CHAPTER 12 #2
“Close dat door!” Tina’s voice tore through the house.
A line started forming before she opened the door. Same people. Same spots. Mr. Jenkin’s leaning off to the side, pretending he wasn’t waiting. A couple dudes from the corner posted up.
“You open yet?” One of the regulars called out from the line.
“Ina minute!” Tina shot back. Her voice carried. Always did.
When she finally stepped outside everyone rushed toward her.
“Aight, damn! Don’t knock me ova’,” she broadcasted, holding up her hand.
“I got enough fa everybody.”
That wasn’t true. It never was. It sounded good though. Orders started coming fast.
“Two whiting!”
“Lemme get a platter!”
“Extra fries!”
“No, not dat piece—dat one!”
Tina moved quick. Hands steady. Dropping fish, flipping it, pulling it out golden. Seasoning heavy. Fries piled high. Bread on the side.
“Next!”
she called out, her voice echoing off the bricks.
Posted on our stoop, I watched the rhythm of the street. Strangers from the same block was rubbing elbows in the wait. The joy was contagious once the food started moving and the chaos of the city seemed to pause.
Mama was at work, so Shay was in charge. Which meant she wasn’t. She stood off to the side with her friends, laughing, barely paying attention to us. She reached into her pocket and pulled out some folded bills.
“Here,” she said, pressing the money into my hand.
“Go get tha food.”
Those were her exact words. No instructions. No count. Pure trust. Or maybe she just didn’t want to deal with it. I looked down at the money, smoothing it out in my palm.
“Don’t let her play you either,” she added, turning back to her conversation. I grabbed Sincere and Saiyd.
“Come on.”
It was weird standing there without Mama. I had to get it right. The closer we got, the louder it felt. Orders flying. Grease popping. People talking over each other. Tina stood behind the table, not missing nothing. When it was our turn, I stepped up.
“Four platters please,” I made my request. Her focus shifted to me, fast and suspicious.
“Whitin’ or perch?”
“Whitin’,” I answered.
She nodded, while turning dropping fish into the grease. Saiyd leaned forward, eyes locked on the food.
“Mmmm, dat smell good,” he whispered.
“Boy back up,” I told him, pulling him a little behind me.
He ain’t listen all the way. He could grab a piece straight out the pan if nobody was looking.
Tina pulled the fish out golden, laid it on paper towels that soaked through quick. Fries went down next, oil popping louder now, heat rising up in waves.
“You want hot sauce?” she asked, not looking at me.
“Yes, ma’am,” I confirmed.
She glanced up,
“Aight.”
She stacked the plates heavy, fish, fries spilling over the sides, bread tucked in, everything wrapped tight in foil.
“Twenty-seven,” she blurted.
I unfolded the money, counting it twice in my head before handing it over. She took it, no questions asked.
“Aight, you good,” she said, passing me the plates.
I spun around smooth, balancing all four. That heat was heavy, punching right through the silver wrap. The grease was already making its mark on the bag.
“Don’t drop it,” Saiyd teased, walking too close.
“I’m not,” I snapped.
“You jus’ watch out.”
We made it up the steps, with me holding it all steady. That tiny win carried a burden I couldn't name. Shay walked over, finally paying attention.
“Took you long enough,” she mouthed, reaching for a plate.
“Well, you coulda went,” I shot back.
She smirked.
“Yeah… I coulda.”
She took her food and went back to her friends, like that was her only job. I handed the twins theirs, sitting down with mine. I peeled the foil back slow, steam hit my face. Saiyd was already eating, fries half gone before I took my first bite.
“Yo’ slow down,” I told him.
“I am,” he mumbled, mouth full.
Sinceer ate quieter, like he wanted it to last.
Sitting there with that plate in my hand, I felt like I took care of business.
The sun dropped slow, and the line stayed.
People eating on steps, on curbs, standing in small groups.
Grease on their fingers, stories moving between them, like nothing else mattered.
And Tina just kept going. Running the whole thing like it was hers.
And it was. Fridays on our block belonged to Tina.
For those few hours, nobody cared about nothing else.
Not the gossip. Not the struggles. Not what was falling apart behind closed doors.
Just hot food and full hands. That was Fridays on my block, and that was enough.
BLOSSOM
The block was thinning out. One by one, the familiar faces was being traded for court dates and bus rides to Upstate.
The ‘94 Clinton laws didn't just build prisons, they tore holes in our city.
Every time I looked up, another blue-and-white cruiser was crawling past.
