At the Crossroads (17 page)

Nigel walked away from the door and out of the house. He jumped in his car and was down at the store in less than two minutes. He jumped out of his car, looked at the police officer who was parked directly out in front of the store, and ignored him.

“Habib,” Nigel said. “Good morning, homie.”

“Hey,” Habib said as if he was waiting on Nigel to show up. “What in the goodness is going on with your cousin?”

“Huh?”

“He came in my store and stole from me. That’s not nice,” Habib said.

“Stole from you?”

“Yes,” Habib said. “Did I stutter? Stole from me. Your ears are working just fine.”

“What do you mean he stole from you? Stole what?”

“I’ve been very kind to you and your family. I let you have things and pay me later. Do I not?”

“Yes, and we always pay you for them, too,” Nigel said defensively. “Do we not?”

“Well, Franky came in here last night and was acting really weird. He didn’t even speak. That’s not like him. That’s what always separated him from these knuckle-heads around here. He’s cultured. But last night, he came in here and walked out with a Pepsi without paying me. Didn’t even say a thing,” Habib said, shaking his head.

“But Franky don’t steal,” Nigel said.

“That’s what I thought, but he came in here last night and stole. Surprised me, too,” Habib said.

“Really,” Nigel said, reaching into his pocket to pay for the stolen good. “How much do I owe you for the Pepsi he took?”

“Nothing,” Habib said, fanning him off. “You just tell him to come and apologize. And I want him to explain to me what was wrong him. He’s my friend and I’m concerned.”

“I will,” Nigel said, deep in thought.

“Then,” Habib said, jumping up as if he just remembered something else, “guess what else he did? He poured the Pepsi on the police officer. Didn’t even drink it. They locked him up.”

“What?”

“Yes, I pleaded with the officer but he paid me no mind.”

“Who locked him up?”

“The officer who parks here every night. The big-eared white boy. He still may be outside. But they took my friend to jail,” Habib said, shaking his head. “It was almost like he wanted to go. The officer was gonna let him go after I said good things about him, but when the guy seemed like he was gonna let him go, Franky hauled off and kicked him. Kicked him good, too. Strange. I tell you, very strange.”

Nigel reached into his pocket and slid a five-dollar bill under the bulletproof window that separated Habib from the customers who frequented his store.

“No,” Habib protested. “I can’t take that.”

“Yes, you can,” Nigel said, and ran outside. The police officer was pulling off just as Nigel made it outside.

“Hey!” he called out, but the officer was already on Martin Luther King Boulevard and speeding down the street. “Daggone it,” he said, punching his own hand in frustration.

Nigel jumped into his car and raced back up the block to his house. He pulled into the driveway, jumped out of the car, and started running. He ran inside the house and straight back to Franky’s room. He opened the door and looked inside, hoping that Habib had just had a bad dream. Franky wasn’t anywhere to be found. Nigel growled in frustration and ran around the house, looking for his cousin. He sighed and look around as if Habib and Franky had got together to film an episode of
Punk’d.
But his life was far from a television show. Looking around his cousin’s room, he knew that Franky was exactly where Habib said he was.

The phone rang and he rushed out of the room to get it, hoping it was Franky.

“Hello?” he said.

“May I speak to Franky?” a girl’s voice said.

“He’s not here,” Nigel said. “Who is calling?”

“This is Khadija,” she said. “Will you tell him I called?”

“Oh, how you doing, Khadija?” Nigel said. “I didn’t recognize your voice.”

“I’m doing okay. I was trying to catch Franky before he left for school.”

“You already missed him. I haven’t heard from you in a few days. You doing okay?”

“Yes,” Khadija said. “I’m okay. Will you tell Franky to call me? I really need to talk to him.”

“I’ll do it,” Nigel said.

“Okay,” Khadija said. “Please don’t forget to tell him that I called.”

“I won’t,” Nigel said before hanging up.

Nigel walked back to Franky’s door and stared at his empty bed. His heart was heavy, and he felt responsible for where Franky was, because he didn’t press him hard enough for answers when he started acting weird after he got jumped. His interest in school dropped, he never went to meet the football coach, and he stayed in his room staring at the wall. Now that his little cousin had finally snapped, he couldn’t help but take the blame.

