Chameleon (7 page)

Fat boy?
Whoa. These two. They always going at it. Maybe we should get all this stuff out now while the gettin’ is good. But dang, Trent, did you have to step on my foot?

“Trent, calm down. You know we just playing,” Andre said.

He was now on his feet helping me hold Trent back.

“Naw, Andre. I’m tired of this. I’m tired of you guys ‘just playing.’ You come up in
my
house, drink
my
Kool-Aid, and talk about
my
sister like that and expect me to be cool with that? Naw, I don’t think so.”

The muscles in his neck clenched tight, and his eyes bulged out when the words shot from his mouth. His whole body was taut as a rubber band stretched to its limit.

We loosened our grip as his muscles relaxed. He unleashed a long sigh, then dropped onto a chair muttering, “Naw, naw, naw.”

The silence returned. His words flashbulbed through my mind in quick bursts.

SISTER.

PIECE OF MEAT.

FAT BOY.

I’M TIRED OF YOU GUYS.

There it was. The truth. In black and white. Spoken as plain as it could be spoken. A familiar frustration echoed from his lips to my ears:
I’m tired of you guys.
Familiar because I’ve said it many times as I pulled on a blue shirt that I wanted to wear only to pull it off, worrying about being attacked by Pirus who might think I’m a Crip. Familiar because I’ve said it many times as I told Mama “no” to anything red, worried that the Crips might think I’m a Piru. Familiar because I’ve said it as my face was shoved into the dirt with a red heel pressed between my shoulder blades.

Yeah, Trent, I’m tired too.

Music drifted in from the back room, breaking the tense silence.

Lorenzo looked down at his sneakers, exhaled, then stood up to smooth out his tracksuit. He eyeballed me and Andre, then reached deep into his pockets. He cleared his throat and leaned over Trent. A fat pomegranate lay in his outstretched paw.

“Umm, Trent, here . . . take this. The whole pomegranate thing was your idea, so . . . take it. I got a bunch more,” he said.

Trent eyed the fruit like it might be poison, then looked at me and down at my sock turning redder by the second. It seemed to bring back memories of why we were even here in the first place.

The frost on Trent’s face melted as he took it. “Yeah, it was a good plan, huh?”

“I’m glad y’all kissed and made up, but can we take care of this, please!” I said, collapsing back onto the couch, pointing at my torn sneaker and bloody ankle.

How was I gonna explain this to Mama? Keep the shoe and make something up? Or borrow some other shoes and make something up? Either way, I gotta make something up, because I can’t tell her what really happened; I can’t tell her we hopped a fence to steal pomegranates.

I flexed my ankle, and the pain brought Lucky’s fangs back into my brain. Mama is gonna kill me. I can hear her line of questioning already:

“Now, your ankle is red —
why?

“What’d you do today to make that happen?”

Lord only knows what else she’ll come up with.

“Trent, what you doing, man? All we need is a washcloth to clean it and a small bandage. Just because it’s a lot of blood doesn’t mean it’s a big hole,” Andre said.

He plopped down next to where my ankle rested and took a peek. With one hand he tugged the sticky red-soaked sock down to expose the flesh. A gash about the size of a small paper clip revealed itself in all its ruby-red glory.

“See . . . that’s not too big.”

“I’m glad you think it’s small, but that don’t change the fact it still hurts!”

My patience did a Houdini, so I took care of it myself.

I pulled my foot close and went to work. Dad always said if you want something done right, do it yourself.

I peeled the sock off and cleaned the naked ankle with alcohol. I winced in pain. Andre and Lorenzo did too when they saw my ankle jump. Once the wound was cleaned, it was even smaller than it had looked in the first place.

I held up a bandage about the size of my pinkie to Trent’s face.

“You don’t have nothing bigger than this?”

He shook his head. “That’s the biggest we got.”

I shook my head, then stuck two of them down to hide the hole. It still hurt, but at least I wasn’t leaking a bloody trail anymore. I stood.

“Good as new. You got any white socks I could borrow?”

Trent nodded and headed for his room.

“And get him some more shorts too,” Lorenzo added.

