Snitch Read online

  “Are you serious? I’m glad I don’t have him. I can’t stand that shit.” He squinted at the basketball courts, where a group of guys was gathering. “I gotta go. How about giving me your number?”

  My heart slammed against my ribs. Did I hear him right?

  “Sorry, what?”

  He smiled. “I ain’t hitting on you. I just thought it’d be cool to talk sometime.”

  “Uh, sure. You got a pen?”

  “Better.” He took out his cell. “What’s the number?”

  I told him.

  He typed in my name. “JULIA DIVINE.”

  “Wait, it’s DiVino, not Divine.”

  “I know.” He winked at me. “Later.”

  BLACK CHUCK

  About once a month me and Black Chuck went to our favorite restaurant for cheeseburgers. The place was owned by Arabs (A-raabs as most of us pronounced it) and had the best burgers in Flatbush. Two seventy-five for a thick, juicy quarter-pounder dripping with grease and American cheese. The best part was when the slop of grease and cheese piled in a blob on the side of my plate, and Chuck slurped it up with a straw.

  Black Chuck’s real name was Philip Charles, but I can’t remember the last time anyone called him that. Even his teachers called him Chuck, though not Black.

  Our friendship meant a lot to me. He was the one who took me under his wing when I first moved into the neighborhood, telling me which adults I could cry to if I skinned my knee and which to avoid like the plague. I’ll never forget the first day he came up to me on the swings, small and bony with a nappy Afro, his tongue purple from the red-and-blue gumballs he was chewing. Guess the rest is history.

  We didn’t have a lot in common, I admit. I was a good student, and he barely made a blip on the attendance roster. Personally, I thought it was my influence that kept him from dropping out altogether. Okay, so maybe I was taking too much credit. Black Chuck loved to be in the center of things, and that meant he had to hang around the school. Too bad he was still technically a freshman when he should be a junior.

  Over the years lots of people gossiped that something was going on between us. Lots of people were wrong. Sure, with his smooth chocolate-cupcake skin and knock-you-on-your-ass smile, Black Chuck was a fine-looking guy, but he was like a brother to me, and I knew he saw me as a sister.

  Only one thing screwed up the picture: Black Chuck was a Crip. Being Crip was all he’d ever known, since his big brother, Scrap, was head of the Flatbush Junction Crips. But Black Chuck always said he hadn’t joined just because of Scrap. He said the Crips were a family, a brotherhood, and the fact was, there was safety in numbers for a guy on the streets of Flatbush.

  “I hear you getting freaky with some guy.” He took another bite of his cheeseburger.

  “Yeah, right.” I sprinkled salt on my last few fries. “He’s new to school and we’re kind of friends. Barely even that.”

  “I heard you was shaking your booty for him yesterday at the football tryouts.”

  “What? Who told you that?”

  He grinned as he sipped his Coke. “You testy today!”

  “I’m not! Was it Marie who told you?” At his nod, I said, “She was just bullshitting you. She always does.”

  “Too bad. It sounded mad funny.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you. Are you going to Raoume’s party tomorrow night?”

  “I’ll see.”

  That was another thing about Black Chuck. He never made plans in advance. He came knocking on my door when he wanted to hang. If I was doing homework and had to send him away, he never took it personally. Other times we chilled together, channel surfing or listening to some tunes on the radio. There was nothing like chilling with Black Chuck.

  He yelled to the A-raab behind the counter. “Can you bring some more fries? My homegirl’s out.”

  He was great like that too.

  THE WRITERS’ CLUB

  The next day during my lunch period I went to a meeting of the Writers’ Club. I went mainly because it would be a good extracurricular activity to put on my college application. Truth was, I never found the meetings anything but wack.

  They went something like this:

  We start ten minutes late, waiting for Mr. Britt to show up and get his act together.

  Spend fifteen minutes talking about where the club is going and what different things we can be doing and how we can get more kids interested.

  Spend last fifteen minutes sharing bits of our work with the group as we all complain that there’s never enough time.

