Page 34 of On You 2

“To be honest with you, I got that with inherited money.”

I looked back at him.

“But what do you know about cars, little man?”

His whole face lit up at the question.

“Oh, I know a lot. I collect toy cars and get some every year for my birthday and Christmas. Mama saves up for them because some of them are expensive.” He spun the basketball on his finger for half a second before fumbling it and laughing at himself. “This year, I was supposed to get the Hot Wheels Porsche 911 Philippines car, but she said she couldn’t afford it. Instead, she got me a few other ones. They were cheaper, but it was still cool, though.” He shrugged. “One day I’m going to get it.”

There wasn’t even disappointment in his voice when he said it either. Just acceptance. Like he already understood life wasn’t fair at eleven years old.

He shot the basketball into the air like he was going for a three in the 4thquarter of a game. The ball bounced off the bottom step, and I watched him run after it.

It was hard not to think about how easy it was for little niggas like him to get swallowed by the city. One wrong influence. One bad summer. One older nigga flashing money and guns around him, and suddenly basketballs turn into pistols, while dreams turn into long prison sentences.

Little dude still seemed untouched by most of that shit, though. Still talking about toy cars and birthdays while standing in a neighborhood full of addicts, hustlers, and crash outs.

My phone vibrated in my pocket, pulling me from my thoughts.

When I looked down at the screen, I saw Jasmine’s name.

Can you come?

I exhaled because I’d completely forgotten she texted me today because of Delilah making a big deal out of it. With her situation, I know standing her up wasn’t cool, and I wasn’t trying to play with her mental state.

“Well, little man, I’m about to continue down the block.” I nodded toward the house behind him.

“You might want to go inside and wait on your brother or your mama in case them knucklehead ass niggas spin the block again.”

“Yeah, I’ll go in.” He grabbed the basketball under his arm. “But thanks, man. I appreciate your help with them.”

“It was no problem, safety nigga.”

He smirked immediately.

“Safety,” he repeated like he was testing the word out.

“I like that. Safety.”

I laughed, and he jogged up the steps, before going into his house.

Chapter 7

Khalil

20 minutes later

My mama always told me that, in Arabic, my name Khalil meant "friend" or "close companion," but in the real world, I was none of that to anybody. Yeah, I had niggas I hung around with like Tyrell, Devontae, and Harold. Most of the time, they were the people I smoked with, hustled with, and laughed with sometimes. But as far as calling any of them my friend? I don’t really use that word often. I’ve seen too many friendships end badly growing up. Friends set niggas up, leave each other behind when shit get hot, or get each other killed over money, hoes, or straight jealousy. In New York, loyalty only lasts as long as it’s convenient.

The only reason I was standing on the block with this nigga Harold today was that the plug he worked for needed extra hands over at the Pink House projects. Apparently, since the expansion once Hov and his crew backed off a lot of territory, his plug bit off more than he could chew and couldn’t keep up with the demand.

There I go sounding just like my mother. Little sayings and riddles she said always stuck with me, whether I wanted them to or not. My mama was the type to turn every life lesson into some deep ass quote like she was reading from a book nobody else had access to. Most of what she said to me was wisdom, though some of her words were, however, lies. I still try not to hold that against my mother because, no matter what, she’s all my little brother Rami and I had.

“Yo, Khalil, I think it’s time we run back to the stash house, turn in what we have, and get a little more product, homie. The block is hot as hell today.”

Harold was excited because making his plug happy was like getting a letter of recommendation from the principal. Harold wanted to be just like his big brother Chase. Chase been in the streets since he and I were playing video games in his mama’s apartment and prank calling people from school.

I knew Harold would be in the streets because he idolized it growing up, and I ended up here right behind him, and that was because I needed money. I’m tired of my mother wiping toilet seats to pay the bills, not because the street life was a dream to me.