A week after Michael finessed his plug, I kept my head on a swivel. Despite what people think—yeah, I grew up in the hood and got abused—I wasn’t a hood-ass nigga, no cap.
I have a no-bullshit attitude and I’m prone to flash out when I feel insulted, but that’s just bad temper control. Mr. and Mrs. Walker had to drill that into me heavy; nobody ever actually helped me check my attitude before them.
To be honest, at fourteen, I was basically a grown man legally. If it wasn’t for the kindness of the old man having mercy on a boy like me, I’d still be in the slammer fighting for my life on the daily. Fleece Johnson would’ve been all on my ass.
Something just hit me the other day, though. Since I was emancipated back then, did that mean I wasn’t “jailbait” anymore? I didn’t have the safety of a regular minor, so I could still go to Big Boy jail, but could I even smash an older, fine-ass woman? I actually had to look that shit up.
Yo, that’s crazy… I just finished checking, and the law is still tripping. You mean to tell me that as an emancipated minor, I could go to grown-man prison at fourteen, but I still couldn’t fuck an older bitch?
I got the adult rights but I was stuck with the children’s drawbacks. I couldn’t smoke, I couldn’t drink, I couldn’t own a gun—I get that—but damn, can I at least have a grown-up sex life? It’s messed up how they can control your life like that.
Whatever. I’m legal for real now, so it doesn’t even matter. I’m still getting the baddies, doing my math, and just doing my shit.
I had to get something off my chest: I had to stop fucking with Kobe. Why? Because that nigga got locked up for the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard.
Now, what I didn’t mention before was that Kobe was grown—way “growner” than me. That nigga was twenty-five, pushing thirty, with a kid and a whole-ass family. He was at community college trying to be a barber, supposedly getting his life together. But when I tell you this dude was a
hood
nigga for real, I’m not exaggerating.
This man caught ten felonies before he even hit eighteen. I’m talking a long-ass rap sheet: assault, battery, assault with a deadly weapon, armed robbery, possession with intent to distribute, domestic violence, and manslaughter in the first and second degree.
He even told me he beat five murder charges. Five!
And yet, that prosecutor Gomez tried to put me in the dirt for one case of attempted murder where I was a kid getting jumped by a grown man.
She had a bigger vendetta against me because I called her some names and told her her titties stink. That lady is ass-backwards, you know what I’m saying?
A nigga like Kobe is out here walking free for years, but you want to throw a fourteen-year-old boy in prison for the rest of his life over one snap-out? Don’t we have dual sovereignty? If the state is so ass at its job that they can’t close a case on a career criminal, how about you send him to the Feds and let them build a real case?
The priorities are all fucked up. It’s against the law to ask for money in some places even though the Supreme Court ruled it was protected speech, and they’re still locking up homeless people for that shit.
Like I said, these states are ass-backwards. How about you stop spending all our tax money trying to throw people into jail for stupid shit and actually spend it taking care of the people who got real problems?
I digress. To give you a time frame, this was a month before my parole was over. Thirty days and I’d be free. No more felony on my record, I could legally own a gun again—everything was about to be Gucci snakes.
Me and my roommates were chilling at the dorm. There was a house party growing nearby—not at the community college, but at the university down the street. Those parties were always gas, but I personally never attended.
Why? A: I was too busy. B: I’ve watched too many movies where motherfuckers get shot up at those things. Like I said, I’m not a pussy, but I’m smart. I don’t put myself in situations where somebody might “tap my taco.” I’m not trying to become somebody’s hat today, or ever.
Kobe really wanted us to go. He said they had the best food, the best liquor, and the hoes were always active. Plus, they had the best weed. Personally, I never smoked.
I don’t need to be fucked up to enjoy a good time. Hell, I don’t even like drinking; I tried it once and it was nasty. I don’t care if you mix it; it still tastes like poison to me.
“Aye, gang!” Kobe said, leaning against the doorframe. “You hear about that party down the street tonight? We should probably join the function.”
“What? You still trying to party, Unc?” I asked, not looking up from my book. “Out here trying to fuck on these legal hoes?”
“Aye, yo, suck my dick, Rico,” Kobe snapped. “I didn’t ask for no mediator.”
“Nah, but you did ask for a nigga to suck your dick,” I retorted. “With your undercover ass.”
“What, nigga?!”
Kobe tried to buck on me, so I stood up and bucked right back before Zachary stepped between us.
“Yo, you guys need to chill, bros,” Zachary said, hands out. “Last thing we need is to get put out of this bitch. Plus, don’t you have midterms coming up tomorrow, Kobe? Don’t you need to study?”
“Nah, I got it,” Kobe said, waving him off. “I’ve been real good at cutting hair since I got here. Nobody’s gonna fuck up my midterm.”
“Bro, midterms are literally tomorrow,” I said. “We aren’t gonna be able to stay up all night and take a test when we’re tired as fuck. I don’t feel like buying no Red Bull just to survive a morning exam.”
