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  “I don’t even wanna know what’s next,” I said. “I’ve seen enough. Can we go now?”

  “Soon.” Eric took his jacket off, handing it to me.

  “Eric? It’s fucking November.”

  “I know.”

  He started bouncing on his feet, throwing a couple of practice punches.

  “Please tell me this isn’t what it looks like.”

  Another two quick air punches. “You want respect—you have to earn it.”

  “Oh God. Who are you going to fight?”

  “We’ll see.”

  With the crowd cheering, Eric joined Scrap in the middle of the circle.

  Scrap shouted, “My boy Eric volunteered to step up. And he says to me, serve him up anything! Eric, you gonna be a lieutenant one day, no doubt. So here’s your competition.” Scrap walked out of the circle, whipped his shirt off, and stalked right back in.

  Holy shit!

  Scrap flexed his muscles for the crowd to see. FJC was tattooed in gothic script across his pecs. His nipples had tiny metal bars through them.

  Eric was hard-bodied too. He wore a black tank that hugged his muscles and showed off his diesel shoulders and arms. But I couldn’t revel in his gorgeousness—not when his life was on the line.

  Jazz touched my arm. “You’re shaking! It’ll be okay. Scrap likes him.”

  “Scrap likes himself more. What if he hurts him?”

  “He’ll be all right.”

  “He better, or I’m going after Scrap myself.”

  Jazz laughed. “You’re so cute, Innocent.”

  But I wasn’t kidding.

  I watched, my heart in my throat, as they bounced on their toes. Scrap kept faking him out, tempting Eric to take the first swing, but Eric didn’t take the bait. He waited until Scrap got frustrated and rushed him. Eric blocked Scrap’s right hook, landing his own punch in Scrap’s side. Scrap jumped back like it didn’t even wind him.

  What if Scrap is high? What if he can’t feel pain?

  Eric lunged forward with two quick jabs—one at Scrap’s head, the other at his gut. Scrap blocked both jabs, coming back with a vicious uppercut—which Eric dodged, thank God. Determined to land a punch, Scrap kept swinging, battering Eric’s forearms until he finally hit Eric’s stomach. Eric stumbled back a little, but shot right back, pummeling a left-right combo into Scrap’s tattooed chest.

  The crowd went crazy.

  Eric was unbelievable. I had no idea he could fight like that!

  It turned me on.

  Everybody started cheering for Eric. Scrap sucked his teeth, looking like he was going to lose it. Then he came at Eric fast and hard. He broke through Eric’s block and clipped his jaw, then smashed his fist into Eric’s gut. I cringed.

  The crowd egged Scrap on in his counterattack. I waited for Eric to bounce back, but he stayed defensive.

  “Get him, Eric! Snuff him!” I shouted. But Eric wasn’t hitting back. I saw one of his forearms drop, leaving his face exposed to a devastating right hook. Eric fell to the ground.

  “Eric!” I ran over to him, helping him sit up. “Oh my God, are you okay?”

  “Uh . . . yeah.” Blood dribbled down the side of his face from a cut above his eye. “That was kinda fun.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  The crowd cheered for its leader. Scrap danced around, flexing his sweat-slicked muscles. When he was through posing, he gave Eric a hand, helping him to his feet. He asked the crowd, “How did y’all think my boy did?”

  They cheered.

  Scrap slapped his back. “You did good, Eric. From now on, you can be my protégé.”

  Eric wiped the blood out of his eye and grinned.

  * * *

  “You’re crazy,” I said as we walked home. “Why did you volunteer to fight?”

  “Maybe I had something to prove.”

  “Like what, that you’re insane?”

  “That I can hold my own.”

  “But it was so unfair. Scrap tricked you into fighting him!”

  “Nah, I knew I’d be fighting him. It was my idea. Thing is, Scrap didn’t want everybody to know that I’d fight him willingly. He likes people to think he’s some fucking legend that we’re all too scared to mess with. So he pretended to take me by surprise.”

