He didn’t have time to listen to one of Carl’s stories.
Lady Luck, Numbers would find out, was not on his side. Not only did he miss his number by one digit, but one of his mother’s friends saw him in the spot and wasted no time ratting him out. Now he had been on punishment for the last four days and was going stir-crazy. No TV. No skateboarding. No company. No outside. No fun. His routine for the last four days was school and straight to the house. This time Mom said the punishment was until she said otherwise. While on punishment, he heard that the number spot had been raided again.
Numbers retreated to his room. He had been given his own room right before he turned thirteen.
Bright and early one morning, Numbers came into his mother’s room in a near panic. Jenny woke up to find Numbers standing over her looking confused.
“What’s wrong with you, boy?” she asked, still groggy.
“I don’t know, Mommy, I’m scared.”
“Scared of what?” She opened her eyes wider.
“I’m bleeding white cream from my ding-a-ling,” Numbers answered. He held out his hand wiggling his fingers to show her the sticky goo.
Jenny giggled. “Oh, my baby.”
She’d never really cared much if her son’s father was around or not, but when it came to situations like this, when a boy needed male guidance, she couldn’t help but loathe Lewis for abandoning him. That morning Jenny explained to her son about the birds and the bees, which, Numbers would find out, had nothing to do with birds or bees.
“Dee, come here. I need you to run to the store for me,” Jenny called.
Freedom at last,
Numbers thought, even if it was only for the time it would take to run his errand and back. He glanced at the little clock on his dresser; it showed 5:30 P.M. He jumped out of the bed and made his way to the tiny bathroom. His mother’s stockings were hanging all over the shower-curtain rod. He gazed in the mirror, picked up the hairbrush that rested on the toilet-tank lid, ran water over the bristles, then evenly stroked his low-cut Caesar do several times from the crown of his head downward. This had been his daily regimen since the barber told him it was the way to train his hair into a beehive of waves. Slowly but surely, he noticed his nappiness was starting to respond. He didn’t quite have the beehive yet, but a few waves were forming. Once he was satisfied with his hair, he dressed in a denim shirt, a pair of Wrangler jeans, and his Li’l Abner boots.
The smell of macaroni and cheese and corn bread filled the apartment by the time Numbers emerged out of the bathroom. His mother was in the kitchen talking to Ms. Lindsay fromthe tenth floor. She was one of the lucky ones. She lived in a three-bedroom apartment with her son, Maxwell, and daughter, Tabitha. They each had their own room. Ms. Lindsay was a purebred gossipmonger, always talking about someone or giving advice on someone else’s kids even though her kids were the worst. Numbers often wondered why his mother was even friends with the woman. He didn’t care for her much, but she was an adult so he respected her. His mother always told him that he didn’t have to like an adult, but he better respect them.
Ms. Lindsay was about five years older than Jenny. She was dark-complexioned, five-seven in height, with bushy eyebrows and a mustache she sometimes attempted to shave. Most of the time she wore her hair in a bouffant. She looked liked she might have had a shape before the kids, but now she was more square than anything.
“Hey, Numbers,” Ms. Lindsay called. She was sitting at the dining table smoking a cigarette. “Got yourself in a little trouble, huh?” She asked a question she already knew the answer to, because Ms. Lindsay was the fat pig who squealed on him. Fearing he might say the wrong thing, Numbers said nothing.
Jenny was cleaning fish in the kitchen sink. She was an exceptional cook. Anna Beth always kept her in the kitchen cooking something when
Lady Luck, Numbers would find out, was not on his side. Not only did he miss his number by one digit, but one of his mother’s friends saw him in the spot and wasted no time ratting him out. Now he had been on punishment for the last four days and was going stir-crazy. No TV. No skateboarding. No company. No outside. No fun. His routine for the last four days was school and straight to the house. This time Mom said the punishment was until she said otherwise. While on punishment, he heard that the number spot had been raided again.
Numbers retreated to his room. He had been given his own room right before he turned thirteen.
Bright and early one morning, Numbers came into his mother’s room in a near panic. Jenny woke up to find Numbers standing over her looking confused.
“What’s wrong with you, boy?” she asked, still groggy.
“I don’t know, Mommy, I’m scared.”
“Scared of what?” She opened her eyes wider.
“I’m bleeding white cream from my ding-a-ling,” Numbers answered. He held out his hand wiggling his fingers to show her the sticky goo.
Jenny giggled. “Oh, my baby.”
She’d never really cared much if her son’s father was around or not, but when it came to situations like this, when a boy needed male guidance, she couldn’t help but loathe Lewis for abandoning him. That morning Jenny explained to her son about the birds and the bees, which, Numbers would find out, had nothing to do with birds or bees.
“Dee, come here. I need you to run to the store for me,” Jenny called.
Freedom at last,
Numbers thought, even if it was only for the time it would take to run his errand and back. He glanced at the little clock on his dresser; it showed 5:30 P.M. He jumped out of the bed and made his way to the tiny bathroom. His mother’s stockings were hanging all over the shower-curtain rod. He gazed in the mirror, picked up the hairbrush that rested on the toilet-tank lid, ran water over the bristles, then evenly stroked his low-cut Caesar do several times from the crown of his head downward. This had been his daily regimen since the barber told him it was the way to train his hair into a beehive of waves. Slowly but surely, he noticed his nappiness was starting to respond. He didn’t quite have the beehive yet, but a few waves were forming. Once he was satisfied with his hair, he dressed in a denim shirt, a pair of Wrangler jeans, and his Li’l Abner boots.
The smell of macaroni and cheese and corn bread filled the apartment by the time Numbers emerged out of the bathroom. His mother was in the kitchen talking to Ms. Lindsay fromthe tenth floor. She was one of the lucky ones. She lived in a three-bedroom apartment with her son, Maxwell, and daughter, Tabitha. They each had their own room. Ms. Lindsay was a purebred gossipmonger, always talking about someone or giving advice on someone else’s kids even though her kids were the worst. Numbers often wondered why his mother was even friends with the woman. He didn’t care for her much, but she was an adult so he respected her. His mother always told him that he didn’t have to like an adult, but he better respect them.
Ms. Lindsay was about five years older than Jenny. She was dark-complexioned, five-seven in height, with bushy eyebrows and a mustache she sometimes attempted to shave. Most of the time she wore her hair in a bouffant. She looked liked she might have had a shape before the kids, but now she was more square than anything.
“Hey, Numbers,” Ms. Lindsay called. She was sitting at the dining table smoking a cigarette. “Got yourself in a little trouble, huh?” She asked a question she already knew the answer to, because Ms. Lindsay was the fat pig who squealed on him. Fearing he might say the wrong thing, Numbers said nothing.
Jenny was cleaning fish in the kitchen sink. She was an exceptional cook. Anna Beth always kept her in the kitchen cooking something when
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