You Don't Even Know Me (9 page)

“Man.” Elliott shakes his head. “Look at that,” he says, tripping over the curb.

North Philly girls can do that to you: make you forget what you doing. The way they get their hair done. The way they dress like they going someplace special, when most likely they are just going around the block. How they walk like they got all day, but you don't mind because you ain't rushing to noplace nohow.

I'm standing on my toes because I want to see every piece of her. But then another girl walks up to the bus stop. Elliott and I look her up and down, 'cause when a North Philly girl walks by, it's like seeing one of them murals—something that don't just look good but makes you feel good way deep down inside too. “Sometimes . . . I think I'm never going to get a girl,” I say.

Elliott wouldn't admit that even if it was true. He slaps his chest. “Shoot. Girls won't leave me alone.”

He and I aren't the types that girls chase after. Or the kind they write notes to in class. Sometimes they call me “E” for “Ears.” Elliott gets called other names. Goofy. Maniac. Firebug. Mouth.

I take another look at that girl. “Nice,” I say, downing my soda, trying to cool off from this heat, and from that girl who is beautiful right down to the soles of her feet.

But we can't stare at girls all day. So we cut up one street and head down another, where some dudes are standing on the corner downing brew and playing craps. Elliott wants in. Not me. “Let's keep going.”

He gets loud. “So what you gonna do when you fifteen, sixteen?” Elliott asks, like he's older than I am. “Still play video games? Basketball?” He crosses the street, flashing money. Dice hit the ground. Fingers snap. Hands slap, then stick out, waiting for people to pay up. I walk over too, because Elliott is right. I need to act my age. What do I ever do? Babysit. Collect trash. Who does that at my age? Nobody. I empty my pockets, dropping other people's trash on the ground.

“Lend me some money, Elliott.”

Everyone here is older than us, in their twenties, mostly. They light up. Drink up. Cuss when they lose. Cuss when they win. And get tired of Elliott and his mouth after a while. I notice things like that. Elliott never does. So I tell him that I need to take a leak, not because I have to, but because I hate the way they're talking to him—like he's someone you put up with but you really can't stand. A little while later, he's outta money anyhow. So we take off, before they run us off.

By the time we pass Spangler Street, my skin feels as hot as the plastic bottle I pick up off the ground and put in my bag. So when we see a swimming pool in front of a house, looking cool and clean, I stop.

“Let's get in.”

No one's out on this block, just us. But we hear the family in the back, laughing and grilling. Elliott is out of his shirt and sneakers before I can change my mind. I kick off my sneakers. Let my shirt and pants hit the ground, then I slide into the water, staying underneath until my air is gone.

Rubber ducks and a beach ball, dead flies and a leaf float around us. Elliott does a headstand. I do a belly flop. He swims around the bottom, picking up pennies. It's a big pool, like maybe six feet deep. That's crazy. I never seen one this big sitting on a pavement before.

“Hey, Elliott, check this out.” I dive in this time.

“Mom! They in our pool!”

I hear the words while I'm underwater.

“They stealing it!”

A broomstick gets me in the ribs. I pop up. “Hey! Don't . . .”

“Ouch!” Elliott holds his cheek. She smacked him with the bristles.

I'm limping, grabbing my sneakers and pants, telling him to bring the rest of our things. But then the father shows up. And he's got more than a broom with him.

You can not outrun a pit bull. But I'm trying.

We're running up the middle of the street, barefooted, wet, and in our underwear. “Help! Somebody . . .” I turn the corner, jump on the hood of a Merano, and climb onto the roof. “Elliott, run!”

Elliott hits the roof of a BMW so hard it dents. The dog puts its front legs on the fender; snaps and spits. People point. A man asks if we need help, but he don't move. A few minutes later, the owner walks up the block, whistling and waving to people he knows. “Lesson learned?” he says, putting a chain on the dog's neck.

Water is running down my legs, and it's not pool water. “Yeah,” I say embarrassed.

“Wait till I tell my dad,” Elliott yells at the man. “He's gonna kill you and your dog.”

A door opens. A woman yells for Elliott to get off her new car. “Now!” Then she runs down the steps, barefooted. Elliott and I hit the ground at the same time, turning the corner so fast it's like we got wings instead of feet.