  “Where’d you get the balls to challenge him?”

  “I’ve dealt with much worse. And back then, they were really trying to kill me.”

  “That scares me, Eric.”

  “Why? You saw that I can defend myself.”

  “Yeah, but . . . Why are you laughing?”

  “You’re so cute when you’re worried, Divine.” He hugged me to his side. “I think you care more about me than my mom ever did.”

  “I’m sure she’d freak out if she saw you fight Scrap.”

  “You don’t know my mom. If I ever came home saying I got hit, she’d ask me one thing: Did you beat the shit out of whoever did this to you? I always did, of course.”

  “That’s some twisted shit.”

  “She did me a favor. Toughened me up.”

  “She’d be proud tonight, then. You really gave Scrap a run for his money. Better than anyone else in the gang could have. Next time you’ll flatten him.”

  “No way. I can’t fight Scrap and win. It would ruin his rep.”

  “What? Are you saying you threw the fight?”

  “You didn’t hear it from me, Divine.”

  “Well, did you or didn’t you?”

  “I thought I made that pretty clear.”

  “You actually threw the fight because you didn’t want to embarrass Scrap?”

  “I can’t think of a better reason.”

  “C’mon, Eric, you really could’ve beaten him?”

  “Yeah. He fights messy. He’s strong, but he’s got no training.”

  “And you do?”

  “Maybe.”

  Q:

  i thought u should know marie is coming back to school tomorrow

  Julia:

  what does that have to do with me? oh i get it. its a warning

  Q:

  its not a warning i just dont want u to be taken by surprise

  Julia:

  maybe thats what she wants. be careful q she might call u a snitch if she finds out ur warning me

  Q:

  would u tell her?

  Julia:

  of course not. anyway its probably a good thing u told me ill watch my back

  Q:

  have u thought about changing schools?

  Julia:

  no way thats exactly wat the bitches want. not gonna happen

  Q:

  i dont blame u. uv always been strong. i dont know where u get it from

  Julia:

  sometimes u dont have a choice

  RAZOR BLADE

  Not only was Marie back at school, she was looking for me.

  It didn’t matter that I wasn’t the one who cut her. In her mind, I was still the snitch.

  All morning people whispered that there was going to be a fight. Screw them. Even though Marie was looking for me, I wasn’t going to go looking for her.

  A note was dropped on my desk.

  Marie wants to meet you in the front entrance at 11:30.

  Don’t be a Crab Punk.

  Show your face!

  I crumpled the note, then looked up. Several people were watching me.

  Marie had publicized the challenge, no doubt.

  I guess she had something to prove.

  If she wanted to fight, why choose the front entrance? There were always security guards nearby.

  Maybe that was the point. Maybe she didn’t want to fight.

  Yeah, right.

  Maybe whatever she pulled on me, she wanted it to be real public.

  Whatever she was planning, I didn’t have a choice but to go.

  But I wasn’t going alone.

  * * *

  The front entrance was crowded with kids changing classes. Securit
y guards blew their whistles and tried to direct them toward the lunchroom or their classes. As usual, nobody listened.

  I spotted Marie and five Bitches right away, standing in front of the trophy showcases. Me and my crew stopped a few yards away, to the left of the cafeteria doors.

  I made a “come here” sign to Marie. We both walked forward, meeting in front of the cafeteria doors. As I got closer, I realized that Marie looked different. She’d put on weight in the time she’d been laid up, and she had a two-inch scar on her cheek. Under different circumstances, I might’ve felt sorry for her.

  “What do you want?” I asked her, straight up. “Is this your idea of a good place to fight?”

  Marie looked me dead in the eye. “I wanted to show you something.”

  My pulse pounded. I was ready for her to whip out a blade anytime.

  She thrust out her arm and pulled up the sleeve of her shirt.

  She had a new tattoo, freshly done and covered with Vasoline.

  It was the word crab upside down.

