Reggie, with his slick forehead and glasses and perpetual grin, had me in his sights the minute I sat down with my tray. "You 'bout the funniest white boy I ever met," he said.
"Why is that?"
Noon, and the cafeteria full of chaos and smelling of mashed potatoes and gravy. I considered his attention the price I had to pay for appropriating a place at his table. I was a new kid at Pimlico Jr. High, in ninth grade; Reggie and Vince and William James were all in my class. Sometimes I tagged around with them in the halls and on the playground.
Reggie huffed his nostrils at me. "Look at you, Slick. Hangin' with the big dogs."
"Big dogs?" Vince cracked, his mouth full of mystery meat. "You watch too many movies, man."
Reggie ignored him and focused on me instead, his eyes opaque through the lenses of his glasses. "You coming to the ditch?" I glanced at Vince, drawn to him. He stood a few inches taller than each of us and moved with the slow grace of a natural leader. He had a lean build and a lean face and walked pigeon-toed, always a step ahead of his crew.
"We ditchin'?" William James said, sitting at the end of the long table.
"Nobody asked you," Reggie snapped, poking his chin out, showing aggression.
"You some kind of bully now?" Vince chided.
Reggie relaxed his shoulders. It wasn't really aggression, since he couldn't back it up. He always liked to say he was a lover, not a fighter.
The bell to end lunch sounded and all around us chairs scraped the floor. A voice squawked announcements over the intercom.
William James got up with his tray. "You ain't any big dog. You just a loud mouth."
"Bye," Reggie said, watching him go.
William James made a point of shaking his head in disapproval, then he junked his tray in the dishwasher's window.
"What's the matter with you?" Vince said to Reggie.
"Let him go. He's an old maid anyway. We gonna take Slick here, show him what's what."
"Take me where?"
"Stay loose, Slick. You gonna hang."
On the wide stairwell heading upstairs to Social Studies with Mr. Baines, Reggie cat-whistled through his teeth up ahead at William James, who sneered down at him and shook his head again. Reggie cracked up.
Outside room 219, he yanked the back of my shirt to keep me from going in with everyone else. Mr. Baines already stood at the blackboard scrawling his loopy letters. Vince sipped from the water fountain beside the door while the rest filed in, William James with them.
"C'mon," Reggie whispered.
Mr. Baines glanced our way. He was not well respected, mainly because he didn't take roll. Taking roll was the ultimate sign of authority, but Mr. Baines preferred to flaunt convention, for which he was derided. That and the sports jackets he always wore with the black elbow patches.
Vince snuck back down the stairs, and then Reggie and I followed.
No one saw us leave the building. We came right out the front steps and crossed through the heavy traffic on Northern Parkway and stalked into the neighborhood of row houses behind the race track. We advanced down a one-way street in the shadow of a low winter sun and halted at a corner red-brick residence atop a rise of lawn. Reggie scanned the address he'd written on a piece of paper, and we went single file up the steps, and he knocked and opened the door to let himself and us in.
Several older kids lounged on a couch and some on the living room floor. A smoky haze hung in the air with the burning smell of weed--a smell I'd become familiar with in the boys top floor bathroom.
Two or three white girls and several black girls crowded in a circle on the floor with some older guys, none of whom I recognized. High schoolers from Northwestern. Somebody called out a greeting to Vince and Reggie on our way into the kitchen. One boy had a girl wrapped in his arms on his lap, his hand caressing the back of her head, making out in front of everybody. I tried not to stare, and Vince elbowed me.
"You got a shit-ass grin on your face."
"Damn," Reggie said. "I'm thirsty. How 'bout you?"
"I'm in," Vince said.
I nodded that I was in, too.
"Who's got money?"
"We got to pay?" I said. I had two crumpled dollar bills and pulled them out and handed them over, and Reggie turned away from us. He handed the money to somebody and came back with a couple of cold thirty-two ounce bottles of malt liquor. Vince uncapped one and swigged like a pro and made a popping sound when he released the bottle from his lips. He handed it to me and said, "You're up, Slick." It tasted strong, the pungent taste of bitter mouthwash. I forced a few sips and got a warm sensation inside and right away decided I was drunk.
Loud funk emanated from the living room and the whole house reverberated, alive. I wandered into the haze of laughter and loud talk and bustling bodies. The shades drawn against the afternoon encapsulated us. I imagined a craft leading me farther and farther from home. A girl with mocha skin and almond eyes spaced far apart posed by the window. When she noticed me, I couldn't summon anything to say. Her dead eye stare was impossible to read. Then someone behind me pushed me right into her.
"Reggie!" she said.
He wore his grin, his glasses full of glare, hiding his eyes. "This is our boy, Slick," he said to her.
She shook my hand and rolled her eyes at Reggie, then she walked away. Reggie, still grinning, said, "Make a move, son."
"She's too old."
"Too old? I thought you was hanging with us. Show your hand."
He drew on the malt liquor, nearly draining the bottle. Someone turned up the music. The sound came out like a force, throbbing and intimidating. Reggie snorted.
"Head out now, Slick. You're holding me back."
The girl with the almond eyes took up a spot in front of the TV console in the corner. I closed in; if nothing else, I could marvel at her. Her heavy eyelids and curved lashes and lower lip frown all worked in tandem to set her apart. That she wouldn't talk to any of the boys or even make eye contact confirmed her allure. Having shaken her hand, though, gave me certain rights, even if I posed no possible interest for her. We stood together on the sidelines. Then I mumbled a greeting, and from her high place she acknowledged me with a half smile.