“This sucks.”

Elliott looks at me.

“People been chasing us all morning.” I pull up my pants. “I'm going home.”

Two Muslim girls walk by in jeans and hijabs. “What if I got us some girls?”

“How you gonna do that? Girls don't like you, and they don't like me.”

He follows them up the street, telling me to wait no matter how long he's gone.

I'm on Diamond Street; by the time he catches up to me it's half an hour later. He's got four girls with him— and they ain't ugly either. They're North Philly girls— fine. Walking slow and talking with their hands a lot. Smelling sweet and glossing their lips.

These girls, whose shorts are so tight and small I'd rather walk behind them than beside them, introduce themselves to me. Raven is shy, I think. She stares at the ground more than she looks up. That's my type—cute and quiet.

“There's a block party off of Ridge,” Elliott says, putting his arms around Erista. “Let's hit that.”

Philly loves block parties. You can find one anywhere in the summertime. So it doesn't take us long to find one. The street's blocked off, and all the cars are gone. Old ladies and fat girls line dance in the street. Men cook and cut cards. Little kids run up and down the block blowing bubbles, shooting water, and crying when they fall. The girl in front of me snaps her fingers and shakes her butt, then stops, drops, and pops. People laugh and run in and out of doors for more salt, spicy mustard, and lite beer. “I got next,” a woman says, sitting down at a table to play tonk.

A boy my age stands up asking if anybody wants to play Pokeno. “For quarters, not nickels, though.”

“Y'all eat?” a woman sitting out front her house asks. None of us knows her. She hands us plates. “Don't pass my house without eating something.”

I pile my plate and dig in, eating everything I see— barbecued ribs and jerk chicken, potato salad, tuna salad, deviled eggs, and candied yams. At the next house I get watermelon, steak, and hot dogs. Then I stash empty M&M, Snickers, and Peppermint Pattie wrappers down my front pocket. Elliott tells me to chill when I pick up an empty pizza box, peeling off a piece of cheese that's still on it.

“Wipe your mouth,” Jamilla says, patting my lips with a napkin.

I don't think Raven liked that.

We hit another block. Check out another party. It's hot and getting hotter. The dejay on the radio says it's ninety-seven degrees. “And we ain't done cooking yet.”

Raven's nose sweats. Elliott's forehead is red. And me, well, the elastic around my drawers is soaking wet; so is the rest of me down there.

“We can go swimming,” Elliott says.

“In what?”

The girls don't live far away, so they'll get their things, they say. It's Elliott and me that can't get into the local pool. But you know Elliott is nuts. He asks some people if they got old trunks or gym shorts that we can borrow. A woman who works at Sears, and lost her son in Iraq, feels sorry for us. She gives us trunks. And they fit.

North Philly girls got the best bodies, I swear. Karen and Jamilla don't have on blouses, only bikini tops with peep holes in the middle. Erista's got a chest big enough for two girls, and a butt as big as the moon. And even though Raven's suit is under her clothes, I'm thinking about how she's gonna look in it, and starting to sweat all over again.

“Check this out.” Elliott's in front of a house that's just about burnt down. He's pulling Karen by the arm. She's giggling. Acting like she doesn't want to go in, but not fighting hard enough to stay out. I'm wondering about old needles, and rats. But she goes inside anyhow. When they come out, you can tell what happened. He got kissed. Her hair got messed up and so did her top. “Fix this,” she says, asking her girl to retie the strings to her suit.

Raven looks at me. “Don't even think about it,” she says, like I ever would.

We're outside the fence watching; smelling chlorine in the water and food cooking in the park across the way. People laugh and girls lie, telling guys, “Quit dunking me,” then going back for more.

I sit by Raven on the edge of the pool, staring at her flat belly, wondering what she'd think if I picked up the pecan swirls wrapper or that Arizona Iced Tea empty and stuck 'em in my pants pocket. My stepdad hates when I do that. But I got my reasons.

