Fire in the Streets (20 page)

It's cold out. So cold that it doesn't make sense that my skin feels hot. It doesn't make sense how bad I want to lash out at something, when really nothing has changed. The man is at home, with Mama. I can go there, with Cherry's gun, but what happens after that? To be a Panther means doing it better, doing more than letting myself go to a place where right and wrong don't matter, where there is only rage and it rules everything with its heat.

I begin to lose myself in uncertainty. The knife wound stings sharp and the gun is right there, holstered and ready to be drawn into fire. But the fire that would spring from its lips is nothing, nothing compared to the fire that devours the streets or the one that lives under my skin.

I
DON'T KNOW HOW I'M GOING TO GO BACK HOME.
But now it's much too late to knock at Emmalee's. I tell myself I'm a Panther now, and Panthers don't sleep on the street. Not when they can take matters into their own hands. The gun is tucked at the small of my back. It's no longer cold. It's warmed to me. I breathe a last deep draw of the fresh air, and slide into the building.

Panthers are expected to defend their homes. Raheem has a gun that he keeps in the drawer, but he carries it with him when he's out.

I open the door, no idea what I'll find. Scared I'll find myself pointing the gun at the man, trying to make him leave. Scared I won't be able to.

Mama's alone. She's sitting tucked tight on the sofa, staring down at the rug, like she can see it, like she knows. The door clicking shut makes her turn her head. “You can't do that to me,” she says. “Run off like that.”

“Is he gone?” I won't remind her how it happened. The things she said. Let her paint the memory any way she wants to.

“I don't want you walking around in the middle of the night. You hear me?” Her voice is low and strained.

“Is he gone?”

Mama nods. “I'm so sorry.”

My mind is not yet at ease. I try to force myself to relax. Let the gun remain a part of me that doesn't have to be revealed.

“Come here, little girl,” Mama whispers.

I drag myself down onto the sofa, curling against her with my head in her lap. She strokes back the short frizzes of hair along my temple and behind my ear. The weight that I carry seems to matter less and less.

“You're my beauty, you know that?”

I close my eyes, my body tucked tight. I curl into her words even harder. “Yes, Mama.”

“Nothing bad that ever happened in the world was your fault. You got that?”

“Yes.”

“It's just bad luck,” she whispered. “My bad luck. I'm not meant to be happy. I just keep on trying anyway.”

I
T'S A SMALL ACHE, BUT ONE THAT KIND OF LINGERS
. I can't forget what happened. In my catalog of worst things, its rank is very low. But still.

I'm sitting on the wall, waiting for Emmalee and Patrice. I start to hear the whistles from the guys at the corner before I even see Cherry coming. She's wearing a knee-length dress cut low and tight. Shades that hide half her face. Hair all round and tall. A dainty purse. High heels, of course. She's swinging. The basketball boys start to trip over themselves turning to watch her do that walk across the playground.

There's all kinds of power, I guess. Raheem's kind, Jolene's kind, Leroy's kind, Cherry's kind. I'm going to find my kind. Make them see it. I just don't know how yet.

I hold my ground as she approaches. It's the high ground, the place you want to be before a fight. Emmalee's been reading to us out of
The Art of War
. Not like I'm at war with Cherry, but she does have something I want, and
what's even better is, she probably thinks it's the other way around right now.

“Hey, Maxie.” Cherry reaches me, braces one wrist against the wall near my hip, facing me. “I think you have something of mine.”

I smile. “I guess I do.”

“I'm going to need it back, okay?”

“Sure.” But I sit without moving, without reaching for it.

Cherry shifts her hips, impatient. “So, where is it?”

“I'm not sure if I should tell you.” I try to sound grown-up and aloof.

Cherry raises her shades and plants them in the front of her Afro. “Look, I appreciate it, okay?” She squeezes my arm. “I was in a bad place, and what I was doing was messed up.”

“You all right now?”

Cherry smiles. “Never better.”

