“Well,” said Jamel, after a long pause. “At least he told the truth.”
“That’s what I said,” said Sammie. “But we figured since you’re a dude, you know how they think and could tell us what to do?”
“Dudes are dogs,” said Jamel.
“You, too?” asked Sammie, teasing.
“Most dudes, I meant,” said Jamel. They all laughed.
“I mean,” said Jamel, getting serious. “You have to be in charge of how far things go. Any dude will do whatever you let him get away with. If you don’t say no, why should he?”
“That is so typical,” said Sammie, disgusted.
“Don’t get mad at me because I gave it to you straight,” said Jamel. “My player card is being revoked as we speak.”
“I know, babe,” said Sammie, laughing. “You have our deepest sympathies.” Jamel and Brielle joined in.
“It’s not fair,” said Jamel, sobering. “It’s just the way stuff is.”
“True,” said Brielle. “It sucks.”
“Yeah, you chicks have it rough,” said Jamel, not sounding like he thought so at all. “Try asking some girl to dance one day.”
“We like boys!” said Brielle.
“You know what I mean,” said Jamel, laughing.
“Yeah, we do,” said Sammie.
“I’m just saying, you gotta be ready to say no, if no is what you mean,” said Jamel. “Unless he’s some kind of rapist, he’ll back down and respect you. He might not like the stop sign, but he’ll obey the law.”
“That’s a lot of pressure when you really like a boy,” said Brielle.
“I guess,” said Jamel. “But, no dude is going to respect you if you don’t say what’s up.”
“Okay,” said Brielle.
“Anyway, thanks, babe,” said Sammie. “We’ll chat later. See ya”
“Sammie,” he said. “Hold up.”
“What?”
“Is this you?”
“No.”
“Oh,” said Jamel, relief in his tone. “I thought I was going to have to find Khalil and jump him for putting shady moves on my cousin.”
“No, you don’t,” said Sammie. “That’s sweet of you. But, he is a gentleman. Plus, he’s scared to death of my daddy.”
“Then,” said Jamel. “It must be you, Brielle.”
“What if it is?” asked Brielle. She was feeling belligerent.
“Nothing,” said Jamel. “You’re my girl. I don’t want nothing bad happening to you either. So tell Damon to keep his hands above the waist, okay? Or better yet, in his pockets.”
“How do you know it’s Damon?”
Jamel snorted.
“Please,” he said. “You’ve been in love with that dude forever.”
“It shows?” asked Brielle, appalled. She felt her face with her free hand.
“Ya think?” said Jamel. “Kyzie told me y’ all were at school, giving each other the eye so hot the walls were sweating.”
“Ha-ha,” said Brielle.
“Besides, I know all about Sasha,” said Jamel. “She stalked Damon all over Lansing. It’s a wonder he will even talk to another babe.”
“Lansing is so small,” said Brielle. “Everybody’s business is all out there. The girls at school have been grim-ming me about Damon. They’re like mad that he likes me. Everybody’s telling me all about the stuff with Sasha.”
“Yeah, remember that,” said Jamel. “I know all about her, and I’m not even at the same school. You be careful what you let that dude talk you into. If I know about Sasha, I’ll know about you, too.”
Damon
Damon was studying in his bedroom. It was Sunday afternoon and Damon had the day off work. His desk and chair were crammed in next to a bulging bookcase that housed Damon’s most prized and eclectic possessions of assorted books, video games and childhood sports trophies. A mix of old and new school, one wall was covered with pictures of historical civil rights leaders like Malcolm X and Medgar Evers. There was Gandhi, Rosa Parks and Thurgood Marshall, as well as Ralph Bunche. Mixed in were also several science fantasy posters and one of Damon’s favorite basketball players, Stephen Curry. On a separate wall, Damon had several pictures of scantily clad young women, torn from various magazines, strategically placed around the lone window. His bed was pushed up tight against the third wall, which sported a picture of the Cat in the Hat above his bed. The Cat had been his mother’s creative brainstorm. But she’d substituted Damon’s youthful face for the cat’s and Damon wouldn’t hear of it being painted over. His mom called it the brat in the hat.
Damon had finished his homework. He lay on his stomach, propped up on his elbows, trying to get into Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein and failing miserably. He was so engrossed in trying to absorb the story that he didn’t hear the door swing open and Ephraim and Stump step into his bedroom, until Stump spoke.
“Hey, man,” said Stump. “Was sup?”
Damon gratefully tossed the book onto his pillow and sat up. Ephraim grabbed the desk chair and turned it backwards to sit on it and straddle it. Stump leaned against the political poster wall and slid to the floor, big gym shoes stuck out in front of him.
“You know,” said Damon. “You got all the goods man. Hey, Ephraim.”
Ephraim lifted his chin in a ‘was sup’ motion but he said nothing. He leaned on his arms on the back of the chair and stared morosely at Damon. Ephraim was tall, all long legs and lanky arms that never seemed to move in unison when he was standing or walking. He stood very still most of the time as a result, thus earning his nickname, the pencil on the loose.
“How’s the new school, man?” asked Stump. He suited his name, as he was shorter, about five eleven and husky with the square head and thick neck of a football player. He had on an enormous brown sweat jacket. The matching pants were rolled up around his short thick legs and bagging over his untied brown leather gym shoes.
“It’s cool,” said Damon. “No drama. How’s the big S?”
“It’s aw-ight,” said Ephraim, with a shrug. He perked up a bit as he spoke, looking less like a skinny crow. “Dragon dog Frazier is back acting as stupid as ever. It’s a good