Raven slides into the pool, one toe, one thigh, one arm at a time, like it's icy cold instead of warm as the sun. Dripping wet and smiling, she asks where I live and go to school. I forget about trash. I want to know if she has a boyfriend; what her cell number is. Not like I ask, though. I get in and out of the pool talking to her, but making sure not to splash her hair, even though a little water finds it anyhow.

It's packed in the pool. So you can't help but bump into people. Since we came an hour ago, I accidentally knocked into this one dude like four times. I can't afford to do that no more.

But it happens anyhow.

“Quit it, man!” He's all muscles, like my stepdad.

“Sorry.”

“Naw, man. You gotta do better than that.”

He's like nineteen or twenty. Loud-talking me for swimming into him, 'cause too many people were around for me to do anything else. I walk away. He shoves me. Normally I would keep walking. But she's watching. “I
said
I was sorry! What you want me to do?”

“Yeah. What you want him to do?” It's Elliott. He is five-six and a hundred and ten pounds. No one is afraid of him. So the guy keeps talking to me.

He pulls his shorts up. “When I'm in the pool, you stay out the pool. Awright?”

“This my little brother. Don't talk to him like that.” Elliott's got a big mouth.

The guy pushes me down and holds me under until water fills up my mouth. I come up coughing and spitting. People circle us, looking at him and waiting for me to do something.

“You don't own the pool,” I say.

Elliott's fists are up, but he gets pushed under the water, too, and held down a long time. Elliott is a fool. When he comes back up, he's still talking. “Do you know who I am? Do you know who my father is?”

The dude shoves him under again. Elliott comes up blowing snot into his hand and washing it off in the pool. Then out of his mouth comes the biggest lie. His father works for the DA, he says. And he pops off names to prove it. His mother is the mayor's secretary and his uncle is the assistant to the assistant chief of police. “You don't believe me, huh, huh?” Elliott is climbing out the pool. “Who got a cell? Hand me a cell!”

I don't know if the guy believes him, but the lifeguard comes over and asks what the problem is. He tells people to swim or get out. The guy who dunked us is underwater, at first. Then he pops up with a girl on his shoulders. She laughs. He throws her off and swims to the other side of the pool.

It's still not over when I get ready to leave.

Bam!
I'm down on my knees.

“Don't swim near me no more,” he says, diving back into the pool.

Elliott doesn't say a word. Neither do I. This is North Philly. This thing could go on until something even worse happens.

“You okay?” Raven wants to know.

The other girls are laughing.

My back burns so bad that I ask Elliott if he sees blood. “I think he used something,” I tell him.

“Don't be like that in front of girls.”

“Like what?”

He covers his mouth when he says it. “Like . . . lame.”

I walk as straight as I can. But all I really want to do is sit down, before I fall down.

The girls spread out towels on the grass, then kicking off their flip-flops and sandals. Seals spit water at two little boys, while old men sit and play checkers. A half an hour more and then we'll leave, we all figure. Only Raven's friends take off before then. “Y'all boring,” they say, leaving with their towels. I'm not sure why
she
stays. I wouldn't figure her to be the type to stick with two boys she hardly knows. We three stretch out in the hard, dry grass, listening to Michael Jackson singing on somebody's car radio, and water splashing. I close my eyes. Elliott asks her a question. I never hear the answer.

* * *

“How long we been asleep?” Raven wants to know. The pool is closed, and the creeps are out. “I don't know. An hour?”

I tell her we'll walk her home. “Not till the fireworks are done, though,” Elliott says, running up the hill and sitting down.

This is why I love North Philly. You can see all kinds of people and do all kinds of things—good or bad. Two Harleys ride up the middle of 33rd Street, side by side, doing wheelies and slowing traffic. Cars fly by in the opposite direction, beeping their horns at a man holding a sign saying honk if you've been tested. Music loud enough to hear downtown makes one woman dance all by herself. She's throwing down so hard that a white dude jumps out his Volkswagen and finishes the song with her. Girls walk up the block in threes and tens. Cop cars creep up the street, watching, while reefer smells up the park and the homeless do their business in the dark.

I should go home. I'd tell Elliott that too, but she's here. And my stepdad is probably home, ready to shoot me. So I lay next to her and listen to the fireworks thunder and whistle, explode and pop, whiz nearby and shoot up high, then burst into a thousand stars.