probation. He read the psychologist’s report. “Mann is a smart, nonviolent youth who suffers from severe depression as a result of his brother’s murder,” it said. “Confinement would make matters worse. Advise weekly, long-term counseling.”
It wasn’t right for me to hurt somebody, but it’s like hurting Rock changed things for me. It got me to talking about things. Like how I feel it’s my fault Jason got killed. And why I can’t sleep through the night like regular people. It got my parents talking too.
For a while, we was all different. My dad went around the house whistling. And he made it so me being stuck in the house—just in case Rock wanted revenge—wasn’t so bad. Every day after work he brought cupcakes and doughnut holes home for dessert. He kept the windows opened wide so the sun and plenty of air got in. And me and him played b-ball in the yard and finished sanding and refinishing them two cabinets my mother’s been wanting done.
My mother stopped talking so much about Jason. And she wasn’t cleaning his room as much as before. Maybe that’s because she was getting ready for Kentucky. She wasn’t gonna go once I got in trouble. But my father said she should. “That fight made Mann and me closer. With just us in the house, maybe we can get back to how we used to be.”
“That’s crazy, Mann.” Kee-lee comes over every day now. “You eat somebody’s finger and your parent’s act like you got straight A’s on your report card.” He walks by my bed and picks up my paints. “You got these at Harold’s? I been wanting to steal these.” He sticks a brush in water and then in paint.
“Security’s tight. Can’t take nothing out that store.”
He lies on the floor. Slides underneath a table I use for a desk and starts painting underneath it. We do that sometimes, when we don’t want nobody to see the girls we drawing. “Your father acts like he’s happy you messed Rock up.”
I lie down by Kee-lee and draw a girl I saw a few days back. Only I make her hair down to her knees and give her a chest as big as plates, big purple lips, and a tongue that sticks out the side of her mouth like a sucker.
“Make her high yella. I like ’em like that,” Keelee says.
I make her the color of my mom, brown like burned gravy. Kee-lee elbows me. I check out his girl. Her shorts look like Pampers. “Nice,” I say, eyeing her thick legs, wondering how he makes ’em look so fine you wanna feel ’em up. I can’t make legs like that. Mine come out like fat sticks. Kee-lee shows me what I’m doing wrong. Next thing I know my girl’s got tight shorts on too and video-girl legs.
We got pieces of girls drawn under the desk: butts, lips, tits. Feet too. Kee-lee likes feet—long, skinny ones with polished toenails. I put an ankle bracelet on one foot, then blend orange and brown and make one of the butts wider. We don’t talk for a while. We draw the kind of girls we see in magazines and wonder when we gonna get girls that look like them. Then we get out from under the desk and sit on opposite sides of the room and draw some more. My window’s open. I see houses across the street and more houses up the hill. So I draw what I see, red bricks and burned chimneys; a man lying on a swing with a tan hat covering his face, and a woman reading the paper with her shoes off. I sketch leaning trees, speeding cars, broken screens hanging off doors, and a door being held open for a woman who’s walking up the steps carrying groceries.
We ain’t high; don’t even try to smoke nothing. We don’t eat; ain’t even hungry after drawing two hours straight. We happy just showing each other how to get the right color gray sky or make steps that look like real people could walk right up ’em.
“Mann,” Kee-lee says, holding his picture up to the light. “When we get our own studio, we gonna make a lotta dough.” He holds my picture up next to his. “’Cause we good. We are so good.”
He’s
It wasn’t right for me to hurt somebody, but it’s like hurting Rock changed things for me. It got me to talking about things. Like how I feel it’s my fault Jason got killed. And why I can’t sleep through the night like regular people. It got my parents talking too.
For a while, we was all different. My dad went around the house whistling. And he made it so me being stuck in the house—just in case Rock wanted revenge—wasn’t so bad. Every day after work he brought cupcakes and doughnut holes home for dessert. He kept the windows opened wide so the sun and plenty of air got in. And me and him played b-ball in the yard and finished sanding and refinishing them two cabinets my mother’s been wanting done.
My mother stopped talking so much about Jason. And she wasn’t cleaning his room as much as before. Maybe that’s because she was getting ready for Kentucky. She wasn’t gonna go once I got in trouble. But my father said she should. “That fight made Mann and me closer. With just us in the house, maybe we can get back to how we used to be.”
“That’s crazy, Mann.” Kee-lee comes over every day now. “You eat somebody’s finger and your parent’s act like you got straight A’s on your report card.” He walks by my bed and picks up my paints. “You got these at Harold’s? I been wanting to steal these.” He sticks a brush in water and then in paint.
“Security’s tight. Can’t take nothing out that store.”
He lies on the floor. Slides underneath a table I use for a desk and starts painting underneath it. We do that sometimes, when we don’t want nobody to see the girls we drawing. “Your father acts like he’s happy you messed Rock up.”
I lie down by Kee-lee and draw a girl I saw a few days back. Only I make her hair down to her knees and give her a chest as big as plates, big purple lips, and a tongue that sticks out the side of her mouth like a sucker.
“Make her high yella. I like ’em like that,” Keelee says.
I make her the color of my mom, brown like burned gravy. Kee-lee elbows me. I check out his girl. Her shorts look like Pampers. “Nice,” I say, eyeing her thick legs, wondering how he makes ’em look so fine you wanna feel ’em up. I can’t make legs like that. Mine come out like fat sticks. Kee-lee shows me what I’m doing wrong. Next thing I know my girl’s got tight shorts on too and video-girl legs.
We got pieces of girls drawn under the desk: butts, lips, tits. Feet too. Kee-lee likes feet—long, skinny ones with polished toenails. I put an ankle bracelet on one foot, then blend orange and brown and make one of the butts wider. We don’t talk for a while. We draw the kind of girls we see in magazines and wonder when we gonna get girls that look like them. Then we get out from under the desk and sit on opposite sides of the room and draw some more. My window’s open. I see houses across the street and more houses up the hill. So I draw what I see, red bricks and burned chimneys; a man lying on a swing with a tan hat covering his face, and a woman reading the paper with her shoes off. I sketch leaning trees, speeding cars, broken screens hanging off doors, and a door being held open for a woman who’s walking up the steps carrying groceries.
We ain’t high; don’t even try to smoke nothing. We don’t eat; ain’t even hungry after drawing two hours straight. We happy just showing each other how to get the right color gray sky or make steps that look like real people could walk right up ’em.
“Mann,” Kee-lee says, holding his picture up to the light. “When we get our own studio, we gonna make a lotta dough.” He holds my picture up next to his. “’Cause we good. We are so good.”
He’s
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