He looked at me. And my shorts.

“The day ain’t over yet, Shawn, and you
are
still wearing blue shorts.”

In the meantime I trimmed the ripped canvas with scissors. So much of it was gone that it now looked more like a low-top.

Janine’s door opened again, and we heard a couple of sentences exchanged between her and Trent before he returned. Whatever they were saying came out a lot calmer than last time.

“Here you go, Shawnie-Shawn.”

He tossed me the socks and some jet-black shorts, and we were back on the pavement in no time.

Lucky’s little gift was still with me as I walked, but this time the pain was dulled when I reached into my pocket and pulled out the prize he had been guarding.

“Let’s find some place to go crack these open.”

WE TREKKED BACK TO DUBOIS and took over a bench. The park buzzed with activity. A handful of girls scattered here, a handful of boys scattered there. Bunches of both nearby. The old men wearing fedoras and playing dominoes last time had been replaced by old men wearing ball caps and playing cards this time. They slapped the table with gusto between shouts of “I’ll take that” and “Oh no, you don’t!”

The tree that once shaded Black Bruce now shaded a quartet of pigtailed girls about eight or nine years old practicing hand claps and dance steps. Their slapping hands and stomping feet replaced the quiet calm that Black Bruce had created earlier.

We fished the fruit from our pockets, slammed the hardshell globes open, and began the ritual of eating fresh pomegranate seeds; pluck, suck, spit, repeat. Our tongues became bright purple as each seed released its juice into our mouths.

Man, the pomegranates were good. I can see why that old lady had a dog; a big tree like that might as well be a grocery store for some folks. Pomegranates may not fill you up, but they’ll keep your belly happy for a hot minute.

I checked my watch. It was 4:23. I needed to head to Auntie’s soon so Mama could pick me up. I didn’t want to be late. Again. Especially with somebody else’s shorts on and a torn sneaker. She doesn’t always remember what I wear, so I might not have to explain the shorts. The torn sneaker would need a story for sure.

Over the years I’ve gotten pretty good at making up stories when something like this happens. I don’t see it as telling a lie; I see it as protecting my behind. And she just got me these sneakers a couple of weeks ago! I begged and pleaded for the longest time for some white All Stars, and when she handed them to me at the register, she said I better take good care of them. And I did. Until today. Was it my fault a pit bull took a bite out of one of them? OK, maybe it was. At least he didn’t get my whole foot. Or better yet, both feet.

“I think I wanna go to UCLA,” Lorenzo said. Pluck.

“Aww, not again Lorenzo,” Andre said. Suck.

“No, no, no, I’m just sayin’ . . . as fine . . . I mean as, ahhh . . . attractive as Janine is . . . imagine how many other girls like her go there,” Lorenzo said. Spit.

Janine, Janine, Janine. My favorite color might have to change to yellow. I don’t think I’ve seen yellow glow on anybody else the way it did on her, although Marisol was in yellow today and she was looking pretty fine too.

What is it with girls and yellow?

“Yeah . . . well, you guys only know what you see. I have to live with her and, trust me, she can get on your nerves,” Trent said. Pluck. Suck. Before he could spit the seed from his mouth, he added: “Lorenzo, don’t start.” Spit.

“Anyway,” Andre interrupted, “to go to UCLA, you need to have good grades or be good at a sport, and you got neither grades or a game, ’Zo.” Pluck.

“Oooh, that’s cold, Andre,” I said. Spit.

“Cold, but true,” Trent said. Suck.

“All right, so I’m not a genius.” Lorenzo got defensive, then added, “I’m not a dummy either.”

Pluck. Suck. Spit.

He continued his train of thought. “I’m just saying . . . if I could go to a school filled with girls like that, I would be hitting the books harder than this pomegranate here.”

Slam. He cracked open his second pomegranate. “Besides, I can too play sports. I’m good at ballin’, and when we get to Marshall, I’m going out for the team.”

Pluck.

“I might go out for a few other things too.”

“Like what . . . a pizza?” Trent said. That got a belly laugh from me and Andre.

He was enjoying this now. He knew ’Zo wasn’t going to start on his sister again because nobody wanted any drama, so he took advantage of the situation.

