A Love Hate Thing Page 11

  Tyson didn’t hold my gaze, and I knew I had my answer.

  “Ty—Trice—”

  He held his hand up. “Just call me Tyson.”

  “But you hate it.”

  He leaned against his desk, folding his arms across his chest. “Not so much when you say it. It reminds me of when we were kids, when things weren’t so bad and I was kinda happy. I was always Tyson with you.”

  His words touched me, but they didn’t distract me from the matter at hand. “You can’t go back there. All that’s waiting for you is trouble.”

  His mind was made up. “I’ve gotta do a favor for someone, Nandy. I’m not really worrying about what could happen.”

  “Why not?”

  “I have nothing to look forward to either way. I can take it or leave it. I’m doing this because someone needs my help.”

  I hated that he was so apathetic about whether he lived or died or ever got better. I hated that he’d given up on himself.

  “Tyson, you have to believe in something.”

  He wasn’t hearing me. “No, I don’t. I’m just going with the flow. You won’t change my mind. I’m leaving.”

  “What exactly is it that you’re doing?”

  “Going for a ride.”

  Vague, much?

  “I—I could tell my parents.”

  “Even if I believed you’d do that, do you really think that would stop me?”

  “What makes you so sure I won’t tell?”

  “Because you just got back on my good side, and I don’t think you wanna piss me off again.” His hard eyes challenged me to argue, and I conceded.

  Looking down at my hands, I said, “What’s the point of this ride?”

  “I’m dropping something off and collecting a fee, but it’s not about the money. A friend of mine can’t do it, and I have to take his place. He’d do it for me.”

  “You won’t get hurt, will you?”

  “More than likely no.”

  “Promise me this is the last time you’ll do something like this?”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because if they need me, I’m there, no question.”

  “You can’t ever prosper with one foot still in the streets, Tyson!” His carelessness was beginning to aggravate me.

  He smirked. “‘Streets’? You’ve been watching BET, huh?”

  There was no use in arguing; he was bound to go regardless of what I said. Stupid Lindenwood, trying to bring him down with it.

  I glanced at the bag on the floor, the one filled with other books.

  “Do you consider yourself black or African American?” I wondered.

  Tyson squinted and scratched his head. “Black-American, I guess, why?”

  “You seem so gung ho about Africa.”

  “It’s different. You can meet a Mexican or Asian who’ll speak English and know all of our pop culture, but still have their hands in their roots. Us, we’ve been here for centuries, and little by little our touch with Africa has been lost. Africa is a continent. I can’t even begin to imagine which country or nationality I’m from. We’re American, as is our ‘black culture’ and history.”

  I liked his answer. Even though my parents had shown me movies like Roots and I’d learned about slavery in school, I didn’t feel or like the term African American, because, like Tyson had said, nothing about me or my family was African. We were very much Black American and didn’t practice any native customs or share links to the motherland. Edi and the Gómezes would go to Mexico on trips, and their household was very bilingual. Not to mention there was Erica and the Mandarin she would often speak around her cousins Geordan and Xiu.

  “I do think it’s nice that you’re taking Jordy to Thailand. I like and respect that about your parents,” Tyson went on.

  “Do you ever wanna see some of Africa?”

  “I don’t have a passport, and I’ve never been on a plane,” Tyson admitted. “But I guess it would be nice. Maybe I’d feel something. I don’t do a lot of that these days.”

  “Feel?”

  He shook his head.

  It hurt to know that he felt empty. It was probably why the idea of dying didn’t bother him. In his eyes, with his family dead, he had nothing left. He was a nonbeliever, someone in need of faith and hope.

  I only hoped the summer wouldn’t fail him and he wouldn’t fail himself by continuing on the dark path he was following.

  Tyson stood up from his desk and settled his gaze on me. “If I don’t come back—”

  I held my hand up and stopped him. “You will, or else.”

  He gave a soft smile. “Nice to see your ass is still bossy.”

