At the Crossroads
By TRAVIS HUNTER
DAFINA BOOKS
Copyright © 2010
Travis Hunter
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-7582-4251-8
Chapter One
Franklin "Franky" Bourgeois lay flat on his back staring
at a ceiling that had long lost its shine. The white paint
was old and water stained. The ceiling fan was missing
two blades and made a
whopping sound as it went around
and around. He was sweating like a pig in a slaughterhouse.
Atlanta had been experiencing a terrible heat wave
for the last few days, and he was feeling its effects. There
was no air conditioner in the house, and only an occasional
breeze came from the open window or the broken
fan above his head.
He heard his cousins' voices out in the living room of
the small, dilapidated ranch-style house they called home.
As usual, they were arguing about something. He was
tired of them and tired of living the ghetto life that he had
been so enamored with just a few years ago. Now he wondered
why God was playing such a cruel joke on him. He
wanted to go back to the way things were before nature
turned his city into a giant swimming pool. When Hurricane
Katrina came through New Orleans, she turned his
entire life upside down. He went from being a straight A
student with a loving dad to an orphan with two derelicts
for cousins. Passed away from cancer, a year before the
hurricane, and although losing her had been hard, Katrina
was worse. He had always been a daddy's boy. His mother
had been sweet, but she had spent most of her time working.
His dad had worked out of their home, so they had
become very close.
Franky couldn't shake the feeling that his life was just a
bad dream, and he kept thinking that one day he would
wake up and see his mother cooking breakfast as she
rushed around their five-bedroom house in the Garden
District. He closed his eyes and visualized her barking orders
as she rushed him to get ready for school. He had
hated it then, but he would give his right arm to hear her
yell at him now. He'd have given the other arm to have his
father jack him for complaining under his breath about
doing his petty chores.
For the last three years, Franky had been severely depressed.
The only inkling of peace came when he was unconscious,
which explained why he slept twelve hours out
of every day. When he was asleep, he was free. He didn't
have to worry about food, violence, homelessness, or any
of the other troubles that accompanied his conscious
state. But the most important reason he slept all day was
because in his dreams, there was a good chance he could
be with his parents. His dreams were always so vivid and
real, and when he woke up and realized that it was all in
his mind, he was usually angry and sad for the rest of the
day. He missed them so much.
Franky pulled his tall, lanky body up from the well-used
mattress and looked at his watch. It was two forty-five in
the afternoon, and he had slept yet another day away. He
heard the rumbling of a school bus outside his window,
followed by the joyful sounds of the elementary-school
kids laughing and playing. He walked over to the window
and looked out at the ghetto that was now his home. The
kids always made him happier. Their innocence and joyfulness
gave him hope that all was not bad in the world.
He smiled and realized that he hadn't smiled in a long
time. His innocence had been taken away when he lost
the life he once had. He was fifteen years old, yet he felt
like a fifty-five-year-old man.
"Jason," he called out to the little boy who lived across
the street from him. "Bring your lil nappy-headed self over
here."
Jason was seven years old and was always in some type
of trouble. His teachers were completely fed up with him,
and his grandmother, Mrs. Bertha, was almost to the point
of strangling him to death. Jason found it amusing to be a
constant thorn in the old woman's side. Franky tried to
help her out whenever he could, which often included
smacking Jason upside his little head.
"Whatchu doing out here talking about people?" Franky
asked.
"I'm just playing with that girl with the stinky breath.
It's too late in the day to have stinky breath. That's supposed
to be in the morning time," he said, fanning his
nose.
Franky laughed and shook his head at the little boy.
"It is," Jason said with wide eyes. "It seems like it
would've gone away by now. She needs to eat some
candy."
"Then she'll have rotten teeth like the ones you have."
"I ain't got no rotten teeth," Jason said, spreading his
lips to show off his crooked teeth.
"'Ain't got'? What kind of way is that for you to be talking
when you just left school?" Franky snapped. "It's 'I
don't have any rotten teeth.'"
"Whatever. I don't wanna talk white," Jason said.
"So doing something right makes you white?" Franky
asked. "Where'd you get that nonsense from?"
Jason shrugged.
"Boy, you shouldn't say things you can't explain. Don't
be a follower," Franky said. "How was school today?"
"It was good."
"What color are you on?" Franky asked, referring to the
color-coded behavior chart that told the kids' parents if
their child had a good, okay, or bad day. Green signaled
good, yellow meant okay, and red equaled bad.
"Green," Jason said with a huge smile.
"Yeah, right," Franky said with an exaggerated frown.
"Let me see it."
Jason walked over to the window and dropped his
book bag on the ground. He leaned down to retrieve his
folder and held it up for Franky to see a big green smiley
face.
"Cooooooool. That's what's up, lil whoadie," Franky
said. "I'm proud of ya."
"I told you. Now, whatchu gonna give me?"
"I'ma give you a chance to keep your teeth. How about
that?"
"Maaan," Jason said, sucking his teeth. "Tomorrow I'ma
get on red. Just because of you."