Lorenzo spit out a few more seeds and said, “Ha, ha, funny man. I’m just saying. You know how I’m usually late to school because I oversleep, right? Well, I would have no problem dragging myself out of bed to a school filled with beautiful girls.”

“First of all, how you know the school would be ‘filled’ with beautiful girls? I mean we had some pretty fine girls at our school, but we also had plenty of bag heads,” Andre said.

Slam. He cracked open his second one.

“Did you say ‘bag heads’?” I asked. Spit.

“Yeah. You know, the girl is so ugly you gotta put a bag over her head if you want to kiss her,” Andre said. The words came out of his mouth as easy as if he were saying, “Two plus two equals four. It’s a fact.”

Slam. I cracked open my second.

“Anyway. Our boy ’Zo here seems lost. Maybe we should pick a sport for him,” I said. Spit.

“That’s a good idea, Shawn,” Andre said, and he stood up. A downpour of empty seeds rained on his sneakers. “Why don’t you join the football team, ’Zo?”

“Too painful.” Pluck.

“How about baseball?” I said. Suck.

“Too hot.” Suck.

“Too hot?” I said. Spit.

“Yeah. They play outside when it’s hot.” Spit.

“How about wrestling?” Trent said. Spit.

“Too faggoty.” Pluck.

“Too what?” I said. Pluck.

“Too faggoty. I’m not lettin’ another dude grab me and stuff.” Spit.

“How about swimming?” Andre said. Pluck.

“Nahh, he’d sink,” Trent said loudly.

That caught us off-guard.

“Ha, ha,” Lorenzo sneered, before punching his paw into his third pomegranate.

He had dished it out to us so many times, he should’ve known payback was coming sooner or later. Andre slapped at the bench while I grabbed hold of him to keep from falling off laughing. “Are you guys done?”

We weren’t. He sat alone on the bench as we doubled up in pain around him like cackling hyenas on the hunt. Man, my sides hurt.

Lorenzo spit out a few more seeds before speaking again: “Can we have a real conversation now?”

“I’m just saying . . . if something was going to make me enjoy school more, a bunch of fine girls would be it,” Lorenzo said. Suck.

“You sure a Fatburger wouldn’t do the same thing?” Trent said. Pluck.

We laughed but noticed how Lorenzo was eyeballing Trent. It was time to back off. He was cool with the swim thing and let it go. But after that, he might break out the bags. And judging how hard he came at Trent last time, it wouldn’t be pretty. So me and Andre kept our mouths shut. Trent kept laughing but noticed we were silent and took the hint.

“You can always hit the books,” I said.

That squeezed chuckles from Trent and Andre and a “Yeah, right” from ’Zo.

I was probably one of the few people that knew Lorenzo was good with numbers. Actually, he was great with numbers. Last year in math class he had the oddest way of solving the toughest problems. The teacher always gave him a hard time though because he couldn’t explain how he got his answers. Shoot . . . I say if he got it right, who cares how he did it? At least he did it. I knew he didn’t cheat because he tried to explain it to me, but when he saw I had no clue of what he was talking about, he stopped and said: “All I know, Shawn, is it works for me.”

“Are you serious, Shawn?” Lorenzo said. “You know how smart you have to be to get into college?” he continued.

“Actually, I
do
know how smart you have to be to get into college because my mama works at one, remember?” I told him.

“Shawn, your mama works in the cafeteria,” Andre said.

Yes, my mother works in the cafeteria. But it was still in a college, and she did it so she could go there part-time. Whenever she saw any of the black teachers in the lunch line, she asked them about books for me, and I must say, they’ve turned me on to some cool stuff, books I might not have found on my own. For instance, one day Mama comes home with this book called
Invisible Man.
Not
The Invisible Man,
just
Invisible Man.
It’s a novel written by a brutha named Ralph Ellison about a black man during segregation. The story shows how he goes through life treated like an invisible man because white people only see the color of his skin and not him as a human being. In the beginning it was hard to read, but once I got into it, it was pretty funny. Some parts had me rolling as hard as my boys do.