  It was supposed to provoke me. To make me lose it and punch her. Give her an excuse to hit me back. Get me suspended in front of a whole bunch of people.

  I didn’t react the way she expected. I went, “Ugh! You scarred yourself for life!”

  “Don’t you see what it says?”

  “Yeah. So what?”

  “So what are you gonna do about it, Crab?”

  I took a step closer, adrenaline pumping through my blood. “You want me to snuff you so that you can snuff me back. Cut my face with the spike on your name ring. Don’t think I didn’t see it, Marie. I’ve been hit by that ring before.”

  She swallowed. I realized that she was just as nervous as I was.

  But I also knew she wouldn’t walk away without a fight. She needed revenge for getting cut.

  “You already fucked me up, Marie. And you got fucked up in return. I never asked for you to be cut, but I can’t say I was sorry when I heard. I want to end this right now. If the only way you can save face is to fight, that’s fine with me. But take off your fucking ring.”

  “You don’t make the rules.”

  “If you try to cut me, you’ll get it right back.”

  “You? Carrying a blade? Don’t you get your Crab friends to do that for you?”

  I ignored that. “Put your ring in your pocket, Marie. And I’ll drop my razor blade.”

  She looked down at my hand, which was dug into my pocket. The last thing she wanted to do was negotiate with me, but more than that, she didn’t want to get slashed again.

  “Deal.”

  I took my hand out of my pocket, leaving behind the razor blade Nessa had given me. Marie lifted her hand out of her pocket without the ring. And then she jumped at me, grabbing for my hair.

  I’d greased it back tight in preparation for this. All she could snag was the front of my shirt.

  I got in a few punches. So did she. But then security was on top of us, dragging us away from each other.

  They hustled us into the dean’s office, where we both got suspended.

  Or as most of us called it:

  A three-day vacation.

  LIVING IN THE GRAY

  Dad didn’t freak out when I told him about the suspension. Maybe that’s because I told him I’d kicked the ass of the girl who beat me up. I think he was proud.

  He didn’t even bitch when he had to take off work for the suspension hearing.

  I didn’t care too much either. It just sucked that my teachers—like Ms. Ivey—were going to hear about it. She’d be thinking that I’d changed so much since joining a gang.

  But she really didn’t know anything about me.

  Ivey was from the suburbs. She saw the world in black and white. Good and evil. Right and wrong. She didn’t get gray.

  I lived in gray.

  Just because I was in a gang didn’t mean I was screwed up or throwing my life away. I decided to get the highest mark in American History possible, just to show her.

  I was going to use my suspension days to get started on my term project. I’d already picked my topic:

  THE HISTORY OF GANGS IN AMERICA.

  Last week I’d handed in my project proposal, and she’d passed it back with the comment: Sounds fascinating. Make sure to include kids’ reasons for joining gangs, typical gang activities, and the outcomes for gang members.

  Outcomes?

  I knew what she was getting at.

  Jail.

  Rehab.

  Cemetery.

  Well, this gangbanger had every intention of going to college, no matter what the stats said.

  I hopped the 2 train to Eastern Parkway and went to the main branch of the Brooklyn Public Library. On the computer, I looked up gangs.

  Three hundred and ninety-six titles.

  I went through the first few, wrote down some call numbers, and went in search of the books. I was going to take out as many books as I could carry. Ms. Ivey would be stunned when she saw all my research.

  I put the books down on one of the long wooden tables in the main study room. The place was packed, mostly with people in their twenties and thirties who looked like they’d gone back to school.

  I took some notes from Tookie Williams’s autobiography, especially the part about why he started the Crips.

  As I looked through the books, I was amazed at how many gangs there were. I hadn’t even heard of most of them.

  I wrote in my notebook: Is it human nature to want to be part of a gang or some kind of club?

  Maybe my essay would argue that it was. Ms. Ivey was going to love that!