There's an edge to it, though. Like there's an edge to everything these days.

“Okay.”

“Thanks, kid. I owe you.”

I grin. “Really? Will you do something for me? I need some help.”

Cherry steps back and surveys me. “Sure. I know a lipstick color that'd be perfect for you.”

“What?” I'd been gearing up to ask the real favor. Now I'm a little bit thrown. “Sorry, no, I didn't mean . . .”

She waves a hand. “Lots of people ask me. It's no big deal. I've seen you watching me. You're pretty enough as is, I think, but if you want to know more about makeup and clothes, I'll take you downtown.”

Cherry thinks I'm pretty? “Really?”

“Sure.” She reaches into her purse and takes out a cigarette. Lights it. The sunlight is so bright, I can barely see the tip glowing, but still I'm reminded of the shadow edge, the dark side of things.

“No.” I fumble for what I was supposed to say. “I mean, that would be great, but . . .” I take a deep breath. “Please, could you tell Leroy and Jolene that I'd be a good Panther? They won't let me in, but I know I'm old enough. I already work at the office every day. I'm responsible and I follow the rules.”

Cherry shakes her head. “What makes you think they'll listen to little old me?”

They'll listen. I know it. “You're smart. People pay attention to you.”

She picks a fleck of tobacco off her tongue. Stares at me. “Hmm. Well, sure. Yeah. I'll say something.”

I sigh, relieved. “Thanks.”

“So, about the other thing. I really need it back,” she
says. “Where'd you stash it? Is it at home? Let's go get it.”

I reach into my bag. Extract the gun, rest it in my lap.

Gasping, Cherry lays her hand over mine, covering it as best she can. “Maxie, what are you doing?” She glances around to see who's watching. “You can't be running around with that.”

The cigarette drops to the ground as Cherry fumbles to open her purse and slip the gun inside. I can see that I've scared her, the woman I thought was unshakable. She slides the purse back onto her arm, puts her back to the wall, and looks around, trying to seem casual as she toes the cigarette to dust. I can't help but track her gaze.

People
are
watching. Of course they are. It's Cherry. Someone who's used to being noticed. Me, it's starting to seem like I could wave a shotgun in the middle of the street and no one would notice. Least, no one who matters.

“Sorry, Cherry.” I mean it.

She repositions her shades, slides her cool calmness back over her face. “Don't sweat it, sugar. You want to live on the edge? You got it.”

Then she's walking away.

“Maybe the lipstick, too,” I call after her. She raises a hand in a half wave as she fades back into the corridor of catcalls.

R
AHEEM FUSSES WITH BREAD FROM A
plastic bag, cutting the presliced slices in half. He has a few slivers of chicken or turkey laid on out a plate already. I don't know where it all came from, but it's clearly scraps from somewhere.

“Dinner,” he says, thumping the plate down in front of me. It's the smallest, flattest sandwich I've ever seen in my life. And that's saying something.

“That's it?” I snap.

“Watch it,” Raheem barks back.

“Sorry.” Being hungry makes me cranky. It's a perfectly decent sandwich.

Raheem grunts. “You don't know what I went through to get this much. You better appreciate it.”

I grab up the sandwich. “I do appreciate it.” I take small bites, hoping to make the feeling of eating last longer.

I don't know how long we can go on like this. It's been
a lean few months, but I haven't been afraid of starving to death until now. With The Breakfast each morning to take the edge off, it hasn't been so terrible this time around. Mama's still out of work, but Raheem just started working shifts at a second job bussing tables at an Italian restaurant down near the Loop.

Halfway through, I set the sandwich down. Eating slow enough sometimes fools my stomach. “I can still get a job,” I remind him.

“Your job is to learn,” Raheem says. “Go to school. Get your degrees. That's the most important thing.”

I don't know about that. Looking at the sandwich, knowing it's not going to fill me. It's hard to think about the future when you're running on empty. But impossible not to, when I also know we're running out of time. Almost two weeks since the yellow notice. Soon the landlord will come knocking, and there's only so much magic we can work to stave him off.

