretty common for some of the older players to organize a pickup game after wards.
"To surviving week one," Tommy proposed, raising his bottle.
They clinked bottles, and Keshawn took a small sip, trying not to wince at the bitter taste of the imported beer.
Stefan wandered out onto the balcony, spreading his arms wide as if embracing the ocean itself. "The beach be cracking at night?”
"Yeah, technically it's part of the property," Tommy replied, following him outside. "My brother usually takes clients golfing at the course up the road. There's a pretty decent nine-hole about ten minutes from here."
Keshawn leaned against the railing, feeling the cool metal against his forearms as he gazed at the horizon. This was exactly what he needed—peace, quiet, and distance from the relentless first week of camp.
"Golf?" Stefan's face scrunched up in disgust. "Man, I ain’t Tiger Woods.”
Tommy rolled his eyes. "It's going to be fun, bro, trust me.”
"Hold up." Stefan's eyes suddenly lit up with mischievous energy. He paced the balcony, gesturing wildly with his beer bottle. "You telling me we got this whole house to ourselves for the weekend? Private beach access? No neighbors close enough to complain?"
Keshawn recognized that look immediately and felt his stomach tighten. While he had never golfed, he was looking forward to a weekend away from it all, even the finer things that came with the college life.
"This whole deck needs to have some bitches on there," Stefan continued, already pulling out his phone. "You know how many hoes I done fucked just by bringing them to the pier? Now, we bring them here? That shit is going to be too easy, my nigga.”
"I’m not trying to lose access to this spot over some bitches," Tommy said, his voice rising an octave. "My brother would kill me if anything happened to this place."
"Nothing's gonna happen," Stefan insisted, already typing furiously. "Ain’t like I’m going to invite some ignorant ass niggas or nothing. Some niggas from the team, a couple hoes, just a good time.”
Tommy hesitated, taking a long pull from his beer. Keshawn could see his resolve weakening.
"My brother's liquor cabinet is off-limits," Tommy finally said, his tone suggesting this was a major concession.
Stefan pumped his fist triumphantly. "Yes! That's cool. Everyone brings their own anyway."
"And nobody—absolutely nobody—goes in my brother's room or office," Tommy added firmly.
"Done deal," Stefan agreed, already back to his phone.
By early evening, the peaceful oceanfront property had transformed. What had started as Stefan's "small gathering" had mushroomed into something much larger. Cars lined the curved driveway, and music pulsed through speakers that someone had brought along. The balcony was crowded with bodies—basketball players and their friends, girls Stefan had invited, and people Keshawn didn't recognize at all.
Keshawn leaned against the kitchen counter, nursing the same beer he'd opened an hour ago. He watched as Stefan held court near the sliding doors, surrounded by a group of giggling girls hanging on his every word.
"You really don’t like parties, do you?" a voice said beside him.
Keshawn turned to find Tommy approaching with a tall girl in tow. She had caramel-colored skin and wore her curly hair pulled back in a high ponytail. Her simple white tank top and denim shorts somehow looked more put-together than the elaborate outfits most other girls at the party were sporting.
“Not really,” Keshawn told Tommy, unable to keep his lingering eye off of Alexis, which Tommy quickly picked up on.
"Rook, this is Alexis. We went to high school together. She goes to Pepperdine now," Tommy said, gesturing between them. "You almost went there, right?”
"Yeah," Keshawn replied, extending his hand. "Nice to meet you."
Alexis took it with a firm grip. "Seems like you made the wrong decision then." She smiled, but her eyes remained evaluating.
Keshawn took a sip of his warm beer, searching for something to say. “How’s Pepperdine? You like it?”
“It’s okay,” she shrugged, “What, are you about to ask me what’s my major?”
Keshawn blushed. He was.
“You basketball guys have no game,” Alexis scoffed, nudging Tommy with her elbow, “Let’s get something to eat, I’m starving.”
Keshawn just stood there as Tommy and Alexis walked away, unsure if he was invited to their latest escapade. Their was a warmth between them — Tommy and Alexis — a familiarity that seemed to balance between genuine friendship and intimacy, sexual in nature. Maybe that was the reason for the awkward interaction as it left Keshawn genuinely puzzled.