“Not only that,” Michael chimed in, “we still have a good amount of weed from when I finessed my plug. This is at least enough to last the rest of the semester if we smoke it right. Also, Rico, you want to try some lean? I just got a new bottle of codeine.”
I stared at him. “No the fuck you didn’t.”
“Okay, I
stole
a brand-new bottle of codeine,” Michael corrected. “But since you saved my life, I’m willing to share.”
“Michael, how the fuck did you get your hands on a bottle of codeine? Matter of fact, fuck all that—what makes you think I want to drink some shit that kills people?”
“Actually,” Michael said, acting like a damn scientist, “I only got the low-quality codeine and promethazine. I might be a junkie, but I’m not a
dumb
junkie. I’m not trying to overdose.”
I couldn’t believe this motherfucker. He was literally going into Pharmaceuticals for his major. Of course he was—he wanted to be directly attached to the source.
I wasn’t feeling it. At all. I had thirty days left on my clock—thirty days until I was a regular citizen with a clean slate. I’d already been shot at once this semester thanks to Michael’s “adventures,” and I wasn’t trying to make it a tradition.
“Look, I’m good,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “Y’all go ahead. I got a date with this Network Security textbook and a bag of chips. I’m not trying to be the next headline because some university kid doesn’t know how to handle his liquor or his glock.”
Zachary sighed, leaning against the bunk bed. “Rico, come on, man. You’ve been hitting the books since the day you moved in. You don’t ever breathe. You’re gonna burn out before you even get your degree.”
“Better burnt out than laid out,” I snapped.
“I feel you, I do,” Zachary said, keeping his voice level. “But look at the facts. You’re the only one with a whip. If we Uber, we’re stuck there. If you drive, you got the keys. You’re the captain of the ship, bro.”
I looked at my car keys sitting on the desk. He was right about the control part. If I was the one driving, I wasn’t trapped.
“Here’s the compromise,” Zachary continued, seeing me waver. “You drive us. We stay for an hour, maybe two. You don’t even have to go inside if you don’t want to—just chill, see the vibes, and if it starts looking even a little bit sketchy, we bounce. No questions asked. If you want to leave and we’re not ready? You just leave us there. We’ll find our own way back.”
I chewed on my lip. I hated the idea, but Zachary was the only one who actually looked out for me in this dorm. He wasn’t trying to finesse me like Michael or buck on me like Kobe. He just wanted to hang out.
“Fine,” I said, slamming my textbook shut. “But I’m staying strapped with my logic, not a tool. The second I see a red flag—one person acting too rowdy, one bottle breaking, one nigga looking at me sideways—I’m out. And I mean
gone
. I’m not waiting for y’all to finish your drinks.”
“Deal,” Zachary said, giving me a fist bump.
Kobe grinned, slapping the wall. “That’s what I’m talking about! Let’s go get some of that university energy.”
I grabbed my hoodie and my keys, feeling that familiar knot in my stomach. I hoped Zachary was right about me needing a break, but my “head-on-a-swivel” instinct was already vibrating.
Thirty days, Rico,
I reminded myself.
Just thirty days. Don’t let these fools make you reset the clock.
I finally made it to the party, and the place was booming. They had thotties with bodies—I’m talking ass and titties from the front yard all the way to the kitchen. The vibes were vibing, but I knew better. That’s just Satan trying to make me relax so he can drag me back into a cage full of sin. Not today, Lord.
The music was way too loud, and I’ve never felt comfortable in big groups. Am I autistic? I don’t know, probably. I ain’t never been tested, so don’t even worry about that. We went inside and the air smelled like pure gas. I’m pretty sure I saw someone doing crack on a table and others snorting coke like they were Pixy Stix.
Oh hell no. They wildin’ out. I might need to leave sooner than I expected.
“Aye bro, you good?” Zach asked, leaning in so I could hear him over the bass.
“Fuck no, Zach. The vibes feel good, but my head and my soul are telling me to get the fuck out before I get locked up for life. I feel like I’m in danger.”
“Yo, chill out, my dude. You’re just paranoid.”
“Oh, gee, I wonder why?” I snapped.
“Look, I know this is uncomfortable. You’re not used to this, but I’m here with you.”
“It’s not that I don’t trust you, bro. I don’t trust that nigga Kobe. That nigga’s been on some bullshit since day one. I’m not trying to catch a felony murder charge just for being near him.”
I’d be damned if I drove his ass to a party, he killed somebody, and then the state tried to pin that shit on me. They’d call me an accomplice just for being the driver, even if I didn’t know he was about to murk someone. They’d try to take my life over some shit I didn’t even do. So damn right I’m nervous.
Nigga, I’m on fucking parole. If they take me back for even the simplest shit, I’m back in the cage with a record that stays forever.
I’d been chilling for about five hours, and against all odds, I was actually enjoying myself. Michael was off in a corner getting faded with a pack of junkies and dope fiends. Zachary was doing vicious two-mans throughout the house, picking up girls like it was his job.