  Writing-wise, I was a snob. I didn’t see how the other members were qualified to critique my work. I mean, two of them ganged up on me last week, saying it was not grammatically correct to start a sentence with “and” or “but.” “This is a short story, not an essay,” I said. “I can write as many ands and buts as I want.”

  But they didn’t get it. Neither did Mr. Britt. Every year he wanted the club to put together a booklet of our work as if it would be a big deal to see our names in print. What Mr. Britt really wanted was something nice and shiny to show the principal.

  As usual, he came in ten minutes late, apologized, and put down his overflowing briefcase. “Why don’t we begin by taking a closer look at how to add some excitement to our club? Look, we have . . . seven people. How can we double that? Any ideas?”

  More like, how can we get people to show up more than once? He must’ve forgotten that there’d been three times as many people at our first meeting. Boredom drove them away.

  Vincent Baker’s hand shot up. “Maybe if we held our meetings earlier in the week, more people would come.”

  Mr. Britt smoothed a hand over his jaw. “That’s a possibility.”

  “What if we hold a contest?” Alya suggested.

  He pointed at her. “I like it!”

  “We could have a category for short stories and one for poetry,” Alya said.

  “But what could we give for prizes?” Mary asked. “We don’t have any money.”

  “I could speak to the principal about that,” Mr. Britt said. Any excuse to brag about his club. “All we’d need would be, say, fifty dollars for the winner of each category. Leave that to me. Now, what else can we do?”

  I spent the rest of the meeting wondering what sort of poem I should submit to the contest. I had several decent ones at home to choose from. Maybe I’d write a new one.

  I wondered if Eric would be impressed if I won. I’d sure as hell like to win. And by the looks of the other writers here, I had a good chance. Unless, of course, there were other good writers at this school who were smart enough to stay away from the Writers’ Club.

  The bell rang. I shoved the brown bag with the last of my lunch in the garbage and pushed through the crowds in order to make it to Russo’s dance class on time.

  I was so bent on getting to the gym that I didn’t notice who was walking beside me until he nudged me. “In a hurry?”

  It was Eric.

  “Just trying to get to class without getting stomped on.”

  “Yeah, these halls are crazy. God, how many people are in this school? Ten thousand?”

  “Closer to four thousand.” I stopped walking. I had to turn right here, and I figured he was going left to where the classrooms were. “Time for dance class.”

  “I’ll walk you there. Ms. Wharton’s too blind to see if anyone comes in late anyway.”

  I couldn’t believe he was actually offering to walk me to class. I wasn’t going to argue.

  Unfortunately, the gym was just around the next corner, so we didn’t have a chance to say much. The door was wide open, and I knew the other girls could see that he’d walked me there. I could feel the mercury on my reputation meter rising.

  Just as I was going to say “bye,” he asked me, “Are you going to Raoume’s party?”

  “Yeah, I’m going. You?”

  “Maybe. Where’s it at again?”

  “It’s near my place. You should come with us.” I tried to so
und casual.

  “Who are you going with? A bunch of girls, right?”

  I sure as hell was going to get Black Chuck to come if it meant Eric would go with us. “Probably my girl Q and my buddy Black Chuck.”

  The late bell rang. Two more girls slipped past me into the gym before the door closed. But I couldn’t go in before we figured this out.

  “So, you’ll come with us?” I asked.

  “Sure. I’ll call you at dinnertime and we’ll make a plan.”

  “Great.”

  He walked away. I hadn’t imagined that, had I?

  Why did he bother with me when every girl in the school wanted him? Chill, I told myself. He was new in school and I was easy to talk to. It didn’t mean he wanted to date me.

  I knocked on the gym door. Ms. Russo answered. “Some of the girls tell me that you’re late because you’ve been standing out here flirting.”

  “Uh . . .”

  “Well, since you’re never late and your classmates tell me he’s cute, I’ll let it slide this once.” I could see she was holding back a smile.

  I dropped my bag at the side of the shiny hardwood floor and joined the girls lined up in front of the mirrors.

  I felt icy stares coming from a trio of Real Live Bitches.

