Chapter VII

The insistent, pounding of a Tupac rap infiltrated the calm of my afternoon nap. I eased up in the bed, suddenly aware of the hardness poking my thigh. I struggled to recall the dream that obviously inspired my condition, but found the images were as remote as a trip that could only be remembered, never retaken. Trying to remember anything would be fruitless, anyway. Duane's music throbbed throughout the house, shaking walls, making objects dance, and most annoying,
making it impossible to do anything but cover my ears and wince.

Obviously, mom was not home. She didn't tolerate rap music at all. I walked down the hall and knocked twice on Duane's door before turning the knob. It was locked. I knocked twice again and got no response. I had to beat my fists against the door before the music died, the doorknob turned and the door opened--a crack.

Duane stuck his head between the door and the frame. His irises floated in his eyes lazily, making him appear somewhat drunk.
"What?" he barked.
"What took you so long to open this door?" I asked, trying to peer over his head and into the room.
"None of your muthafucking business."

I wedged my foot between the door and its frame and slammed my shoulder against the door. My move caught Duane by surprise and he tumbled, tripping over something on the floor. I pushed the door wide open. The fumes overwhelmed me, and I began to cough.

It smelled like someone had sprayed an entire can of Lysol in there. I didn't have to wonder what Duane was trying to cover-up; lying on his bed was none other than Craig McLemore, who was rolling a joint on his six-pack.

Duane jumped to his feet and shoved me up against a wall.
"What the fuck's your problem, busting up in my room?"

My brother is just 15 months older than I, and he's only an inch and a half taller than me, but has a 30 pound advantage. Usually, I don't start shit with him because I'd rather not test myself that way. But I couldn't believe what I was seeing. He was asking for an ass-kicking, he deserved an ass-kicking, and if necessary, I was damned ready to give it to him.

I got in his face. "What's your problem, smoking that shit in the house? What if it'd been pops busting through the door, what then, huh?"

"Then I couldn't do this." I saw his fist coming and ducked, ramming my head into his stomach. We fell down, tussled. Whatever Duane was smoking made him slow, and I took advantage. I got on top and popped him good, two shots to the mouth.

Before I could hit him again, his hands wrapped around my neck and squeezed. His grip was airtight; within seconds, I felt myself getting light headed. I looked in my brother's eyes and it was like looking at a stranger. He was biting down hard on his lip, his face contorted with anger, with rage.

"Big D, Big D, cut that shit out, nigga," Craig said, pulling at Duane's hands.
"You gonna hurt him, man. Let go. Let him go."

Craig finally loosened Duane's grip. I fell on my side, gasping and coughing. It was only then, as I lay immobile, struggling to breathe, that I noticed Craig and Duane were walking around in boxers and underwear.

Duane was pacing, mumbling to himself and wiping at his busted lip. I hadn't seem him this mad in a very long time. He pulled on some shorts and a tank and sat on the edge of his bed, hands covering his face.

By the time I felt stable enough to stand, Craig, too, was dressed. Clutching my throat, I fixed my mouth to ask the question that begged answering, the question I couldn't believe I had to ask. Then I saw it, sitting on the nightstand next to Duane's bed. A used condom, tied and ready for disposal.

Duane stood, stretched and walked to the door. Without turning around,he said, "If what you saw here leaves this room, I promise I will hurt you. I will hurt you bad."

He left, closing the door behind him. I looked at Craig, who smiled at me.
"You just can't help sticking your nose where it don't belong, huh kid?"

I ignored his statement. "How long have you been fucking my brother?"
"We been kicking it since junior high," Craig said, matter of fact. "We always keep a gal, you know, but whenever we need something different, my boy calls me up and we get down."

I felt myself getting sick. "You ain't nothing but a ho," I said. Craig laughed.
"I must be a good one, too. Otherwise, you wouldn't be all up on my sac, either."

I walked over to Craig, got so close I could smell the weed on his breath. "I don't want you no more. You hear? And if I ever catch you over here alone with Duane again, I swear to God, everybody in this neighborhood will know about you."

"I guess they'll know about you, too," Craig said. "And your brother. Cause if you call me out, bitch, I'm calling you and Big D out, too."

He walked to the door. "Don't ever threaten me again, kid. See, I was trying to be nice to yo ass. But now you done turned against me, so I'ma have to play dirty.

"You owe me some head, and I'm here to collect," he said, locking the door.

I chewed on my tongue, trying to swallow my anger. I wanted to rush this fool and fuck him up bad. Instead, I went to the door and tried to unlock it.

"You better think twice," he said. "Cause if I don't get what I want, right now, I will start talking, and the first person I go to is yo pops."

"You ain't crazy..." I said.

"What do I got to lose? He ain't my pops, he ain't gonna kick my ass," Craig said. "But y'all two? Shit, I can understand why Big D wants to keep his shit on the DL."

I couldn't believe the position Craig was putting me in. I didn't think he was stupid enough to blab, but could I take that chance? Not really. He wasn't holding just my fate in his hands; he was also
holding Duane's.

Craig's eyes were a hard gray, and I didn't see the least bit of fear in his eyes. I had to stop him. I dropped to my knees and pulled down his shorts...

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