"Why do they call you Slick?"
It took an instant to adjust to her throaty voice.
"I guess that's the best they could come up with."
"Well, you're cute, Slick. You remind me of my little brother."
"Is he cute?"
It was a stupid question, but it didn't seem to matter.
"What are you doing here?" she asked.
"Cutting class."
Her eyes scanned the room in a liquid daze, as if I suddenly didn't exist. Whichever guy she was waiting for, he was taking his time.
"You have a girlfriend over at Pimlico?" she said, turning toward me again.
"Not really." I glanced away to see if Reggie was nearby, coming over to ruin it for me.
"What's your name—your real name?"
"Jack."
"Hi, Jack, I'm Cynthia Williams."
I nodded. "How do you know Reggie?"
She smiled at the question, or maybe at my naivete. She touched the back of my wrist.
"You really are cute. Like a lost little lamb. Does your mom know you're here?"
"My mom?"
"I didn't mean anything by it, Jack." The corner of her lip curled up into a snarl. "You sure you don't have a girlfriend? I'd be your girlfriend. How does that sound, Jack? Can I be your girlfriend?"
When I didn't say anything, she curled her lip even higher, amused.
"I'll see you later, Jack. When you're out of diapers."
She brushed past me. "Cynthia Williams," I said to myself, foolishly wanting to hold onto her name just in case. In front of me, a tall boy with an Eraserhead afro began a heated leg wrestling match with another boy and others gathered around. Watching them, I couldn't shake the sting of my encounter with Cynthia Williams. I drifted over toward the stairs. One step up offered an overlook of the proceedings. Cynthia Williams had reclaimed her spot in front of the TV console. Seeing her from this distance made her appear even more beautiful. I went the rest of the way up the stairs.
At the top landing, I counted five doors, all of them closed. It embarrassed me to imagine what must be going on behind each of them. I hurried down again, not ready to know, clinging to my ignorance for the sake of self-preservation.
The tall boy with the cool afro had Cynthia boxed in between the wall and the console. Her eyes brightened when he peered down at her, full of charm, and I knew he would kiss her soon. I left to find Vince. Outside, I told him about what she'd said and he gave me his dour grin.
"You blew it, man. You should've told her that you had to start somewhere, maybe she'd like to show you."
We sat, shaded, facing the tiny yard, side by side on the concrete ledge of the back steps to the basement. The bottle rested between his thighs.
"You ever been upstairs?" I said.
"With a girl?" He smiled. "That girl Cynthia is a tease, man. You got to show her who's boss."
"Damn, I'd like to," I said, though I didn't know exactly what I meant. It felt good to say it, though.
"These boys inside," he said, pointing back at the house with his thumb, "ain't any of 'em worth a damn. We're better than all of 'em. High schoolers. So what? That girl messed with you to make herself feel like something, but she's nothing. You hear me?" He sipped down the final bit of swill at the bottom of the bottle. "Listen, fuck it. Let's go, let's get out of here." He stood, his eyes bloodshot, glassy.
"What about Reggie?"
"He's Reggie, man."
I knew what he meant, but I didn't want to leave yet. "I can't go back to class."
"We're not."
"Where, then?"
"Damn, you ask too many questions."
"Fuck it, then."
"Fuck it," he said, and he threw the bottle so it smashed against the back wall. When he took off, I had no choice but to tail after him.
We sprinted in the bright sunlight on the sidewalk beside Northern Parkway, pumping our legs for no reason other than that it felt good, a release. Vince let loose, his gallop had hunger in it, and I couldn't keep up. Winded and losing ground, I slowed in time to see him trip on uneven pavement and go flying over the concrete, landing with a huge tumble forward. He rolled onto his back and lay still, his legs in front of him, like a dead man. He began laughing in a way I'd never heard him before, wheezing and gasping, with sporadic out-of-breath squeals when I reached him.
Cars shot toward us and zoomed past at fifty miles an hour. Vince lifted his head, his chin scraped. He'd scraped his hand, too, and he stood and tried to shake out the sting.
"C'mon," he said.
He limped, his knee bloodied, soaking through his jeans. He seemed intent on heading away from the party, though I soon realized we had no destination. I didn't mind, though. The sun crossed through the edge of a cloud and shone in our faces. We went through a busy intersection, not waiting for the light, maneuvering to avoid a dump truck barreling down, then continuing on the other side, down a block of empty lots and vandalized signs. Above, a billboard advertising Kool Menthols had deep gashes through the middle of it. Soon we ran out of sidewalk. We walked in the gutter, not speaking, determined to get somewhere.
"Should we turn back?"
Vince didn't answer me and instead marched ahead using the ball of his foot to push off with his hurt leg. At last he settled onto the curb edge. We sat side by side again.
"Fool was breaking into dorm rooms," he said.
"Who?"
"My brother. Alan. He got thrown off the football team."
Vince engendered a fierce look, suddenly angry about it.
"He was tough. The boy could run. Nobody could tackle him."
"Maybe he can play somewhere else," I said.
Vince shook his head. "He'll never play anywhere else."
He got quiet.
"Being tough isn't everything," I said.
"Maybe where you come from."
"Maybe you'll play ball somewhere."
Vince nodded, distracted. Then he stood and started off in the same direction. He didn't wait for me, and I didn't follow. He limped away. I stayed seated, watching him, thinking of returning to school, or maybe back to the party. Thinking of the loud music and the malt liquor and Cynthia Williams. At last I stood. I had a long walk ahead of me, all the way home.