Pull by Kevin Waltman

for me to come over. I know the ground Wes walks is forbidden for me, but I figure if I can hang with him away from JaQuentin, then that’s just what we need.
    I nod to Kid and Jayson. “Go on. I’ll hoof it home later.”
    They both know I’m going over to Wes. Jayson raises his eyebrows. “You know Mom’s not cool with that,” he says.
    â€œShe doesn’t have to know,” I say. That came out a little sharp, so I shrug at them. “Wes is my boy. I can’t just ditch him forever.”
    Jayson doesn’t look convinced, but Kid understands. He nods at me and gives a half-smile. He might have lectured me about cutting dead weight, but Kid knows that you have to stay true to your people.

6.
    This isn’t at all what I had in mind. It’s like with hoops—sometimes you play out a whole game in your head, how things will break your way, how you’ll put the clamps on the other squad, how you’ll get a run-out early to get things rolling. Then that orange goes up and everything switches up on you. The other team’s changed offenses. Your first shot rattles out. You get a cheap foul. It all goes to pieces.
    That’s about how it’s gone with Wes tonight. The idea was to get him away from JaQuentin, just let him ease back into being the same old Wes—easygoing, ready to chill, no stupid stuff. Instead, he dropped it on me that he skated on home detention because JaQuentin “had the hook up.” Then he told me we could head back to the block together. I figured that meant just me and Wes kicking it on foot like old times, but what that really meant was piling into JaQuentin’s black Tahoe, the last place on earth I want to be. I’m in back next to Wes, and there’s some thugged-out guy riding shotgun. That guy’s about as tatted as Kid Ink. He’s got his neck marked, some detailed designs on his forearms. Even his fingers sporttats—a 3 and a 7 on his right hand with a symbol I can’t make sense of between them.
    And of course JaQuentin isn’t rolling straight back to Patton. No, he tells me he’s got to make a pit stop, and soon enough we’re cruising slow through the streets behind the Marott Apartments. Peggs keeps eyeing his phone like he’s waiting on a text. I give the death stare to Wes, but he just shrugs. Then he mouths It’s cool to me. I just shake my head and turn back toward my window. I don’t want to get into it now. Lord knows I don’t want to distract JaQuentin from his driving any more than he already is with that phone. It’s a sure bet he’s riding dirty, so I don’t want a repeat of this summer with Wes.
    â€œCan you believe this motherfucker?” JaQuentin asks his buddy in the front. Peggs holds up his phone. “I texted him ten minutes ago and he said he’d be here. Shiiit.”
    His inked-up friend just grunts. JaQuentin steps on the gas and roars around the corner to start another lap. He loops his arm around the passenger side’s headrest and cranes back toward us. He shifts his lazy gaze back and forth between me and Wes. Meanwhile, he’s still cruising a few miles an hour, his car drifting across the center lines. “After this we gonna hit up a place on 30 th . My boy Hutch is throwing down tonight. You two invited.”
    When I clear my throat, Peggs doesn’t even flinch. “You got a problem, Bowen?” he asks.
    â€œI got to get back,” I say. I try to put a little oomph behind it. After all, I’ve got four inches on the guy. But I can’t hide the fact that I’m way out of my comfort zone.
    â€œWhat? You ball a little and you think you’re too good for us?Shit. You in my car now, D-Bow.” Then he hits the brakes and jackknifes into an open space, the back end hanging out a good two feet. He points out the passenger side’s window. “There he is. Let’s roll.”
    He and his