  Eat your heart out, girls.

  TONIGHT

  For the rest of the day I could only think of one thing: Eric. Okay, two things: Eric and the party. Eric at the party. With me. Tonight.

  A horrible thought occurred to me on the bus ride home from school. “What if he doesn’t call?”

  “Who cares?” Q said. “You’re not into this guy, right?”

  “Right.” We both laughed.

  “I bet he feels the same,” she said. “I heard you were all over each other today outside Ms. Russo’s class.”

  “Who said that?”

  “Everyone. You’re gaining status, girl. People are saying you snatched him up before any of the Bitches had a chance. Ha-ha.” Q gave me a once-over and I knew what was coming. “So, are you gonna do something with your hair?”

  “Like what?” My hair had a tendency to frizz, which bugged me to no end, but I’d never found a secret to taming it that didn’t make me look like a total greaseball.

  “Let’s get Marlise to blow it out for you.”

  It would cost me all of fifteen bucks. I knew that when Q made a suggestion about my appearance, it was for my own good. I guess since I didn’t have a mom to tell me I needed a new lip color or my outfit didn’t match, I had Q.

  We went into The Beauty Salon (which was exactly its name) and were greeted by Arlene, one of the stylists. She yelled over her shoulder, “Marlise, how long you gon’ be?”

  Marlise shouted back, “Ten minutes.”

  We sat down in styling chairs in front of the mirrors and flipped through some magazines with different hairstyles.

  “Man, when are these from, 1982?” I looked down in disgust at some of the awful dos.

  Q flipped to the front of the book. “1997. Damn, look at this one. Looks like a rat gnawed off the ends of her hair. If Marlise does that to you, I’m gonna have to kill you.”

  “Good. I’d do the same for you.”

  But in the end my hair looked fly. Sleek and straight. Like a supermodel.

  For the next few hours we went our separate ways—Q to eat dinner with her family, me to eat grilled cheese in front of the TV. I called Black Chuck and told him to be at my place at 8 p.m. and don’t be late. Then I turned on KTU and danced around my room, thinking of the night’s possibilities.

  I kept glancing at the phone, waiting for it to ring.

  6 o’clock.

  6:15.

  6:30.

  6:45.

  6:52. Brrrinnng!

  Oh please, oh please!   I answered the phone. “Hello?”

  “Can I speak to Julia?”

  AMEN!

  “That’s me. Is this Eric?”

  “Yeah. What up?”

  “Chillin’, you know. You?”

  “Same. What’s the plan tonight?”

  “We’re meeting at my place at eight. You up for it?”

  “ ’Course I am. Where’s your crib?”

  I gave him directions. “It’s two minutes from the bus stop. Apartment 3C.”

  “Got it. See you at eight.”

  “Bye.” I hung up. Giggled. And put on some Shakira and danced.

  Black Chuck arrived half an hour early, giving me a one-armed hug as he came in the door. He was in full colors, rocking blue gear from his hat to his kicks to the flag that stuck out of his back pocket. He even had a blue Band-Aid on his arm.

  “Hey, Ju. Got anything to eat?”

  “Some chips and stuff. Help yourself.”

  He went to the kitchen cupboards, pulled out some sour-cream-and-onion chips and stuffed them between two slices of bread. Then he sat down at the kitchen table and started eating.

  “God, you are hungry.” I put a can of Coke in front of him. “Didn’t you have dinner?”

  “Nah. We had a meeting.”

  “At your crib?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Everything cool with Scrap?” His brother got the name from the Scooby Doo character Scrappy Doo, the little dog that liked to fight a lot. He lived up to his name.

  “Scrap’s a’ight.” He chewed the sandwich. “Got any butter? This is dry.”

  “Sure.” I got him some butter.

  “That’s better,” he said after another few bites. “We got beef with the Latin Kings and Cholos. Damn Spics been hustlin’ in our territory.”

  “Spics?”

  “C’mon, Ju. I don’t mean you. Hell, you don’t even speak Spanish.”

  “So? If my mom were alive, I would.”

