Dirty Jersey Read online

  Mr. Atkins frowns. “I figure you know, Eric. I wanted Percival to get one.” He sighs and looks off at some faraway spot. “Just one this semester and I’d—I’d buy the entire class pizza.” Mr. Atkins smiles and looks at a weary Crash. “I don’t think I’m in any danger of having to pay up on that bet, though. Am I, Percival?”

  Crash’s jaw muscles tense. He balls his hands into fists but wisely keeps them obscured under his desk. A few brave souls in the back of the class snicker and laugh. I feel bad for Crash. I would shield him from this humiliation if I could. I know what it’s like to have laughter directed at you. It isn’t a good feeling.

  Mr. Atkins says, “Stay awake, Percival. Next time you shut your eyes, I’m shutting you out of this class. I’ll remind you this class is a requirement for graduation.” Atkins turns on his heels at that and starts walking back toward the front of the room. “Can anyone name a famous poet?”

  Crash turns to me, spit flying from his mouth. “Give me a name, Poser. I want to shut this dude up once and for all. He stays on my back. I need to get him up off me.”

  “What?”

  “Give me a name,” Crash says, his mouth foaming, spit flying. A drop of indignity lands on my nose. “Name of a poet, you stupid lame.”

  Stupid lame?

  I think back to the teasing session in the locker room, all the times Crash hasn’t returned my friendship, all the times he’s broken me down instead of building me up. The tide must change. “E. Lynn Harris,” I tell him.

  “E. Lynn Harris?” Crash asks, making sure.

  “Yeah,” I say, sealing the deal.

  Crash turns back to the front. “Hey yo, Mr. Atkins?”

  Atkins wheels around. Surprise is all over his face. I don’t believe Crash has ever spoken up in class before. “Yes,” Mr. Atkins says, eyeing Crash.

  Crash sticks his chest out. I drop my head and close my eyes. “I have a poet for you,” Crash announces.

  I open my eyes to see how this plays out.

  Atkins furrows his brow. “Do you, now? Will wonders never cease? I guess you like pizza. Go ahead, Percival.”

  “E. Lynn Harris,” Crash says.

  I can feel my stomach drop.

  Atkins smiles. Time ticks by. The smile widens with each passing second. He’s pleased. “You enjoy E. Lynn, Percival?”

  “Read all of his stuff,” Crash says. “Most of it I’ve read more than once.”

  I check my crotch to make sure I didn’t wet myself.

  “Really now, more than once, is that right? Well, I can’t say that E. Lynn qualifies as a poet,” Atkins says, “but he’s a very good writer. I’m surprised to hear that you enjoy his work, Percival.”

  “Why’s that?” Crash says, loaded to bear. “I can read. I ain’t stupid.”

  “Of course not,” Atkins agrees. “It’s just that E. Lynn Harris writes novels, and his main characters are usually gay black men in relationships. I didn’t think that would appeal to a tough guy like you. I guess you’re more tolerant and open than I would have ever given you credit for. Wonders never cease.”

  Those brave souls in the back snicker again. Crash’s shoulders heave. I start thinking about my life six feet underground. You don’t humiliate Crash and live to tell about it.

  “So unfortunately, no pizza,” Atkins says, “but nice try. At least you contributed for once.” Atkins then moves to the far corner of the classroom. “Anyone else want to try? A famous poet. And no one better say Zane.”

  Laughter from the class.

  Crash turns to me, his nostrils flare, his teeth looking jagged as a werewolf’s, as if they could cut through the toughest of hides. “That’s your ass, Poser. After school. I’m fiddin’ to mess a nigga up.”

  My gaze is on Crash’s teeth.

  I wonder just how tough my hide is.

  I can see Crash waiting for me out in front of the school. He has on an Elgin Baylor throwback jersey. Elgin Baylor was a star on those old Los Angeles Lakers teams, the dynasty that included Jerry West and Wilt Chamberlain. He was Michael Jordan before Michael Jordan. The jersey is sleeveless, accentuating Crash’s arms. They look like they were chiseled from granite. He resembles Reggie Bush. My arms, in contrast, look like they were slopped together with Play-Doh. As much as I hate to admit it, I strongly resemble Steve Urkel.

  Crash paces back and forth like a wild animal on the hunt, pounding his fist into his hand, working himself up for what will be a one-sided fight. I’d rather walk barefoot on hot coals with a weight around my neck than go out there.

