CHAPTER 14
CHANGES
ONE LAST SUMMER
The calendar flipped to the final stretch of summer ’97.
Shay was sixteen and demanding a level of respect we wasn't ready to give.
She navigated the house with an untouchable arrogance, and she had already mapped out her exit.
Her words carried a razor-sharp edge and Mama’s warnings became a fading echo she chose to ignore.
The scene was a pure West Philly takeover.
The humidity was a permanent layer on your skin, unshakeable.
Tina’s new man had the street on lock, orange cones blocking the way in or out.
Two oversized speakers became the city’s heartbeat as Boyz II Men delivered that hometown harmony.
I felt the shudder of the ground beneath my feet, a rhythmic reminder of where I stood.
Ol’ heads worked the grills, turning ribs and chicken over charcoal in the rusted barrels. That seasoned aroma occupied the air; a sticky, barbecue-drenched presence that had the whole neighborhood's stomach growling. That smell was the unofficial signal that the block party was in full effect.
Mr. Jenkins was the block’s biggest actor, sitting on the porch with his brows pinned low.
Shaking his head, acting bothered by the volume and the hype.
But he never once touched that screen door to go inside.
Him and Mrs. Jenkins stayed right there, side by side.
She would be the first to break. Her foot tapping out a slow, steady rhythm that picked up speed as the beat dropped.
He would play it cool. Staring straight ahead, until that one shoulder started dipping just enough to blow his cover.
“James,” she said, smiling.
“Ohhh, I ain’t doin’ nothin’ baby,” he muttered.
They simmered in the rhythm side-by-side.
Their history was so deep they could dance while staying seated, their bodies already knowing the next move.
Every few minutes, he would flash a quick grin when he thought the coast was clear.
He could see a remnant of the ‘hood that still deserved his presence.
Saiyd led a high-speed pursuit with a Super Soaker, turning the alleyway into a battlefield. Sinceer operated on a completely different frequency; hunkered down in the shadows of a brick, waiting for the perfect moment to drench his brother with a well-aimed bucket of water.
Me and Mia claimed the porch steps, watching the summer drama play out in real time. She had fourteen staring her down in December and wore that anticipation with a bold confidence.
“Last year of middle school ‘bout ta rewrite tha script,” she stated.
“Whatchu mean?” I questioned her logic.
“You jokin’ right?” She countered with a dismissive stare.
“Eighth grade is tha moment of truth.” She tossed her empty water ice cup.
“You eitha step into ya’ own power or get swallowed by tha noise.”
Shay held her ground near the corner with a crew of older girls, her volume a blatant invitation for the block to watch. Nico stayed tethered to his ride, tracking her every move with a quiet, intense dedication.
“Well, I hope everythin’ don’t change.” I dropped an anxious wish about keeping our world intact. With a cold certainty Mia replied,
“Sum, girl. Change is tha only air we breathe on dis block.”
The night was cooling down, but the energy wasn't going nowhere.
Mama held it down on the top step, a flimsy paper plate of ribs and potato salad balanced on her knees.
She stayed locked in, her eyes navigating the chaos with a heavy heart.
She was clutching at the last threads of our childhood, fully aware that the world was about to snatch them right out of her hands.
Her voice was barely a whisper over the bass, but it hit with the weight of a lead pipe.
She didn't have to shout to own the space between us.
“Tha block’s got Shays undivided, messy attention, so tha twins are yo’ responsibility. Keep ya’ eyes on ‘em,” she commanded.
“You know my rule, once ‘dem lights pop on, dey feet betta be on dis porch.”
“I got ‘em.”
I answered, accepting the contract we had signed a hundred times before.
Mama gave a rhythmic bob of her head, but her gaze never drifted. Her spirit fully aware that my word couldn't stop the city from moving in its own way.
That summer was the final chapter before the page turned on us. We was unaware of the slow-motion collapse already in progress. Kids never catch the scent of the smoke until the fire is already claiming the roof.
Mia had to go inside because she had a curfew for getting in trouble the day before.
I moved down and claimed a spot on Mr. Jenkins stoop.
Sai had drifted toward the action of the dice game on the corner, his stare burning a hole through the dirty cash.
He stayed right on the edge of the circle, absorbing a street-language he was dying to speak.
Most of the hustlers on the block mirrored Saiyd.
They was just boys forced into adulthood long before their time.
Sin anchored himself next to me on the pavement. His young mind trying to understand why anybody would bet their life on a pair of cubes.
“They always gamblin’,” his voice barely audible.
“I already know,” I replied.
“But why though?” his eyebrows knotted in confusion.
“Cuz they believe luck is on they side.”
He frowned,
“That’s a waste of energy.”
