The Old Neighborhood by Bill Hillmann Read Free Book Online

Rich’s shoulder-length mullet swayed fiercely as he ambled through the wall of kids. He knocked BB flat on his backside. I dangled from his grip with the tips of my sneakers scraping the pavement. He snatched his backward, red Marlboro baseball cap off his head. T-Money scampered alongside us with his brow furrowed.
    â€œWhat? You his brotha or something?” T-Money pleaded. “It was a fair fight. He was doin’ fine. He was finna win!”
    Rich stomped on. As we got to Dad’s old Diesel, he shoved T-Money in the chest. Then, he yanked the passenger side door open and threw me in by my arm. I landed on his girlfriend Nancy’s lap.
    â€œRichard, stop it now!” She hissed. Her long, straight brown hair spilt out of her headband.
    Rich slammed the door shut on us, then spun around on T-Money, who looked young and frail up next to him. Rich’s chest heaved beneath his sleeveless, black Iron Maiden shirt.
    â€œYou wanta beat up on my brother, nigger?” Rich spat, then smashed two quick fists into T-Money’s face. T-Money tumbled backward and clutched his mug.
    BB threw a stone that pegged off the side Rich’s head. Rich stomped around the front end of the Diesel, jumped in, and we peeled off.
    â€œFUCKIN’ NIGGERS!” Rich screamed maniacally from his window.
    A wash of garbage and rocks clinked and banged against the windshield and side panel. Monteff whipped a half-empty RC can that clanked on the windshield and splattered a string of fizzy, brown suds across the glass. The Bronco careened out of the alley.
    â€œWHY THE FUCK YOU HANGING OUT OVER HERE!” Rich screamed, spittle spurting from his teeth.
    â€œThey’re my friends!” I replied, writhing in Nancy’s arms. My head pulsed as lumps inflated along my forehead.
    They quarreled as we pulled in front of the house. I hopped out and ran upstairs to my room and collapsed on my bed. My chest heaved as I sobbed. The dark-blue drapes were drawn closed, and they filtered the harsh light. A cool, turquoise haze filled the room. Stone-sized knots swelled on my forehead beneath my scalp—pulsing mounds that itched and burned like giant chicken pox. My hands and wrists felt large and hollow, and a thin film of blood dried on my knuckles.
    Light footsteps entered my room. I bawled uncontrollably, lying flat on my back. Jan’s pudgy hand appeared, palm up, and her deep-brown fingers spread. A sopping-wet dish rag peeked out from between the gaps in her fingers. Droplets of cool water dripped off her knuckles and spattered on my cheek and brow. She brought her hand close, and the ice cubes jostled in the folded rag. Then, she flopped it onto my forehead. I gasped. The shocking chill instantly soothed and deflated the burning knots.
    My whole body eased as Jan sat on the mattress beside my arm. Her soft, brown face. Her thick, frizzy hair pulled back and tied with a rubber band. The silky, black curls splayed out over her shoulders as she gazed peace-fully out the window at the head of my bed. The slow breeze parted the drapes, sending vertical slivers of light across her chocolaty skin. A thought slithered though my mind: is she a nigger, too? Strings of agony coursed down my throat and planted in my heart. She stayed beside me, silently strumming her fingers gently through my hair. My love for her, my sister, like a giant, deep lake with bright yellow sunlight streaking its peaking surface. I went to say it—to say it all—but it got caught in my throat as the exhaustion billowed up and encompassed me in a heavy, warm fog, and I sank into sleep.
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    I LOVED THEM the way boys love older sisters, and they adored and tortured me equally. When I’d started grammar school, I hated it. I’d fight and refuse to go each morning while Ma was out picking up the babysitting kids. At first, they’d scream at me to get ready, I’d scream back, and we’d get nowhere. Later,