  One of the books had a whole section with glossy pictures of gang clothing, symbols, graffiti, etc. The tattoos were fascinating. Some people covered their whole bodies with gang symbols. The letters were often in gothic script like Scrap’s. There were Biker tattoos, White Supremacist tattoos, Blood tattoos, Crip tattoos, Latin Gang tattoos, Asian Gang tattoos. . . .

  And then I stopped flipping pages and stared at one photo.

  It was a five-pointed crown.

  I’d seen that tattoo before.

  On Eric.

  The five-pointed crown, it said, was a popular symbol of the Latin Kings.

  I blinked. It made no sense that he would choose the tattoo of a rival gang. Could he have gotten the tattoo without knowing what it meant?

  Or was it possible that Eric used to be a Latin King?

  * * *

  “Eric?”

  “Hey, Divine.” Street noise in the background. “Can I call you back?”

  “Sure. Just call back soon.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “I hope so.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have a question to ask you. It’s about your tattoo.”

  Horns beeping, people talking, trucks going by.

  “What about it?”

  “It’s the Latin Kings’ symbol.”

  “I know. Stupid, huh?”

  “You knew what it was?”

  “Not when I got it. I’ll stop by later and explain.”

  “Okay.”

  “See you later, Divine.”

  * * *

  Eric buzzed at 10:44 p.m.

  “Eric and I are going to Hal’s for a snack,” I told Dad.

  “Isn’t it kind of late for that?”

  “He just got off work.” I’d told Dad that Eric bussed tables at a restaurant in the city. He wouldn’t have wanted me dating a guy without some kind of job. Truth was, Eric had been trying to find a job for a couple of weeks now, but no luck yet.

  I met Eric when I got out of the elevator. He grabbed me and kissed me, then took my hand as we stepped into the night.

  “Any leads on a job?”

  He shrugged. “I handed out résumés at a few places in Park Slope. I’ll wash dishes or bus tables, I don’t care, as long as there’s a chance I can move up.”

  “I hope you get a call soon.”

  “Me too.”r />
  “So . . . don’t keep me in suspense. Tell me about that tattoo.”

  He laughed. “What’s the matter? Tattoo got you freaked?”

  “I don’t know. Should I be?”

  “No. It’s a stupid story. Back in eighth grade, me and my buddies started our own gang and wanted to get tattoos. When we went to the tattoo place, one of them pointed out the five-pointed crown, said his brother had it. None of us knew any different.”

  “Were you guys pissed off when you found out?”

  “Were we? Tattoos like this can get you killed. And people wonder why I never take my shirt off playing ball.”

  He opened the door for me as we went into Hal’s. I inhaled the comforting smell of grease. The place was open until midnight, but right now it was empty except for a couple of guys eating at the counter.

  The waitress came up as soon as we sat down. I ordered a hot chocolate and Eric ordered a Coke.

  “Have you thought about getting it removed?”

  “Of course. But I don’t have that kind of cash.”

  “Are you going to get an FJC one?”

  “Nah, I don’t need a tattoo to show my allegiance. I got my colors and my flag for that. You get a tattoo, it’s for life, and you know I won’t be hanging with the Crips forever. It isn’t part of my master plan.”

  I liked hearing him talk that way—of a future that didn’t involve the Crips.

  “Don’t cut too many classes if you want to graduate in June,” I said. “A lot of seniors get screwed that way.”

  “Trust me, Julia, I won’t be messing up. I can’t wait to leave high school behind and get on with my life.”

  Hopefully not leaving me behind too. “I hope we’ll still see a lot of each other after you graduate. I mean, I know you’ll be busy with cooking school and stuff. . . .”

  He looked me in the eye. “That is one thing I can promise you, Julia. I will never leave you behind.”

  THE PARTY, PART 2

  The lights were low, the air thick with smoke. Fresh hip-hop tunes spun on the stereo system.

  “I wonder what your mom would think if she came home and saw this,” I said to Black Chuck between sips of Alizé.

  “She’d say it was like old times and tell me to roll her a spliff.”