CHAPTER 11
MAGNETIC
The block softened under a wet spring glow. The ground stayed soaked from rain that never seemed too far behind, and the sidewalks smelled of concrete waking back up. It was spring of ’95, and the mob war been tearing through the city since '93, making every hot night feel like a threat.
When you’re little, the ‘hood is a playground. But I started picking up on things that used to blend into the background. See, the block had always been teaching me things. But now I was old enough to start understanding the lessons.
I could see Mia already starting to drift. We was killing time on the curb, and Mia signaled toward the corner with a subtle tilt of her chin.
“You eva notice how dey always got money?”
My gaze shifted to Peanut, who was laughing with two other hustlers. His hands was busy shuffling a large stack of money like he was counting out playing cards.
“Yeah,” I threw out with a casual shrug, letting it land like it didn't mean a thing to me, because it didn’t.
“They don’t even gotta work.” her eyes flashing with restless energy.
“Girl, that is work.” I scrunched my face up.
“That’s not a job.” She replied.
“Looks like one to me.”
The hunger in her voice made my throat go dry. Obsession was raging in her eyes. Mia had a deep-rooted fascination with the way they commanded the block.
“You see dat car?” She said through a smirk, signaling to a brand-new black Lexus creeping past the block.
“Tone copped dat last week.”
“And how you even know dat?”
“Everybody know.”
She chased the ghost on wheels with her eyes until it cut a sharp turn and left the block behind.
“Dat’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout,” she murmured.
I kept my mouth shut.
The hustlers possessed the holy trinity of the streets; cash, cars, and a fear-based respect. And that type of heavy-handed power is a magnet for kids who spent their whole lives in the slums.
I started spending more time at Mia’s crib just so I could breathe.
Our house was nothing but a pressure cooker of drama lately.
Shay and Mama constantly at each other. Shay slipping away for hours and coming home with no explanation.
It was like she was trying to block out the real world.
Everyone except Nico. He was there every day, parked right out front in that stupid Mustang that reeked of trouble. Mia whistled low beside me.
“Shay movin’ up in tha world.”
I cut my eyes at her,
“Dat ain’t funny.”
“Why not?”
“Cuz Mama gon’ lose her mind.”
Mia shrugged it off.
“Yo’ sista grown.”
“She fourteen.”
“Exactly.”
You could hear the envy vibrating in her tone.
“Plus, everybody respect Nico. He a boss.”
“That ain’t respect,” I snapped back, my voice dripping with attitude. Mia cocked her head to the side,
“Well… whatchu call it?”
I didn't have a response for her. In my city, there was no difference between someone respecting your name and someone being terrified of it.
Philly woke up with a Memorial Day hangover.
Red Solo cups and crumpled paper plates from yesterday's cookouts was plastered to the asphalt, and the metallic tang of spent sparklers hung heavy in the humid air.
The ‘hood was quiet, that heavy, day after silence where the only sound was the distant whoosh of the train and the rhythmic slap-slap of a loose screen door.
We stayed on the stoop until the sun dipped behind the row homes, giving us a front-row seat to the corner’s real rhythm.
Black Mike was posted up by a silver Acura, his head dipped low as he whispered to someone inside, while Peanut and two others kept their hands busy with dice near the payphone.
They was laughing, but their focus was elsewhere, scanning every car that rolled by.
A man stepped up and mumbled something quick, Peanut answered with a single nod.
A lightning-fast hand-to-hand exchange, and the dude vanished into the block like he was never there.
The whole trade taking less time than a deep breath.
Mia leaned in, her eyes narrowing as she locked into the hustle.
“You see dat?”
“Yeah.” I answered back with a dismissive nonchalance.
“Dat’s crazy.”
“What is?”
She motioned toward the corner, signaling me to watch the money and the shadows trade places.
“Dey make money fasta than anybody I know. And dey make a lot of it.”
I shifted uncomfortably on the rough concrete.
“You eva think about how they got there?”
Mia gave a careless shrug.
“Yeah, they smart.”
“No,” I spoke under my breath.
“They trapped.”
She frowned.
“How you figure dat?”
I flicked my chin toward the corner.
“You eva see them leave? They out there all day, everyday.”
Mia let the thought settle in. Some things was so loud they didn't need an answer.
The block ain’t just raise us, growing up here was an education in survival.
Daily, we sat on those stoops and decoded the laws of the land.
Some lessons was silent but the teachings was constant.
Who to look up to, who to avoid, and the distinct taste of fear versus the solid ground of respect.