I take another bite, swallow, and say, “The rent is past due.” It's time to let him know I know.

Raheem studies me over his half of the sandwich. “No, it's not,” he says. “We're okay.”

My nostrils flare. It steams me, when he out-and-out lies. I drop my food onto the plate. “I saw the notice,” I tell him. “You think you have secrets, but I always know.”

Raheem looks at me for a long while. “Nothing gets by you, I should know by now.”

“You should just
tell
me. It would save time.”

“I get paid tomorrow,” Raheem says finally. “We'll be okay after that.”

“Is that the
truth
?”

He shifts. “You'll see. With my second job, and when Mama gets back to work, we might be able to save a little too,” he adds. “So hopefully it won't be like this again.”

That impresses me. We've never had any savings beyond whatever's in the coffee can at the moment. The idea is even harder to swallow than these bites of dry sandwich.

“I don't want to seem like I'm complaining,” I say. “Food is food.” That's a stretch, and we both know it. Tuna out of the can is nothing like a good thick hamburger. But I know better than to think about better food while I'm eating what I'm eating. I polish off the sandwich.

Raheem's expression softens. “You're not a complainer, Maxie. I know that.”

“I would never complain about not finishing school, either.” I try to sneak that in on the sly. I like what he said about savings. If I got a job too, we could
save
the money.

Nothing doing. “Damn it, Maxie, if you say that one more time—” Raheem threatens.

“You'll what?” I snap. “You don't have any say. I could do it tomorrow, and there'd be nothing you could do.”

“You are
not dropping out
,” he yells, leaning across the table toward me. “I've given up too much. Don't you dare even think about it.”

“The Panthers need me,” I lie. “I can work half-time and be in the office half-time, like you.”

“Where is this coming from? Haven't I made myself clear?”

“I don't care anymore,” I shout at him. I don't know where it's coming from. Maybe the corners of my empty stomach. Maybe from seeing the yellow notices. Or maybe it's the truth in my heart. We need the money.

“You better do what I tell you,” he roars. “I know what's right.”

“I want to matter,” I blurt. “I want to help.” Out of nowhere, I'm thinking about Steve. How he was out there, fighting for something. How he died for no reason at all. After the shooting, I know that I could die too. Any minute. I don't want it to happen before I do anything interesting.

Raheem goes quiet. A siren curls through the silence, first distant, then closer, then fading again. I wonder whose turn it is policing.

“You think you don't matter?” Raheem says.

I don't say anything, because it seems so obvious.
Everyone's been telling me, one way or another: “You're not ready, Maxie. What you have to give is not enough.” And I've been believing them. All this time I've been waiting for someone to say okay. Maybe it's time I took matters into my own hands. That's what Panthers do.

“Maxie—”

“I'm doing it,” I say.

“You are not,” he replies.

“Am so.”

“So help me, Maxie—” Raheem sputters, so mad it's coming out his ears. His face turns stormy like he wants to scold me, but really, what have I done except talk about what's true? It's an expression exactly like one our real dad used to make. A scary-perfect replica. It's been such a long time since I've seen that on anyone's face.

“Okay, so I won't get a job,” I tell him. “Instead, I'm going to be a Panther. Full-time. I'm going to live in that office. I'm going to die in that office, until they let me into the lineup.”

Raheem pushes back from the table. “No.”

“We got shot at,” I shout after him. “Everyone else gets to use that to change things, why can't I?”

I
N THE MORNING, RAHEEM IS SITTING ON THE
couch, sipping a Coke and waiting for me. He watches me cross to the kitchen, where I'm mesmerized by the sight of a fresh bag of rice and a bowl of apples. Despite being on my way to The Breakfast, I reach out and take one. Bite into it. It's not something we could save for too long anyway.

Raheem is still studying me when I turn away from the counter.

Around my mouthful, I murmur, “What?”