  I don’t see Mr. Quigley or any other hall aide in sight, but plenty of students are lined up on either side of the walkway. Looks like the dance-off on Soul Train. Seeing all of the students, I realize this could be my moment. Facing Crash without fear, regardless of the outcome, is bound to gain me respect and maybe some notoriety. I can picture it, can hear their words of admiration. “See the kid with the dent in his forehead? He stood toe-to-toe with Crash.” I’d lose some motor skills but gain respect. That’s more than a fair trade.

  I step outside. The sun is blazing dead on. Crash has his eyes fixed on some commotion within the crowd of students. The commotion quickly dies down. Crash killed it with a simple look, not wanting anything to take away from his fight with me. He has an intimidating gaze, so hard it makes everything else weak. So much for me facing Crash without fear. I squint, pretending I’m looking into the sun when in actuality I’m attempting to ward off tears. I’d rather walk barefoot on the sun with a weight around my neck than go deal with Crash.

  Crash sees me, stops pacing, smiles, and beckons for me to come forward with a nod of his head.

  I start moving toward him on legs that have turned to water. My heartbeat is in my ears again, same as the day I fought Benny. The bass line to an even louder and more rambunctious song by Timbaland reverberates in my head. This is fitting, because I’m sure Crash will have me hitting high notes like Justin Timberlake once he gets down to business. Or, probably more fitting, Nelly Furtado.

  I stop about ten feet short of Crash. It dawns on me that ten feet of separation is not enough. Ten miles wouldn’t be enough to keep Crash from getting back at someone who wronged him. I swallow my fear in a gulp.

  He says, “Poser.”

  “Crash,” I manage to reply.

  “Hate to have to do you like this, my dude. But you pulled my card.”

  “Violence never solves anything. It’s just a nasty cycle, one that affects our people more than others. We can enact a change, right now, you and me. Black-on-black violence, how sad is that, Crash?”

  Crash smiles, says, “Nice speech, but we already got a mayor, my dude.”

  I want to say something tough. Brace yourself, fool. Raise up, then, homie. But instead, in a girl-like voice, that Nelly Furtado tone I spoke of, I say, “Please don’t do this.”

  Crash isn’t swayed. He says, “Enough talking,” and starts taking steps toward me. I swear the sidewalk cracks beneath his feet as he approaches me.

  I close my eyes. And pray. I’m a bit rusty. I get Now I lay me down to sleep… and then draw a blank.

  Crash is within three feet of me. I drown out the snickers from some of the students, the outright laughter from others, the shouts of those calling me a lame and worse. Focus, like Kobe Bryant said he does when he’s playing basketball on the road and the opposing fans are trying their best to get under his skin, throw off his game. The heckling has no effect on him. No fan ever blocked his jump shot. I get in the same kind of zone, a Kobe zone, with my eyes still shut tight. The snickers, the laughter, the insults, bounce right off me.

  But my zone is interrupted when a distinctive voice calls out, “Stop!” and a hand touches my shoulder. I jump from my skin like some exotic snake.

  “Relax, Eric,” from the same voice.

  I open my eyes. Benny is standing at my right shoulder, his hands balled into fists. He must have learned from the throw-down with me. His hands are up this
time. He appears ready for a fight. Most importantly, he’s right by my side. Despite my betrayal, we’re a united front. Benny is the kind of friend I’ve always wished Crash was to me.

  Crash pauses and looks from me to Benny, shakes his head. He doesn’t even bother to smile.

  I say, “Crash, let’s just let this go before it gets ugly.”

  I feel more confident with Benny here.

  Crash sings, “Ebony and ivory, live together…”

  I say, “You sing more than Ja Rule, Crash.”

  I’m feeling my Wheaties.

  Crash isn’t fazed. “It’s gonna take more than you two lames to slow me.”

  I look at Benny. His Adam’s apple is bobbing in his throat. He manages to smile, leans in to me and whispers, “I got his legs. You go for his body.”

  I turn to Crash and home in on the number twenty-two of his Elgin Baylor jersey.

  Benny takes off in a run, surprising me with that unexpected move, some kind of Indian war chant rising from his lungs. I have no choice, so I take off, too. My mouth is too dry to scream, though. The fear lodged in my throat wouldn’t let any sound pass anyway. I push aside that fear and focus on Crash’s body. Benny has his legs. I have his body. Simple enough. Success is achieved by preparation.

