Hold Love Strong by Matthew Aaron Goodman Page A

grandma.
    â€œThere ain’t no money left,” he said.
    My grandma walked out of the kitchen. “What you mean there ain’t no more money?”
    â€œI mean,” said Nice, “all that stuff we got cost more than what you gave me. I had to tell ’em that I’d bring the rest of the money tomorrow.”
    My grandma put her hands on her hips. “Well, that’s it,” she said. “That’s all the money I got.”
    â€œI swear to God,” said Nice, “I swear one day, when I’m in the NBA…”
    My mother interrupted him. “Abraham, where’s that money I gave you to get something to drink after your game?”
    I reached into my pocket. Then, smiling, suddenly feeling joyous and proud instead of heartbroken, I pulled three dollars out of my pocket and held it up for everyone to see.
    â€œWell, hurry up,” Nice said, a smile and shine easing upon him. “Go get your coat.”
    It was us versus the world, us against the snow. I looked at my mother. “I can go?” I asked.
    â€œShit, you just bent on being as crazy as Goines, ain’t you,” she said.
    Then she thought for a moment. I waited.
    â€œSo go ahead,” she said, waving her hand at me dismissively. “Probably do your ass some good to see up close how serious all this snow is.”
    Before anything else was said, I raced into the bedroom and dressed as fast as I could. I put on my winter coat, my winter hat, gloves, and an old pair of sneakers. Then I ran out of the room to join Nice.
    â€œHold on!” said my grandma. “Stand together. The both of you.”
    Like two soldiers standing at attention, my uncle and I stood side by side.
    â€œNow tell me. What you gonna get?” demanded my grandma.
    â€œMilk,” my uncle said.
    My grandma shifted her eyes to me. “Abraham?”
    â€œMilk,” I said.
    â€œGood,” said my grandma. “I’m counting on you. Don’t let your uncle forget.”
    I looked up at Nice. He looked down at me. “You got me?” he asked, holding his hand out for me to slap.
    I slapped it. “Yeah.”
    We walked out of the apartment. Nice stopped, turned around, and locked all three locks with his key. Then we heard the chain latch clack and slide into place on the other side.
    â€œMilk!” shouted my grandma one last time. “And don’t keep Abraham out too long. You know how he starts coughing!”
    Outside in the hallway, the walls were cinderblocks painted eggshell white. They were scrawled and scribbled on; graffiti, names and nicknames, declarations of existence. There were hearts with initials in them and sexually explicit drawings. Fuck was spelled wrong. Gangs and crews proclaimed they were the most powerful, the utmost, the killers of all killers who killed for nothing, for everything, no matter the time. Things were written in pen and crossed out with marker. There were bullet holes. A few spots were still spattered with blood. There was garbage, foil wrappers, plastic utensils, papers, balled-up napkins, soda cans, broken glass. There was a backpack, torn open, classroom handouts and quizzes spilling out. The floor was concrete, painted industrial grey, and covered with dust so dense it looked like ash coated the floor. It was cold. A wind rushed through.
    Nice looked down at me. “You sure you’re gonna be warm enough?”
    I was so happy to be going outside I was sweating. I nodded.
    Once again, the elevator was broken.
    â€œMotherfucker,” said Nice, pushing the button repeatedly. “Me and Luscious just took this bitch.” He kicked the elevator’s doors. “Fuck it. Let’s go.”
    We walked to the stairwell and stopped in front of its door. It was exactly eighty-four steps from our floor to the bottom.
    â€œYou ready?” he asked.
    I swallowed. The stairwell was always dark and cold and all of the lights were blown so I