He wandered around, debating whether to retreat to his room for the weekend and call it a night. With the music blaring, he’d have a hard time doing anything in his room anyway and thought better of it, replacing the beer that was in his hand instead. When Keshawn’s head rose from the fridge door, he spotted her almost instantly.
Gloria was among the sea of faces sitting on the chairs in the balcony, all encircling Stefan who never seemed to run out of stories or jokes to tell. Keshawn had seen her around campus a few times, exchanging the cordial head nod but nothing beyond that, nothing that revealed the moments they had shared that night during his recruiting visit. Keshawn hadn’t made much of it. After all, he was a recruit on an official visit, that’s what was supposed to happen.
Keshawn steadied himself, tightened his grip on his fresh beer, and made his way toward the balcony. The crowd parted slightly as he moved through—his height commanding a certain respect even among the intoxicated partygoers. Stefan caught his eye and gave him a knowing nod as he approached Gloria.
"Mind if I sit?" Keshawn asked, gesturing to the empty space beside her on the cushioned bench.
Gloria looked up, surprise flickering across her face before settling into a guarded smile. "Of course, go ahead," she replied, shifting slightly to make room.
The bench was small enough that their thighs touched when he sat down. Keshawn felt the warmth of her leg against his, bringing back memories of their night together during his recruiting visit.
"How you been?" he asked, struggling to be heard over the bass-heavy music without shouting directly in her ear.
"Good," Gloria said with a slight nod. "Busy with summer classes, I’m sure it’s the same for you.”
Keshawn nodded, taking a swig of his beer to buy himself time. A gust of wind blew in from the ocean, causing Gloria to wrap her arms around herself. Keshawn hesitated, then spoke. "Look, I wanted to apologize about last time. I know I was kind of... distracted."
Gloria's eyebrows rose slightly. "Oh? You seemed pretty focused to me." There was a teasing edge to her voice that made Keshawn's neck feel warm.
"Nah, I mean after. I didn't really follow up or anything." He stared out at the dark ocean, finding it easier than meeting her eyes. "I had a lot on my mind with deciding where to go to school and everything."
Gloria studied him for a moment, her expression softening. "It's cool. I get it. Big life decisions and all that."
"Yeah," Keshawn agreed, relieved. "But still, I should've at least texted or something."
She shrugged. "Maybe. But I'm not the type to chase after somebody who's not showing interest." She took a sip from her cup. "Besides, I figured you were just doing what y’all niggas do.”
Her directness caught him off guard. "It wasn't like that."
"No?" She tilted her head, studying him. "Then what was it like?"
Before Keshawn could respond, Tommy’s booming voice cut through their conversation.
"What the fuck!" Tommy's voice erupted from the kitchen, sharp enough to slice through the throbbing bass line.
Keshawn turned toward the commotion, his conversation with Gloria instantly forgotten. The anger in Tommy's voice wasn't the typical party complaint – it carried genuine fury.
"I should probably check that out," Keshawn said, already rising from the bench.
Gloria nodded, her expression caught between concern and disappointment at their interrupted moment. "Yeah, sounds like someone's about to get their ass beat."
Keshawn made his way through the crowd as Stefan appeared at his side, drawn by the same disruption. The music continued pounding, but a ripple of attention had begun shifting toward the kitchen. They pushed through the final barrier of bodies to find Tommy standing in the kitchen, his face contorted with rage. Shattered glass glittered across the expensive marble floor like diamonds on black velvet. A puddle of amber liquid spread outward from the broken bottle, the strong smell of top-shelf whiskey permeating the air.
"Everyone get the fuck out!" Tommy was shouting, pointing at a sheepish-looking guy in a UCLA sweatshirt who stood frozen near the liquor cabinet. "That was my brother's fucking Macallan! Do you have any idea how much that fucking costs?"
Alexis stood beside Tommy, her hand on his arm in what appeared to be a restraining gesture. Her eyes flicked toward Keshawn as he entered, something unreadable passing across her face.
"Calm down, man," Stefan said, stepping forward and surveying the damage with casual indifference. "It's just a bottle. We'll replace it before your brother gets back."