  Maybe we should have prepared more.

  Benny dives low.

  Even I can see the move will fail.

  It’s too telegraphed, executed too slowly.

  Crash sidesteps Benny with ease. Benny dives into the sidewalk as if it’s a pool, lands without a splash. The Indian war drum is silenced, I realize, as Benny rolls over on the sidewalk and rests there like he’s testing mattresses at Sleepy’s. Benny’s groans are louder than the laughter of the students gathered to witness this massacre.

  It’s just me and Crash, one on one. Again.

  I think of the Karate Kid, Rocky, even Hoosiers. In the movies, the underdog is apt to beat the favorite. In real life, the underdog wets his pants and gets punched in the face and gut.

  I know.

  Both happen to me.

  I picked today of all days to wear khakis, light tan khakis.

  Crash is on me, pummeling me with punches. My arms don’t work. My legs don’t work. I can’t seem to punch back. I can’t get my legs to move, can’t run for cover. My Kobe focus is gone, because I can hear the laughter, the snickers and the “Damn, Poser pissed his pants” coming from the crowd of students. I ball myself up as best I can, drop to the ground and take my punishment from Crash.

  This is rock bottom. So many times in the past I’ve thought I was at the deepest part of the well. So many times I thought it couldn’t get any worse for me. I was wrong. This is finally rock bottom. They will never forget the dark wet stain on my pants. They will never forget I offered no resistance, no fight whatsoever.

  Crash’s fist bites into my ear, leaves it burning, stinging, enflamed with pain. Down the road, he’ll tell me he held back, he didn’t hit me with all his might. And I will accept that. I will accept his lopsided friendship. I’m that desperate.

  Crash stops suddenly.

  I wait a few ticks and then look up at him.

  His breathing is heavy, eyes look so haunted.

  Crash starts to say something but doesn’t. I manage to get to my feet, move over by where Benny is crumpled on the sidewalk. I offer him my hand, help him up. He pats my back. Our friendship is resurrected. I look over to Crash. He is still standing in the same place, still breathing heavily, eyes still haunted.

  I don’t hate him. Believe it or not, I actually feel sorry for him. Something is missing in his life. Just like something is missing in mine. In that way, if in no other, we are brothers, we are bonded, we are the same. That gives me some comfort.

  Crash continues to watch me. He says nothing.

  I have so much I’d like to say to him, but I don’t say anything, either.

  I have wounds to lick. I move away, off to lick them.

  The students who witnessed the massacre part like the Red Sea, let me through. Their laughter and mocking words don’t even bother me. I’m used to it, even if this is worse than most days. I can handle this. Alone, I know, but that’s the breaks.

  Rock bottom is a lonely place, for sure.

  Kenya

  I could have literally died.

  Like a black person in the first few minutes of a horror picture.

  You know they put us to an end before the opening credits have finished. That’s cool, though. Get us out of there early in the movie. Let them dumb blond chicks run screaming through the woods just to fall down when Jason or Michael Myers gets close with his ax. Let them dumb blond chicks catch a fair one. That’s just fine by me.

  Pardon moi for that digression.

  Anyway, like I said, I could have literally died.

  It was the talk of the school. I got so many text messages and phone calls on it I went ahead and turned my cell off. Imagine that. I live for my cell phone. Think about how hard it was to power it off. But I couldn’t handle all the chatter. Kenya’s little brother got kicked around like a can and peed in his pants. Just like that I understood the shame Brandy must feel dealing with Ray J’s scandals. It wasn’t a good feeling. Not the least bit.

  And to think, I almost made it out of high school without a blemish. I’d never gotten dissed by a boy. Didn’t get my very first period on a day I just happened to wear white capris. And I didn’t have to rush to the lunchroom the day after cheerleader tryouts to see if my name was posted. The cheerleading coach, Mrs. Jonas, she’d come to me asking that I be on her team. A personal solicitation.

  All told, my high school experience looked better than Boris Kodjoe.

  That’s until Eric messed it all up for me. Senior year was supposed to be relaxing. I was supposed to coast by. All of that went out the window the moment Eric stupidly insulted Crash. What was my brother thinking? Was he crazy? No one insulted Crash. That was an unspoken rule in our school. You had to have more screws loose than a janitor had keys to willingly get on Crash’s bad side.