Nigel saw Auntie Kelli’s telephone number, picked the phone up, and dialed it. He had done the best he could for Franky and he’d failed. It was time for someone else to try.

A
loud horn sounded, and Franky slowly opened his eyes. He looked around and tried to figure out where he was. He was still sitting upright with his back against the wall. A set of feet plopped down in front of his face, followed by a body. A person jumped from the top bunk and turned around to look at him.

“What’s up?” the guy said.

Franky didn’t respond. He ignored the brown-skinned guy with tattoos on his face. There was a black tattoo of a cross between his eyes and two teardrops on the outside of his left eye.

“It’s breakfast time,” the boy said. “And you gotta get up and eat.”

The boy was about Franky’s height but was heavier. Franky sized him up and figured he should be on somebody’s football field instead of in the county’s jail cell, but then again so should he. He stood up and stretched.

“I’m DeMarco. People call me Dee,” he said, reaching out his hand.

Franky gave his hand a halfhearted slap.

“What’s your name, homie?” Dee asked.

“Franky,” he said. “Do you know a guy in here named Tyrone?”

“Black Tyrone?”

“He’s black,” Franky said.

“It’s two of them in here. One is light skinned and the other one is as black as a car tire. The light-skin one is cool, but Black Ty is a buster. He just got here a few days ago. Loudmouth with a missing front tooth? I guess somebody got tired of that big mouth and fired him up.”

“How can I get at him?” Franky asked, excited at the opportunity. “He’s gotta pay for some things he did.”

“Well, you will see him in a few minutes. We all eat together,” Dee said, smiling in anticipation of some action.

“What about the guards? I only need a few minutes with him,” Franky said, licking his lips.

“A few minutes ain’t happening, bro, but you can get to him. There is no such thing as a long fight in here. Guards are on their jobs. I’ve been in here so many times that I know their steps in my sleep. I’ll tell you when you’ll have more time, but it won’t be at breakfast.”

“So when?”

“Classrooms are always good,” he said. “But you will still get only a minute or so at most. Me and a few of my people can stand in the way and give you a lil more time, but the thing is, they gonna send us back to our rooms for the rest of the day and that’s gonna cost you.”

“What’s it gonna cost me?”

Dee shrugged his shoulders. “Not much. Nobody likes him. He talks too much and he’s fugazy.”

“What’s that?” Franky asked.

“Fake.”

“Count time. Line up,” a voice said from out in the corridor.

“Let’s go, cuz,” Dee said. “The hacks get to trippin’ if we don’t get out here before they come to do their lil count.”

Room,
Franky took note of how calm and at home Dee seemed. He wasn’t trying to get too comfortable in this place. But he was willing to stay as long as he could to make Tyrone pay for his cowardly act. Yet Franky knew that if he carried out the plans that were dancing around in his head, he, too, would have to get comfortable with that thin mattress and the steel doors.

They stepped out of their room and stood by the door. The first floor was for no violent offenders and those who could be bailed out at any time. The second floor was where you could find all of the head cases and career juvenile offenders. Franky looked up and was amazed at the size of the place. There had to be at least one hundred rooms, and two kids were standing by each one. The place looked like it was right out of the movie
Lockdown.
Everywhere he looked, he saw nothing but steel and glass. There was a control room directly in front of him that opened and closed doors, called for more officers if there was a riot, and watched the juvenile delinquents’ every move.

Once the corrections officer was satisfied that everyone was accounted for, he asked them to turn to their right, place their hands behind their backs, and march to the mess hall.

Franky scanned every face he saw, trying to find Tyrone, but he didn’t see him. Every kid had on the same navy blue jumpsuit with the exception of a few sprinkled around who wore orange ones.

“Why do they have on orange?” Franky asked Dee as they walked.

“They got big charges,” Dee said. “Or they’re about to turn eighteen, and if that’s the case, they are out of here and about to go over to the adult spot. I ain’t ever tryna go there, bro.”

“Me neither,” Franky said. “I’m tryna make this my one and only stop, ya heard.”

“You from New Orleans, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Ya the only ones who say ‘ya heard’ fifty times a sentence. ‘Ya heard,’ “ Dee said. “Yeah, I heard ya. I’m standing right here.”