"Go ahead and I'ma give you a black eye to match it.
You gonna be looking just like them Jordans you're wearing.
How about that?"
"Then you going to jail for child abruse."
Franky chuckled at his young friend's butchering of the
English language. "It's child
abuse, not
abruse."
"Whatever. My teacher said she's gonna give me some
candy if I stay on green, but I need some money, man."
"What are you gonna do with money? You're six years
old."
"I'm seven, and I can get me some food from McDonald's."
"I'll tell you what. You stay on green all week and I'll
take you to McDonald's on Friday. Is that a deal?"
"Deal," Jason said, smiling from ear to ear. "What color
you on?"
"I'm not on any color. I'm too old for that."
"But you ain't too old to be in school. Why don't you go
to school?"
"Now you're minding my business. I'm supposed to
mind yours, not the other way around, lil boy."
Jason fanned him off and pushed his folder back into
his book bag. "Okay, Franky. I'll see you later, dummy," he
said as he ran off.
Franky smiled as Jason ran off. His heart sank as he
watched Jason begin crossing the street without even
looking for cars. He quickly scanned the street to see if
any vehicles were coming. Luckily the coast was clear, and
his little friend made it across in one piece.
Franky turned away from the window and walked into
the bathroom. He turned on the light and saw a few
roaches scatter. Barely hanging on the wall over the sink
was a cracked mirror, and the old sink was more rust than
porcelain. He looked into the mirror and wasn't too
happy with the guy he saw staring back at him.
Creamy colored skin-the product of a Caucasian mother
and an African-American father-light brown eyes that
bordered on hazel, and jet-black curly hair were reflected
back at him. He was a lighter complexioned version of his
father, and that made him very happy. At least every time
he looked at himself he would see the man who meant the
most to him. They had been so close, and he missed him
more than words could ever express. He turned away
from the mirror and walked over to the toilet to empty his
bladder. Someone hadn't even bothered to flush after
doing their business, and he thought that was disgusting.
Unfortunately, he had long ago gotten used to being disgusted.
He frowned, shook his head, then used his foot to
flush the waste down into the sewer system. After he was
done with his bathroom business, he washed his hands
and walked out to the living room. He stood in the doorway
and watched his cousins. They were doing what they
did every day-nothing. Franky walked into the kitchen
with hopes that something edible would've magically appeared
in the refrigerator overnight. He opened the refrigerator
and saw a half-finished bottle of beer, some eggs, an
empty pitcher that they used for Kool-Aid, and a carton
with about a half cup of milk still in it. He reached in and
grabbed the carton, opened it, placed it to his lips, and
drained it. He threw the empty container in the trash can
and slammed the refrigerator door shut. He walked over
to the cabinets and looked in them. Nothing. He closed
the door and walked out into the living room.
"Well, well, well. Look who has risen from the dead,"
Rico Bourgeois, Franky's cousin, said in a heavy New Orleans
drawl. Rico was short and somewhat chubby. He
wore his long hair in cornrows. His teeth were covered in
gold, and tattoos were everywhere on his body, but he was
wasting his money because his dark skin made it difficult
to make out anything. "Man, you gonna have to do something
about all that sleep. You go to bed early and wake up
late. Is ya pregnant, whoadie?"
"You ever see a male get pregnant? I'm hungry. When
are we gonna get some food?" Franky asked.
"Food? Is that all you think about? Eating and sleeping,"
Rico said. "That's all you do. You don't even go outside
and shoot hoops. Stay round here eating and sleeping."
"Yep, he's pregnant," Nigel, Rico's older brother, said as
he pressed the Pause button on the video game to laugh at
his own joke. Nigel was the opposite of Rico. No tattoos,
clean white teeth, and a low, Caesar-type haircut. Yet there
was no mistaking that they were brothers. They shared the
same dark brown complexion, big full lips, and fat faces.
Nigel had a long scar down the left side of his face-a gift
from a fight in the rough-and-tumble Calliope Projects.
The scar gave him a menacing look, but he was as nice as
anyone could ever be. And he was the sole reason they
were alive.
"Where you gonna get some money from to give
Jason's lil bad butt?" Rico asked.
"I don't know," Franky said. "He ain't gonna earn it anyway,
so it doesn't matter."
"Check this out," Rico said, standing up and walking in
front of the small television set. "Now that we are all together,
I need to share my plan witcha. We gonna make
some big dough, whoadie. I've been chewing on this one
for a minute now. Kept it to myself so I didn't jinx it, ya
heard, but it's time to let the cat outta the bag."
"Here we go," Nigel said, already shaking his head
while frantically working the video game's controller and
trying to see around his little brother. Over the years, Rico
had come up with some of the worst ideas known to man
about how to make some money. He was a prime candidate
for the show
The World's Dumbest Criminals. He had
been arrested so many times that he had lost count. One
time he robbed a Payless ShoeSource right after they first
opened for business. He was arrested with a grand total of
nine dollars and sixty-three cents in his pockets.
"We gonna start selling clothes. Right here in the
house," Rico said. "We can have our own lil ghetto Macy's
up in here, ya heard."