  I smirked. “In my recollection, you seem to like this bossy ass.”

  With a quick flicker of his eyes measuring me out, Tyson said, “Yeah, I do.”

  His confession made my insides hot, and I couldn’t fight my smile. “Well—”

  “Nandy?” I recognized my boyfriend’s voice as he called to me from the first floor.

  Tyson glanced out his bedroom door and again he smirked. “I’ve gotta go.”

  He led the way down to the first floor, where Chad stood poised to climb the steps. At the sight of us together, he stopped short and took a step back to make way for us to enter the foyer.

  “What’s up?” Chad asked as he looked between Tyson and me.

  “I’m going out,” Tyson briefly offered before stepping around Chad.

  “Lindenwood?” Chad continued.

  “That’d be right.”

  “Oh.” Chad bobbed his head. “Maybe you could take...Travis with you. He could stand some realness.”

  It was a known fact throughout Cross High that Chad and Travis didn’t see eye to eye. Chad was what one would call the head honcho, but Travis was never fazed by Chad’s popular status or ranking at Cross. Sometimes he’d do or say things just to piss Chad off, and Chad always took the bait. It was a stupid masculine thing that I never cared to take part in.

  Tyson rolled his eyes. “Travis would be fine in Lindenwood.”

  “Oh? Is that so?” Chad didn’t seem so sure.

  “Real recognizes real in the ’Wood. Travis doesn’t strike me as the bullshit type. He doesn’t seem to scare easily either, so he’d be fine.”

  Chad didn’t seem satisfied with this answer. “Well, good for him.”

  Tyson returned to me. “If—”

  “Just come back, okay?”

  Tyson nodded and slipped out the door, leaving me in the foyer with my boyfriend.

  “What was that about?” Chad asked from behind me.

  “Nothing.” I stared at the floor. “He just has something to do.”

  “Should I have gone with him?”

  “No.”

  Chad turned me around and smiled at me, reaching out and touching my cheek. “Things are going to be real interesting once the school year starts.”

  “I know.”

  “He needs to know who’s in and who isn’t around here. Hanging with certain parties could ruin his reputation.”

  Travis Catalano wasn’t part of our circle. He was a charming guy with a great face and smile, elements he used to lure people in. But when it got down to it, those who were wise knew to stay away from Travis. His I-Don’t-Give-a-Fuck attitude often got him in trouble and some girl hurt. That and his frequent arguments with guys like Chad led to fights. Chad put up with Travis due to Travis’s friendship with Matt and Ben. Both were on the lacrosse team with Chad, and that made Travis tolerable—if barely—by association.

  I patted my boyfriend’s chest. “Let’s just see how the summer turns out, okay?”

  He shrugged. “I missed you, figured I’d stop by.”

  My parents were fond of Chad, and with Tys
on skipping out on dinner, I was sure they’d be more than happy to have Chad over. “Good, let’s get to dinner, I’m starving.”

  13 | Trice

  It was nothing to go back to Lindenwood. Prophet and Khalil needed me, and there was no hesitating on my part to help out.

  At the Crab Shack, Travis had asked what was up and if I needed his assistance. When I gave a quiet shake of my head, he left it alone and told me to “handle my business” before switching the subject. Warhol, Ashley, and Matt had joined us, and it hit me that there were definitely cliques established. Chad had his group, one Travis was clearly not invited into—not that he gave a fuck. Travis seemed to stick close to Matt. As Warhol and Ashley joined us, it was clear that they were more comfortable with Travis.

  For a moment, I allowed myself to wonder how things were at Cross High. Warhol and Ashley played football and didn’t care where I was from. Matt and his boyfriend both played lacrosse with Chad but didn’t quite seem up his ass like the others. Like Travis, Matt and Ben seemed to do their own thing. At least, that was the vibe Matt gave me. And then there was Travis, self-confessed trouble, yet he was in the marching band.

  I liked the heterogeneity of Travis’s group more.