You start picking your path way before you even old enough to handle the consequences.
Watching Mia study the corner like it was her destiny made me realize the clock was ticking. The block was done waiting. It was actively scouting, testing our strength to see which one of us was going to cave.
I spent years looking back at that corner, recalling how the kids treated the hustlers like gods. It was only a matter of time before my brothers, Sinceer and Saiyd, was standing right where we was.
SPOTLIGHT
The world was a mix of historic scientific breakthroughs, intense summer heat, and the peak of '90s pop culture.
It was a typical July heat, with temperatures hanging in the high 80s and the humidity thick enough to wear.
‘Waterfalls’ by TLC was the undisputed anthem, blasting from every open window and passing car.
I was trapped in my own neighborhood drama. You know, that moment when the block stops seeing a playmate and starts seeing a woman, and there’s no going back to chasing fireflies.
We was coming back from the corner store, fingers stained red from Hot Cheetos.
The block was a sensory overload. The greasy perfume of fried chicken drifting from the open kitchen windows.
Dice hitting the sidewalk and the ol’ heads talking trash.
CoCo’s little crybaby brother screaming after he fell off his bike.
The block was hot, a spotlight I didn't want.
Five hustlers was posted up against a green Buick, they had all day to kill. A crew of familiar faces and new arrivals all trying to claim a piece of the block. Seeing them eye us with those slow, calculated smirks made me realize exactly why Mama hated them.
As me and Mia strolled by, their chatter died down to a low hum.
I could feel their stares sticking to us.
My heart was hammering against my ribs, so I kept my head down, counting the cracks in the concrete.
Mia was on a different vibe, stepping with confidence making the pavement her runway.
At eleven, she moved with a calculated rhythm that was way beyond her years.
She knew all eyes was on her and she leaned into it.
One of the dudes, light-skinned with a lopsided smile, leaned toward his friends.
His voice dropped, but he made sure we heard exactly what he had to say.
“Yo’ she gon’ be bad when she get a lil’ older. Look at shorty.”
They laughed under their breath, and one of them let out a whistle that made my skin crawl. I kept my head ducked, my legs moving fast while my heart thudded in my throat like a trapped bird. Once we finally put enough distance between us and them, she bumped my arm, pulling me back to reality.
“You hear dat?” She whispered.
I gave a sharp, wordless nod, keeping my eyes locked on the pavement.
“Dat means you growin’ up, Summer,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Even they can see it.”
I took a hard swallow,
“Dat’s not a good thing.”
Mia shrugged.
“It ain’t a bad thing either. But you gotta be careful now.”
That word was a weight more suffocating than the Philly humidity.
Careful. It was a key part of our survival manual.
Be careful how you walk, careful how you talk, and careful who you choose to trust.
Trust was a luxury we couldn't afford, especially when the block never blinks and never forgets a face.
That night I sat on the stoop with Shay while the city buzzed under us.
The air had cooled slightly, but the pavement still held the warmth from the day.
At fourteen, Shay was already pushing the limits, set in a defiant mode that screamed she was ready for the world to notice her.
She had her hair smooth under a silk scarf as she stared down the street, the city lights reflecting in her eyes.
“You betta watch ya’self,” she said suddenly. Her eyes stayed on the corner as she spoke.
“I seen tha way they look at you.”
My face a silent protest against the truth that was written all over the street.
“You still a baby,” she pressed forward,
“But they don’t care.”
I shifted uncomfortably, the rough concrete of the stoop suddenly was digging right through my jeans.
“They look at you too.”
A sharp smirk cut across her face.
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“Cuz I know how ta handle it.” Her voice carried an edge of experience like she was already living the life she was talking about.
“You don’t,” she added.
“You soft, Summer. You trust people too easy.”
Her words cut deep, but I could tell she wasn't trying to hurt me. She was putting me up on game before the block did it for her.
“Jus’ stay close to Mia,” She took a breath, her eyes tracking a car as it drifted past,
“At least she can fight.”
A slow, heavy nod was all I could manage. I guess that was a white flag. Her way of telling me that the streets had already swallowed her whole, leaving me to survive on my own.
Mama missed it all though, her mind was cluttered with the grinding reality of survival.
She still played the role, yelling about curfews and the warnings about if I started ‘acting like Shay.’
But the real changes slipped right past her.
She didn't see the older dudes on the corner tracking my walk or the way I would linger in the mirror, trying to find the woman they was already seeing.