Tommy's eyes bulged. "That shit costs eight hundred dollars! And I specifically said the liquor cabinet was off-limits!"
Stefan waved dismissively. "So we'll all chip in. No big deal, man. We ain’t gotta ruin the vibes over a bottle, my nigga."
"No, that's not the point," Tommy insisted, his voice rising. "This shit was supposed to be just for us, man.”
Alexis stepped closer to Tommy as she spoke up in agreement. "Do we even know who’s in here? They might steal some shit for all we know.”
Stefan rolled his eyes. "Ain’t nobody gonna steal shit, Miss Lady. It’s a fucking party, a bottle might fucking break and I already we going to take care of that, aight?”
"This shit is getting out of hand," Keshawn finally spoke up, “Tommy looked out for us, it’d be fucked up if we fucked him over like this.”
"Man, fuck this," Stefan sucked this, “He acting like a bitch, Keshawn.”
"Nigga, it’s his brother’s crib," Keshawn shrugged, “You ain’t going to fuck on nothing tonight anyway with your girl here, might as well call it.”
Stefan held Keshawn's gaze for a long moment, the muscles in his jaw working. Then, surprisingly, he let out a small laugh.
“Fuck you, nigga,” he smiled. He turned to the crowd that had gathered. "Y'all heard the man. Party's over. Everybody out. For real."
The collective groan of disappointment rippled through the room, but people began to move. Stefan clapped his hands loudly. "Let's go! Grab your shit and bounce. Any of you niggas steal anything, I’m putting foot to ass when I found out!”
As the crowd began to disperse, Keshawn caught Alexis watching him from beside Tommy. Her expression had changed completely—the cool assessment replaced by something warmer, more interested.
Neighborhood.
Aht aht aht! That’s his homie’s bitch. He better stick to from the river to the sea.
Neighborhood.
Neighborhood.
Fat Stacks drummed his fingers against the scarred wooden table, the rhythm matching the thumping bass from the car outside. The abandoned warehouse on Gibraltar Ave had become their regular spot for meetings—just enough broken windows to let the smoke out, just enough intact walls to keep nosy motherfuckers from seeing in.
"Aight, this is the move right here," Stacks announced, his gold grill catching the light as he leaned forward. "Y'all about to get active, you understand me? I want y’all niggas re-upping twice a week now. Tuesdays and Fridays. If you need more between that, don’t hesitate to come find me, ring me up and we’ll get you more."
Peanut raised an eyebrow. "That's a lot of product to move, Stacks."
"That's the whole motherfuckin' point." Stacks slapped him on the shoulder with the back of his hand. "More product, more paper. Simple as that."
Benji nodded eagerly. "I'm with it, always more niggas that need more shit.”
"Ain't just about your regular blocks no more," Stacks continued, “Like I told y’all, I need y’all niggas stepping anywhere to whoever has some motherfucking money for this shit.”
Tyriq crossed his arms. "We hear you but a couple of niggas already got ran off Hillcrest last week. They ain’t do nothing to him for real but you know how those little niggas get when a nigga flash that iron on them.”
Fat Stacks' laugh filled the warehouse. "Them niggas ain’t gonna do shit, believe me. Make sure y’all flagging, make sure y’all set tripping at all motherfucking times, you understand me? Ain’t no one going to do nothing to you if they know you with me.”
If they had any hesitations, they didn’t show it as they nodded along, picking up their respective bags and dapping up Fat Stacks on their way out. Benji, the oldest, lingered behind.
“You got that new connect yet?” he asked, Fat Stacks having confided in him at least part of the plan a few weeks ago.
“Not yet,” Stacks answered, “But I got to get ready first, make sure we have the means to handle the volume.”
“For sure,” Benji nodded before dapping him up, “You really about to take this shit over?”
“You already know it, Blood.”
…
Angela flipped another page of "The New Jim Crow" by Michelle Alexander, her highlighter poised between her fingers even though she'd already marked up nearly every paragraph during her first two read-throughs.
She checked her phone: 9:47 PM. The library would close at midnight, and she'd stretched her actual homework as far as it could go. Now she was just killing time, avoiding the walk back to her empty dorm room where the silence felt heavier than any textbook.