  Not that it mattered. As I pulled up to Prophet’s house and parked, I knew I wouldn’t be in Pacific Hills long enough to get comfortable or for its residents to get used to me.

  The door opened before I could reach the porch steps, and the boys piled out of the house, but to my surprise, Asiah was with them.

  Prophet met me first, placing his hand on my shoulder. “Five minutes.”

  The boys hung around the porch while I stood back where I was, staring at Asiah for the first time in six months. Nothing had changed much about her appearance. She was still casual in a simple T-shirt and jeans and a fresh pair of kicks on her feet. The ends of her dark hair were still dyed blue from the time she’d wanted to do something different. Even in the night, and after so much time, everything about her called to me. Her beautiful face, her mocha skin, and her petite figure.

  It had been too long.

  There was a small smile on Asiah’s face as she came over and stood in front of me, hugging her arms around herself. Even after so much time, she knew not to just come out and touch me.

  When I’d been shot, we were off-again. Before that night, I’d told her I needed space to get things together for my mother and me. She hadn’t taken it well, deeming me a coward for not letting her help me. That a real man was one who knew he couldn’t do it all on his own and wasn’t shy to go to a woman for help.

  I’d just wanted my mother to be safe and hadn’t had the energy to focus on a relationship.

  “So, I heard you got a new girlfriend,” Asiah announced.

  I knew she was referring to Nandy, and I knew Pretty, Money, or Khalil had blabbed.

  “Oh, don’t blame them,” Asiah continued. “Tasha told me all about her.”

  “It’s cool now,” I said.

  Asiah lifted a brow. “She pretty?”

  We both knew my answer to the question and the rest of the inevitable questions that would follow.

  Yes, Nandy was pretty, but she wasn’t my type.

  Asiah was my first and only. All my friends, excluding Prophet, thought it was better to mess around with more than one girl, but it wasn’t like that for me. Asiah was the only one I’d ever attempted to let in, who meant more to me than just some random. Though we never got there—I was never able to fully share the extent of Tyson’s dominance and cruelty. I’d told her he was strict, and though she’d pushed for more information, I hadn’t revealed the truth. I owed her more than what I was giving her, another reason I’d let her go. Asiah was down from day one, and I knew she’d do more than take a bullet for me. That was why I’d always stayed loyal after we broke up, because Asiah was too real to be easily replaced.

  So no, Nandy wasn’t my new girlfriend. It had been...

  I stopped to recall the moment in my bedroom when she’d pressed her soft lips to my scar. I’d known what she was trying to do, and I was grateful for it, not that it had worked. The damage wasn’t there. The irrevocable ties to feeling again weren’t where I’d been shot but were somewhere deep in my heart, my mind, and my soul. No amount of kisses could fix what was broken. The bullet had flipped my world upside down, and there was nothing to be done about it.

  Besides, Nandy had Chad, and even if she hadn’t, she’d changed. I couldn’t be with a prissy girl from the Hills.

  “She’s just an old friend,” I said.

  Asiah accepted this. “I thought I was going to have to make a trip down there to let her know what’s up.”

  “You’d do that?” It was a stupid question. Of course she would. In another life, I would let myself believe she was in love with me, and maybe, just maybe before that night, I could’ve loved her back.

  “You never called,” Asiah went on. “I waited and waited, but you never called. I get that it was tough, but I was worried.”

  “I wanted to be dead. I am dead.”

  She bit her lip and looked elsewhere, shaking her head. “I hate what he’s done to you, what he did to you from the start. He’s the reason you never let me in.”

  “Doesn’t matter now. Things are different.”

  “Yeah, you’re there, living all ‘lifestyles of the rich and famous.’”

  “More like lifestyles of the rich and fucked up.”

  Asiah smiled, though I could tell she didn’t want to. “Do you like it there?”

  Now that my beef with Nandy was settled, the Hills were decent. “It’s okay. It’s just for five months.”

  “Good. I’ll be here.”

  “Five months is a long time to wait, Asiah.”