Nigel pressed the Pause button again and gave his little
brother a how-could-you-be-so-stupid look, then went
back to playing his video game.
Franky sat down beside Nigel on the beat-up sofa and
grabbed the other game's controller. He reached down
and reset the game without even asking.
"Thanks a lot, rude boy," Nigel said, pushing Franky's
head. "I guess you in a mighty big hurry to get yo butt
whipped. You couldn't let me finish my game, whoadie?"
"Whatever. What's the record?" Franky asked.
"Fifty-nine to twenty-nine, player. My way," Nigel said,
bragging about the record they had been keeping of wins
and losses for the last month. "Twelve more games and
I'm the king."
"You're already the winner. Even if I win the next
twelve, I can't catch up."
"Huh?" Nigel asked, confused. He wasn't the smartest
guy in the world, but he was as good as gold when it came
to his word.
"Nothing," Franky said, frustrated with explaining the
smallest of things to his cousins. It was as if they hadn't
even gone to elementary school to learn the basics.
"So if you can't catch up, why we playing?" Nigel asked.
"Because there ain't nothing else to do. And I'm hungry,
so this can keep my mind off of eating," Franky said.
"When we gonna get some food?"
"Okay," Rico said. "So y'all just gonna blow me off like
my idea ain't nuttin', huh? I'm telling y'all this can work.
Black folks will always try to look good, whoadie. Even if
we ain't got no money for food, we dress good. Look at
us. We broke as a joke, but all of us be fresh to death. If we
do this, then we ain't gone have no more empty refrigerators,
no more raggedy TVs, no more hot nights, 'cause I'm
buying an air conditioner on the first piece of profit. No
more stealing that hard toilet paper from the gas station
down the street and having Habib cuss me out. I'm telling
y'all it's gonna be all nice up in here."
"Where we gonna get the clothes from, Rico?" Nigel
asked.
"Steal 'em. How else you think we gonna get 'em?" Rico
snapped, shaking his head as if his older brother were the
dumbest guy in the world.
"Steal 'em from where?" Nigel asked.
"Man, I swear you were born with three and a half brain
cells. From the stores where they sell 'em, Einstein."
Nigel shook his head and kept playing.
"You didn't even think I knew who Einstein is, did ya,
Franky?"
"Who is he?" Franky asked, already knowing that Rico
didn't have a clue.
"Some rich white man, that's who. Don't get ya head
kicked in. Anyway, where you think we gonna steal 'em
from, Nigel?"
"I have no idea," Nigel said.
"You think I'ma break into the factory where they stitch
them up?" Rico said. "We going right up in the store and
do a smash-and-grab."
"Ever hear of cameras, idiot? We'll be locked up before
we make it back to the hood. Think of something else with
your eleven brain cells. And hurry up, 'cause ain't no food
up in here. I got 'bout seventy dollars, and the rent is due.
And I gotta pay this rent in five days or we gonna be homeless."
"Call Domino's," Rico said, plopping down in a chair
that had seen better days.
"No," Nigel said. "We already had Domino's four times
this week. We need to eat something with some vegetables
in it."
"Pizza got vegetables on it. Ain't cheese a vegetable?"
Rico asked with a frown.
"Cheese? Since when did cheese become a vegetable,
braincase?" Nigel asked. "I could see if you said the tomato
sauce, but cheese? I want you to stop smoking whatever it
is that you've been smoking today. Make this your last day,
'cause you're already dumb enough."
"Neither one of them are a vegetable. Technically tomatoes
are a fruit, and cheese is not even in the equation,"
Franky said as he pushed the buttons on the controller to
make the little football players move here and there on
the small television screen.
"Leave it up to Einstein to get all deep," Rico said, fanning
his hand to brush away the smell of him passing gas.
He wasn't the least bit embarrassed by his flatulence or his
ignorance.
"Man," Franky said, "you stink. You smell like something
crawled in you and died."
Rico laughed and kept talking. "I don't care about none
of that fruit or vegetable crap. I'm ordering a pizza, and
we can rob the pizza guy like we always do."
"No, you ain't," Nigel said. "You always go overboard,
Rico. You need to learn to leave well enough alone, boy.
You keep on pushing it and you gonna get yourself ten
years in prison over some pizza."
"Well, what we gonna eat?" Rico said.
"I'll run to the grocery store in a minute," Nigel said as
he made a few moves in the game. "Right after I whip up
on this chump."
Franky tossed the controller on the raggedy sofa after
another loss.
Nigel reached over and rubbed his little cousin on his
head. "There is always next time, lil whoadie," he said,
smiling and throwing his hands up in victory.
Franky leaned back on the sofa. He took a deep breath
and blew out about a week's worth of frustration. He took
another breath and screamed at the top of his lungs.
"Man," Rico said, looking at his cousin as if he might've
finally cracked. "You need to use your inside voice,
whoadie."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from At the Crossroads
by TRAVIS HUNTER
Copyright © 2010 by Travis Hunter.
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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