Franky kept looking for Tyrone as they walked. They made it to the mess hall, and Franky slowly trudged up and got his tray. The place was surprisingly quiet. Franky placed his tray in front of the old lady who was waiting to serve the juvies. She slapped a big wad of some funky-looking white mixture onto his plate and jerked her finger to the right, signaling for him to keep moving. The next server gave him some boiled eggs, and the next guy gave him burned toast. He grabbed a carton of milk from a stainless-steel tub and walked over to an empty table by the wall. He didn’t touch his food; his attention was on the faces of the guys coming into the mess hall.

There he was.

Franky stood up, but before he could take a step toward his enemy, Dee blocked his path.

“You can’t do it right here, cuz,” Dee said. “The most you gonna get is a punch in, and they will keep y’all separated forever. So sit tight. Come sit with us.”

“Well, looky-looky here,” Tyrone said. “How ya doing, New Orleans? Or should I say, how’s Khadija?”

Franky stood up, but Dee’s large hand grabbed his shoulder and slammed him back down.

“Ignore him for now. He knows nothing is jumping off in here.”

“See that fool,” Tyrone said to one of the guys who was standing by him. “That’s why I’m locked up. Crushed that fool and I knocked his lil stink girlfriend out, too. One punch, boi. Bam! Right in her ugly face.”

The boys with Tyrone stared at him—so did everyone else in earshot of the loudmouth.

Franky was boiling inside. His eyes began to water because he wanted to go after Tyrone so bad.

“You crying, man?” one of the guys at his table asked.

“Nah,” Dee said. “He ain’t crying. That’s pain. Loudmouth is in trouble.”

“Whatchu do to get up in here, New Orleans?” Tyrone asked as he went to another area of the mess hall. “Stole a schoolbook? Ya nerd. I’ma see ya around, boi.”

Franky dropped his head and massaged his temples. Seeing the guy who had turned his world upside down and not be able to touch him was pure torture.

“Let him talk. Dig his own grave,” Dee said.

Franky stood and walked over to his table to get his tray. He noticed that someone had taken his milk. “Who took my milk?” he barked.

The guys at the table next to him snickered and laughed among themselves. Franky walked over and saw one guywith his hand behind his back. He stared down at the boy. “You got three seconds to give me that milk back.”

The boy looked at his friends with a smirk on his face, but Franky could see the fear in his eyes.

“One,” Franky said. “Two.”

“Give it up,” Dee said.

The boy’s smirk disappeared and without a word handed Franky the carton.

Franky reached out and snatched it out of his hand. He glared at the boy, who only looked down at his plate.

“So what’s your beef with Loudmouth?” Dee asked. “Oh, hold up. This is Zimir and that’s Detric,” he said, pointing at a guy who was so big he was almost bursting out of his jumpsuit and at a small guy who looked to be about ten years old.

“He and a few of his friends jumped me and my girl. He hit her in the face with a roll of quarters and put her in the hospital.”

“Why’d he do that?” Detric, the small guy, asked.

“He came up to me at school talking about how some dudes from Nawlins shot his potna, and I guess he blamed me. So I punched him in the face and knocked him and his tooth out. He’s a clown. So he got his lil coward friends to attack me and my girl. Now my girl’s parents moved her away and she’s not talking to me.”

“Sounds like he needs a whipping,” Zimir said. “My daddy is from New Orleans. I used to go down there every summer. I wanna hit up that Mardi Gras, though. I bet it be some honeys down there.”

Franky nodded, but his eyes were on Tyrone, who was laughing and joking around like he didn’t have a care in the world. If he only knew.

“Where do we go after we leave here?” Franky asked, plotting how to get at Tyrone.

“After here, we go to class. Kind of relaxed over there. You can have at him for a good fifty, maybe sixty seconds before somebody come running. Then if you ain’t happy with your handiwork, we can block the guards for a few more seconds, but if we get in trouble, that’s gonna cost you a few honey buns.”

“I had some money on me when I got here. Will they let me buy stuff with that?” Franky asked.

“Yeah,” Dee said.

“Honey buns,” Zimir said, licking his lips. “I’ma need to get about three of those.”

The same horn that woke Franky up sounded again, and everyone jumped up to empty their trays. They were lined up again in single file, then walked with their hands behind their backs until they made it to the school.