  “I get the point. Anyway, these guys jumped one of our crew. Fucked up his face. So we gonna jump their head man, El Guapo. He won’t even know what hit him.”

  “But if you jump this El Guapo, how’s that gonna solve it? Won’t they just strike back harder?”

  “It don’t matter. We gotta avenge our brother.”

  “Yeah, but I bet it’ll make things worse.”

  He shrugged and chomped on his sandwich. Trying to use logic on him was tough.

  “Chuck, listen. Just because Scrap has a plan doesn’t mean you have to go along with it. You want to graduate, right? Why don’t you take a break from this shit?”

  “It don’t work like that, Ju. My blood is blue.”

  “Whatever. I hate worrying about you, that’s all.”

  “Worrying is my mama’s job. But she too cracked up to care.” He laughed.

  How he could laugh at his crack-addicted mom, I didn’t know. But I guess he wasn’t laughing deep down. Poor Black Chuck. His mom was in rehab again.

  He told me a few years back that having a crack-addicted mom was worse than having no mom at all. I thought it might be true. Even though I didn’t have a mom, I knew that if she were around she would be there for me and take care of me. Black Chuck’s mom had let him down in every way. I used to give him quarters to buy chips for lunch, because his mom was using their welfare money to get high.

  Finishing his sandwich, Black Chuck put his plate in the sink, dusted off his hands, and headed for the stereo system. “Been working on some new moves. You ready?”

  “Of course.”

  He put on some tunes and we started kickin’ it: the Harlem Shake, the robot, the slide, the World Trade Center. Then he showed me his new move that he called the 2000 Years BC (Before Chuck). I did it pretty well, except the low spin at the end—I didn’t need to sprain my ankle.

  Obie Trice came on, and Black Chuck sang along with the chorus, sung by Akon:

  Anything you need, believe me, I’m gon lace you

  Just don’t, whatever you do, Snitch

  ’Cause you will get hit, pray I don’t lace you, yeah

  Q showed up next, looking fly in white and pink. Everything she wore matched perfectly,
from nails to handbag to kicks to Victoria’s Secret underwear. She had a thing about making sure her underwear matched her outerwear.

  Q started dancing with us, shaking her booty like Beyoncé.

  A few minutes later, I buzzed Eric in. I checked myself in the mirror before opening the door. My knees almost gave out. He was dressed totally in black, from his leather jacket to his shoes. The only flash of color was the ice around his neck—a dog tag with Valienté engraved in silver.

  “I heard the music from the hallway, Divine. Did the party start without me?”

  “No way. The party’s been waiting for you. Come on in.”

  “Yo, my man!” Black Chuck pounded palms with Eric.

  “You know each other?” I asked.

  “The whole school knows Black Chuck,” Eric said. “He lives in those halls. Man, do you ever go to class?”

  “Only when security’s doing hall sweeps,” Black Chuck replied.

  Q walked up. “Eric, right? I’m Q.”

  “Q?”

  “Yeah. Mad ghetto, hunh?”

  “Sounds more like a Star Trek character to me,” he said, refusing to be an ass-kisser. “But it’s cool.”

  “Glad you think so.”

  Eric’s gaze took in the place. “Nice crib.”

  “Thanks. You live around here?”

  “Not far. I live in Park Slope.”

  We all looked at each other. Park Slope was one of the richest neighborhoods in Brooklyn.

  Eric laughed at us. “You guys are tripping. I live in the South Slope.”

  Oh, well that was still the ghetto then.

  “Should we dip?” I said.

  They agreed. I grabbed my knockoff Gucci handbag (fifteen down from twenty on Canal Street) and my Baby Phat jacket off the peg by the door.

  We caught the elevator down and went outside. A bum sitting on the step shook his cup. Eric dropped a dollar in as we walked past.

  “He’s there every day,” I muttered to him. “Any money you give him he’ll use to buy crack.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Definitely. He lives at the Mission. Got his room and board covered. One time I said I was going to the store so I’d buy him something to eat. You know what he said? Gimme the money instead.”