"You trying to memorize that whole thing or what?"
Angela looked up to see James, a junior from her African American Studies class, nodding toward her book as he adjusted his backpack strap.
"Something like that," she replied, closing the book but keeping her finger between the pages. "Just reviewing some points for the quiz.”
James chuckled. "Girl, you already got the highest grade in that class. Wilson be calling on you when nobody else knows the answer."
Angela shrugged, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Can't ever know too much about our struggle.”
"True that." James glanced at his watch. "You heading to that BSU meeting tomorrow?”
Angela shook her head, “I don’t know, seems more like a party thing from how the last meeting went. Not really my vibe.”
“Even Malcolm shook his ass at some point,” James teased, “All good, though, see you around.”
After James left, Angela pulled out her phone again, scrolling through her messages. Nothing from Vic since this morning. She typed out a quick text—"Hope your day went well. Love you."—then deleted it before sending. Pride was a hell of a thing.
Her finger hovered over her mother's contact. The last time they'd spoken, her mom had sounded high, voice drifting and sentences trailing off into nothing. Angela had hung up after ten minutes of one-sided conversation, promising herself she wouldn't call again until her mom was clean.
That was two months ago.
The library announcement system chimed softly, reminding students that the second floor would be closing in fifteen minutes. Angela gathered her books slowly, arranging them in her backpack with unnecessary precision. Outside, the summer night carried an unfamiliar breeze for Angela, the wind cutting through her jacket as she'd walk the fifteen minutes back to her dorm.
But the cold was better than the emptiness waiting for her there.
…
The UCLA dining hall buzzed with the usual late night chatter, students crowding around tables with trays of food that ranged from edible to questionable as they refused to go gentle into that good night. Keshawn navigated through the maze of bodies, his height giving him the advantage of spotting open seats before anyone else. He'd just finished picking up his tray—a double portion of grilled chicken, brown rice, and steamed broccoli—when he saw her.
She stood in the salad line, her golden-blonde hair flowed in loose, beachy waves, sunlit and effortlessly carefree. She wore a plain white t-shirt tucked into high-waisted jeans, simple gold hoops in her ears. Nothing flashy, but she stood out to Keshawn like a beacon in the chaotic cafeteria.
He hesitated, tray in hand, debating whether to approach. Coach Bronstein's granddaughter had barely acknowledged him since their brief encounters at his house, not even the courteous smile when they crossed paths on campus, familiarity evident in their stolen glances. But something about her pulled at him—maybe the quiet intensity in her eyes or the way she seemed to exist slightly apart from everything around her.
Before he could overthink it, his feet were already moving.
"Hey, Nadia, right?" Keshawn said, trying to sound casual despite the sudden tightness in his throat.
She looked up, recognition flickering in her eyes, though not the kind that suggested she was particularly thrilled to see him. "Yeah. You're on my grandfather's team."
"Keshawn," he supplied, though part of him wondered if she already knew that. "Not anymore, obviously.”
He paused, overthinking his words. “I’m still Keshawn, I’m just not on Coach Bronstein’s team anymore. Because I’m here, obviously.”
"Right." She nodded, moving her tray along the salad bar and adding a small portion of chickpeas to her plate. "How's that going?”
"Good, I guess. A lot easier than working out with your grandfather, I’ll tell you that.”
A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "That sounds like him." She glanced over Keshawn's shoulder, her posture shifting subtly.
He opened his mouth to continue the conversation but she was already gone, grabbing some napkins from the nearby dispenser and walking towards a group of girls sitting at a table.
He watched as she crossed the dining hall, sliding into a seat among three other girls who immediately leaned in, their conversation animated. One of them—a tall girl with box braids and oversized glasses—kept glancing in his direction, saying something that made the others turn to look.
Keshawn pretended not to notice, focusing instead on finding his own table.
“He’s a looker,” one of her roommates, Tamara, teased Nadia as Keshawn disappeared into the other side of the dining hall.
“Yeah, right,” she scoffed, suddenly interested in the chickpeas on her plate, “What are we watching after this?”