  I said, “My stupid brother. I don’t know how we came from the same womb.”

  “Don’t be angry with Eric, Ken. He’s going through enough as it is. He needs your support. I feel so bad for him.”

  Lark Edwards, my best friend. Offering up unwanted advice. What did she know? Toughest thing she’d had to deal with all year was choosing which ringback tone to program on her cell phone. Akon or Young Jeezy? Robin Thicke or Lil’ Wayne? I’d told her about Verizon Wireless’s Jukebox system—she could pick several songs, and every time someone called her phone, a different, randomly selected ringback tone would play. It switched things up lovely, kept it fresh for anyone trying to reach her. Problem solved. Lark was smart enough to get skipped ahead two grades but couldn’t figure that out on her own. Go figure.

  I shook aside Lark’s well-intentioned advice and said, “Needs my support? He needs Depends. He peed his pants, Lark. Right now I’m feeling like a sex tape with Kim Kardashian wouldn’t be so bad.”

  “Oh, Ken. Don’t be so dramatic. Three soldiers died in Iraq today. On the scale of things, this is nothin’.”

  “And this too shall pass?”

  “Right. Exactly. Is anybody still talking about Michael Jackson dangling his baby over the balcony? Or Janet’s boob popping out at the Super Bowl? Even serious stuff…9/11, the Virginia Tech shooting. Nope. We’re in a culture that is quick to forget.”

  I did my best to believe her. We were at the mall. The Against All Odds store. Usher and R. Kelly were blasting from the sound system, figuring out between them that they were dating the same girl. I loved Against All Odds because the clothes were tight to death and they always had something hot bumping through the speakers. It was like shopping and a club experience wrapped into one. Can’t think of any other store where you can get yourself a cute outfit and a cute dude at the same time. Where trying on clothes meant dancing in front of a mirror. I needed the diversi
on after what Eric had brought to my doorstep.

  I had three hangers with clothes in my arms. A Baby Phat top and bottom. Some Enyce jeans.

  “You’ll look so right in them BPs, Ken. Love those jeans.” Lark crinkled her nose. “Leave the Baby Phat top, though. Not feeling that.”

  I moved over to a mirror, held the jeans up in front of me. “You ain’t ever lied, Lark. These jeans are the truth. But I like the top, too.”

  “It’ll be too tight. You got too much stuff for that shirt. Donnell Tucker is gonna trip if you wear that to school.”

  I sang like Keyshia Cole and had a chest like her, too.

  Donnell’d been sniffing after me since freshman year. I couldn’t be bothered. He was lame. Wore Ecko jeans with old-school FUBU sweaters. A word of advice to the fellas: never mix your designers. But that was Donnell. Crazy like that.

  “I ain’t studying Donnell Tucker, Lark.”

  “Still holding out for Boris Kodjoe?”

  “Am I.”

  “I don’t see it happening, Ken.”

  “I’ve got a backup plan. Worse comes to worse I’ll make do with—”

  “Taye Diggs,” Lark finished.

  It was one of my frequent lines. She knew me well. We had four years of friendship under our belts. I liked to think we’d always be tight. That we wouldn’t drift apart like most did when they left high school for college and the real world. That one day we’d be in the park sharing phone pictures of our kids while they played in sandboxes. I’d be Miss Kenya to her children, and she’d be Miss Lark to mine.

  In a singsong voice, Lark said, “Bet you’d be singing a different tune if I said Ricky Williams.”

  “Ricky’s okay. Nothing special. I shop for me, not some dude in school. That’s a recipe for disaster, making moves based on how some guy is gonna respond to it. I can’t even be bothered.” I added a dismissive wave of my hand to solidify my point.

  Most of that was a lie.

  I had to downplay my true feelings for Ricky, though. Otherwise I’d get burned. Just like Mama. She’d stamped into my head that a woman should never love a man more than he loved her. Or equal, for that matter. Men weren’t to be trusted. They were a necessary evil, true, but they weren’t to be trusted. Her nasty divorce from my father was exhibit A. The trifling relationship she had with “the boyfriend,” as I referred to her current paramour, was exhibit B. I wasn’t trying to let Ricky be exhibit C.