I wasn’t even dressed to impress—just a hoodie and some jeans—but my rizz was on a different level. I had girls coming up to me all night, but I kept it low-key. It was 12:00 AM, and the responsible part of my brain was telling me to head home, but I ended up caught in a circle with Kobe and his “friends.”
These dudes looked like they were part of the same set, all repping the same colors. They tried to press me like I was some random, but I pressed right back. I wasn’t about to let some university-adjacent thugs look down on me. Kobe finally stepped in and cooled things off, but I could tell he was gone. Everyone in the circle was high as a kite except for me.
Then Kobe started talking, and it got out of pocket real fast.
“Look, I’m not gonna lie,” Kobe said, staring at his red cup. “I’m tired of this shit.”
“What you talking about, bro?” I asked.
“This hood shit. It gets to a point where… our shit is just going downhill.”
“We’re all trying to make it out the mud, Unc. Don’t even trip,” I said, trying to keep it positive. “Once you get your barber degree, you can start making that real money.”
“Nah,” Kobe said, his eyes turning dark. “That’s not what I’m talking about.”
“The fuck are you—”
I stopped mid-sentence because this nigga proceeded to pull out a whole Glock 22. Right there in the middle of the conversation.
“I’m tryin’ to kill a nigga,” he muttered.
“
Mi scusi?
”
Bro, I knew this nigga was bugging. I knew we should’ve stayed the fuck home.
“Look,” Kobe continued, waving the piece slightly. “The West Side Mafia used to be the most feared ops on the block. Hell, fuck-niggas knew me specifically around the city for putting in damage. But now? We must be pussy since I got off the streets.”
This dude wanted to be Bloodhound Lil Jeff so bad. Bro, you’re almost thirty. Just stop with the street shit and cut hair. You’re actually good at it, so why you doing all this?
“There’s nothing wrong with trying to get your life together,” I said, my voice low so nobody else would hear. “Street shit never lasts long. I know you’ve heard the same thing.”
“You either behind bars or in the ground? Of course I heard that, lil nigga. I ain’t stupid.”
You’re not that smart, either,
I thought.
“Last week, the North Side spun through our shit,” Kobe’s voice started breaking. “They smacked up one of our young members. He was only fifteen, man. Saw him moving, spun the block again, and caught him two more times.”
He looked at the Glock like it was a holy relic. It probably reminded him of his own kid. “And now I got a gun. And I’ma show ‘em.”
“Bro, you have two kids,” I reminded him. “A whole-ass family, my nigga.”
“And? Fuck ‘em!”
Yeah, this dude was officially deranged.
“They won’t blitz through the block like me,” he growled.
I sat back, my heart starting to race.
Thirty days left on my parole.
I looked at the exit, then back at the man with the Glock.
I realized right then I might need to find a new apartment, because there was no way I was living with Kobe after this bullshit.
Kobe froze, his eyes locking on someone in the far back of the yard. “Yo, wait. Who that?”
I looked over. There was a dude standing by the fence wearing a green and red shirt and some cornrows. He was just vibing, holding a cup.
“I ain’t never seen that nigga,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “But dawg, this is a whole-ass house party. We aren’t gonna know most of the people here. Chill.”
“Exactly,” Kobe whispered.
He had the most devilish smile I’ve ever seen on a human being. Without another word, he raised the Glock and fired.
Pop!
The backyard went from a party to a war zone in half a second. People were screaming, diving over furniture, and trampling each other to get to the fence. I stood there in total shock. I couldn’t believe what I’d just seen.
Oh yeah, he’s shot. Kobe really just shot him. We need to bounce before we get hit with the felony murder rule in this bitch.
“Bro, was that even an op?!” I yelled, the smell of gunpowder hitting my nose.
“I don’t know. Ain’t no telling,” Kobe said, his voice cold as ice.
“Ain’t no fucking telling?! You literally just shot a man out of the blue!”
“He was wearing green like one of the ops,” Kobe shrugged. “So I shot him.”
I looked over at the dude on the ground. He was moaning, clutching his chest. He was still alive. My “gifted” brain was already calculating—if he lives, maybe it’s just aggravated battery. Maybe I can get away.
“Yo, bro, you good over there?” I called out, taking a step toward him.
The dude looked up, gasping. “Yo… yo, my nigga… you know damn well—”
Bang! Bang!
Kobe didn’t even let him finish. He stood over him and caught him two more times, making sure he was dead. The dude went still.
“How about now?” Kobe asked the corpse.
Fuck all that. I ran. I ran as fast as I fucking could. I didn’t look back, but I saw Kobe just sitting there on a lawn chair like he already knew his fate. He wasn’t even trying to hide. He had officially crashed out.
I found Michael and Zachary near the front and shoved them toward my car. We peeled out of there, tires screaming, and flew back to the dorms. My hands were shaking so hard I could barely grip the wheel.
Once we got inside and locked the door, I told them everything. They just sat there in the dark, staring at me. They couldn’t believe it. Kobe—the dude who cut our hair, the dude who was supposed to be getting his life together—had just ended his life and someone else’s over a shirt color.