They wasn't hunting crack nomore, they was just hunting.
Spring of ’96 was in full swing, the scent of blooming sycamores, the sun warm on my skin.
A soft May breeze ruffled the pages of the magazine in Shay’s lap.
Sixteen looked good on her, too good, Mama would say.
Her hips had curved out and she carried herself with a confidence that made boys lose track of whatever they were saying when she walked by.
She belonged somewhere bigger than our block.
But the block loved her anyway. Sometimes too much.
I sat beside her, soaking in a lesson that wasn't in any textbook at school.
“Quit starin’ at people,” she insinuated without looking at me.
“I ain’t.”
“Please, you always starin’.” Shay popped her gum and flicked her eyes toward the corner.
“So which one of dem is yo type?
My stomach pulled tight.
“Whatchu mean?”
Shay pointed a manicured nail toward the corner.
“Peep tha runners,” she muttered.
“Dey rookies, constantly lookin’ ova dey shoulda fa tha blue-and-whites. Dey tha front line. Dey take tha heat while tha real money stays inside.”
I leaned back against the brick, pretending I was uninterested. But I was memorizing her every word. Shay leaned in close, her voice a low hum.
“Den you got tha scrappas. Dey don't stick ta one block. Dey move in tha shadows, blendin’ into tha working-class crowd to avoid bein’ clocked.”
“How you even know dis?”
I pressed her, my face a map of confusion. I forgot she had a degree in street mechanics. She let out a dry chuckle. Her eyes said I was dumb for not peeping the game that was playing out right in front of us. She kept going, gesturing toward Big Mike's stoop.
“See tha O.G.s. Dey been ta prison, did dey time and came home wit’ a trade. Dey move calm n’ legit. Dey keep tha peace when niggas start actin’ sideways.”
I stayed locked in, my gaze sweeping the street for proof. Shay rolled her eyes at a passing Lexus.
“And dem? Dey chasin’ tha shiny suit dream. Fa dem tha block is a steppin’ stone ta somethin’ bigger. Dey gettin’ tha real money.”
“What if tha guy for me ain't parta dis hustle at all? Ya know, like someone tha block ain't even seen yet?”
I pressed, trying to sound like I was only talking trash. But deep down, I was desperate for her to tell me he existed. She sighed. The May breeze catching her hair as she shook her head.
“Dat dude don’t exist on dis side of tha city. You see dat?”
Shay pointed a sharp nail toward the police cruiser.
“Dat’s tha reality. Everyone is eitha watchin’ or bein’ watched. Stick ta wus real before you get ya’ heart broke.”
I didn’t say I word. I was still untangling that answer in my head.
The streets narrows your whole existence down to a single shot.
And once the block decides your story is a tragedy, they’ll fight anyone who tries to write a happy ending.
It clinches on to you, bleeding you, until you lose the ability to even dream of another version. We just ghosts in a frame they built.
SUMMER CRUSH
Our city held the championship for the highest drug admissions.
A trophy made of grief and the sound of mothers wailing through the walls.
The dope had a tighter grip than any parent ever did.
The sirens was a constant reminder of the war my Daddy was fighting.
Each day I begged the universe to keep the dope from erasing him.
I watched the ambulances claim the ‘hood, one parent at a time, and I prayed the streets would never come for mine.
The concept of a stable father was fictional, a story told in books I had never read.
I tried to hold onto Daddy’s memory, but the absence was personal.
It was a struggle to keep my bitterness from drowning out the affection.
I watched the women around me carry every burden alone.
A city of missing men, leaving me to guess what a real provider looked like.
A common mistake of the girls on my block, was believing that power and love was the same thing.
There was a boy on 54th Street, named DeAndre.
He was fourteen, a year older than me. Long and bony, he hadn’t quite grown into himself yet.
Basketball always tucked under his arm, like it was part of his outfit.
He smelled clean, not fancy cologne clean.
That straight-out-the-shower soap and sweat smell.
Every time he flashed his smile, I felt a twist low in my stomach.
Like he had reached inside me and turned a magic key.
One evening me and Mia was parked on the curb, legs stretched out into the street, cracking sunflower seeds between our teeth and spitting the shells wherever they landed. DeAndre came walking up the block, ball bouncing easy at his side. Thump. Thump. Thump. Mia spotted him first.
“Yo’ you hoopin’ tonight Dee?”
she called out, loud enough for half the block to hear. DeAndre palmed the ball and gave a lazy shrug.
“Yeah, wus up.”
His eyes slid over to me and the heat turned up under my skin.