“Yooo!”
Saiyd jogged back, his shorts still dripping from the water gun fight.
“I gotta turn wit’ tha dice!” He was beaming, eyes wide with the rush of the corner.
Sin’s expression shifted into a judgmental intensity.
“You actually touched they dirty money?”
Saiyd showed all his teeth in a wild, unbothered grin.
“I almos’ won too.”
“Mama told you to stay away from that corner,” Sin stated, his voice a low, gritty warning.
Saiyd pulled his shoulders up in a reckless shrug.
“Dey wasn't even sweatin’ me.”
Sinceer processed the disregard with a heavy sigh,
“You always ignore the rules.”
Sai bumped his shoulder with a playful nudge, his grin still wide.
“Yo’ you buggin’ fa no reason.”
Shay waltzed over, her scent a mix of sweet perfume and stale cigarette smoke. She leaned into our space,
“What y’all talkin ‘bout?” her eyes narrowed into thin, suspicious slits as she scanned our faces.
“Nothin’,” Saiyd blurted quick.
She studied his face,
“You betta not be messin’ ‘round wit dem dice games.”
Sai stayed stubborn with a reckless shrug.
“Y’all kids always actin’ outta pocket,” Shay joked, cutting her eyes at Sincere.
“Yo’ you gotta keep a eye on him.”
Sinceer gave a solemn nod.
“I’m trying my best.”
Shay let out a dismissive cackle.
“Good luck wit’ dat mission.”
The night kept rolling. Four men sat around a plastic table on Ms. Janine’s porch, slapping dominoes so hard the sound echoed down the block.
“BAM!”
Trash talk flew back and forth, cigarette smoke curled through the air. A crowd gathered behind them, calling plays, like it was a championship game. Unc’ stood up yelling,
“Man, dat’s bullshit!” Nobody cared.
Every few minutes, Mama delivered a vocal roll call, keeping a tight leash on our positions before the night swallowed the block.
The streetlamps buzzing, casting a yellow, cinematic glow on the asphalt as we claimed our spot.
Shay, me, and the twins;. Four different worlds temporarily anchored to the same strip of concrete.
We stayed in a deep, synchronized silence.
Clinging tight to that thin, breakable belief that the world was ours.
That moment held a real value. Like the city was granting us a temporary sanctuary.
Letting us occupy one final, unedited version of ourselves before the streets and the years started rearranging things for real.
I lacked the vocabulary for that energy back then, but the memory remains etched in my spirit.
“Y’all ‘member when we used ta build forts in tha livin’ room?”
My words slipping out into the air. Sai let out a high-pitched laugh.
“Wit’ tha couch cushions!”
“And every blanket in the house,” Sin added, his voice carrying a soft, nostalgic tone.
“We had tae place lookin’ like a war zone. Mama lost her mind.” I added.
“Cause y'all broke tha lamp,”
Shay interjected with a subtle smirk. Sin pointed a finger her way.
“You the one who smashed it.”
“Y’all helped,” she countered with a playful edge.
“Still your fault.”
“Dat’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it.” Shay replied.
The laughter hit us all at once, a sudden eruption that erased the miles and the years between us.
For a heartbeat, the stress and the heat vanished, and we shared that same reckless, childhood energy from back in the day.
Living happily on borrowed time. Before Shay traded the crib for the block's siren call.
Before the looming shadow of freshman year started blocking my light.
Before the twins started studying the pavement’s hard-knock lessons.
We was safe inside a bubble the city hadn't found a way to pop.
Mama intercepted the rhythm of the night, a hard-edged signal that our sidewalk lease had expired.
“Time ta come in!” her voice served as the curtain fall on our final summer.
The twins let out a heavy, synchronized groan, but they rose from the curb.
Shay led the retreat. Her back a solid wall as she headed for the screen door without offering the street a second thought.
I anchored myself to the sidewalk a second longer.
This version of us was fading into the shadows, and the clock was running out on the only life we knew.
We stayed clueless to the coming storm, but our world began and ended with that block party.
BEAUTY AND THE BLOCK
The streets have a restless hunger. Gathering up dreams and pulling in the brightest spirits before they can even find their wings. Shay acted blind to the power she possessed, but I saw right through the front. And she prioritized the street's respect over the house's peace.
Mama fought a losing battle with the Shay, reaching for a daughter who was already drifting into the deep end.
Curfews became flashpoints for war. And them lectures about boys and respecting yourself, bounced off Shay, failing to leave a single dent in her armor.
The house vibrated with Shay’s fury. She was a flame that looked beautiful from the sidewalk but was turning our house into an inferno.
And once that fire starts eating the wood-chipped paneling, there ain't enough water in the world to put it out.