  “I’ve already waited six months, what’s five more?”

  Behind her, I caught Read stealing glances her way.

  I wasn’t in the mind to be with her, to make her happy and to feel with her, but she was a good girl, one who deserved someone whole and together.

  Reaching out, I pulled her into a hug and held her close for just a moment.

  Maybe, just maybe, I could’ve loved her.

  * * *

  Whenever we stole a car, we’d drive it to the Garage, a spot in town where Prophet had the hookup. The owner let us store our cars there until we were ready to make the run. From the Garage, we all drove uptown to Mexico’s shop. I think his real name was Carlos, but since he spoke a lot of Spanish and employed a lot of Mexicans, we had taken to calling him Mexico, a nickname he had taken a liking to.

  Since I was fourteen we’d been stealing cars together and driving them to Mexico’s chop shop. The profit always varied, depending on the make and model of the car, but the business was quicker than that of a regular job.

  Prophet had taught us the trade and its rules. We were never to steal a car twice from the same area within a two-month period, we were not to resort to bashing in a window or doing anything stupid to draw attention to ourselves, and we were not by any means allowed to make a run alone. We were a family, and when we went to Mexico, we went as a unit.

  Usually, we stole cars about twice a month, although sometimes went a while without it. The easy thefts were called lifts, when we were able to find the keys and just cruise. Otherwise they were called cranks, where we’d have to use tools to get the job done. We stole from all types of areas throughout Los Angeles. Sometimes we’d venture to other cities or towns if we were itching for a good steal. Sometimes we’d pair up and split the profit, and others we’d all steal our own car and store it at the Garage and wait for the day to make the run.

  Prophet had told me Khalil had cased a parking garage and found his car sitting and collecting dust, with the doors unlocked and a spare set of keys in the visor. Having Khalil’s car be an easy steal made the idea of accepting Prophet’s requ
est not too hard at all.

  Together we rode in an inconspicuous van to the Garage, and all the while, Money and Pretty sat inspecting their guns. They always carried heat with them on their runs, because we all knew in our situation, if we got caught by the police, there was only one way out. For us, going to jail was a death sentence. Nobody wanted to be locked up, so why not go out your own way instead?

  I didn’t bother with a gun. I never had, thinking that my going out in a hail of gunfire would upset my mother more than my stealing to begin with. Now that she was gone, I still didn’t feel right about it.

  At the Garage, we stood inside in a circle with the doors closed, all facing Prophet as he began to speak. Both Money and Pretty smoked on blunts, as they did before each run, never knowing if it’d be their last.

  “Okay, let’s go over the rules,” Prophet began. It was a part of tradition: before each run we laid down the ground rules. “No loud music, no driving above the speed limit, no smoking, no personal items—” he turned to Pretty and Money “—and no drag racing.”

  Money and Pretty both exchanged grins.

  The rules were pretty much for them anyway. Read, Prophet, and I always lay low. Khalil went with the flow, or whatever Pretty and Money were in the mood for. Sometimes when they knew they had a good car and were about to make a good profit, Money and Pretty liked to race to Mexico’s, calling out bets to see who could get there first. Khalil would join in while the rest of us would shake our heads. But if they got caught, they knew to keep quiet. Death before disloyalty.

  “Act natural,” Prophet concluded.

  One by one we turned to one another and did our group’s handshake, hooking our thumbs together and forming a W with our hands, symbolizing where we came from and where we’d more than likely die.

  Prophet opened the garage door and gave the go ahead to start for Mexico’s, where he’d catch up.

  I got in the Camry and drove off. We were allowed to listen to music, but I wasn’t in the mood. Even though some would say the silence could drive you insane, I craved it. I’d spent six months being examined by doctors and therapists. Six months of steady buzz about the shooting had done me in. Pops had never asked about it in great detail; he’d told me he was sorry for my mother and for how he’d failed Tyson. I didn’t want Pops’s apology. He had a good heart and was an honest man; it wasn’t his fault his own son had turned to shit.