Lovers & Haters (4 page)

Xavier could do this. There were scores of students looking to pop pills at his high school. The move would be easy. He would get in, make his paper, and get out. It would be simple. But then on the other hand, what would happen if he ever got caught? Alfonso would be lost to the cold and unforgiving streets forever. He couldn't do that to his little brother. Yep. It would feel good to have money and fame, but the cost, he felt, was just too high.

“You die, mothafuc—”

“I wish you would say that,” Xavier yelled at Alfonso before the boy could get the profanity out of his mouth. “I'll come in there and smash you, you little rat.”

“My bad, X,” Alfonso apologized. “Didn't know you were there.”

“What'd I tell you about repeating the lines from
Scarface
?”

Over the sound of gunfire, Alfonzo responded, “I know, I know—that I shouldn't be using the ones with bad language.”

“Now enjoy your game, but don't make me have to come in there, you feel me?” Xavier asked, shaking his head. On his way up the basement stairs he had to laugh at his little brother. But once he walked into his bedroom, Xavier was all business. He took his books out and started to study.

A
few days later on Thursday morning, Xavier and a chubby-faced, light-skinned kid named Dexter were standing in the hallway chopping it up. Dexter was the same age as Xavier. The brotha was cool and everybody knew him around the school as Dex. He had trademark flaming red freckles, a slight overbite, and an awkward-looking body. He tried as much as he could to dress that mess up with designer garb, but his high-priced wear only succeeded in making his freakish body look a hot wreck.

“X, what class you about to skip?” Dex asked, trying to be funny.

Xavier laughed it off. “What makes you think I'm about to cut class, my dude?”

The two boys stood at their lockers on the third floor. The halls were crowded with students trying to hustle to their lockers and get what they needed to make fourth-period class before the tardy bell rang.

“C'mon, guy,” Dex said. “Don't play like I don't know you. Hello, 'member me, your friend Dexter Baxter? We graduated together from Weber Junior High. Cuz, every time you are about to pull something devilish you have that look on your face.”

The golden boy, all-star quarterback Harvey Wellington, came stumbling down the hallway, bumping into everybody and cursing at them like they were in his way. Xavier and Dex watched as the boy went to his locker and fumbled around with the combination lock. Harvey was so drunk that he could barely stand up straight.

“That's our star quarterback,” Dex said. “Dude can't even get off the bottle; how the hell is he going to play football?”

Xavier just shook his head. “Homey needs some type of intervention.”

“I heard he's been drunk since his freshman year and the dude's a junior now. They tell me it gets worse every year. In a minute they're not gonna have anything strong enough in the liquor store to get him buzzed. What's next, crack?”

Harvey finally opened his lock and went into his locker. He took out a brown paper bag in the shape of a small bottle, unscrewed the cap, and turned it up to his lips. Harvey took a few sips, then returned the bottle to his locker and closed the door. With a wild expression, he looked at everybody as he stumbled back the way he'd come.

Xavier and Dex weren't able to discuss what they'd just seen because just then Samantha walked by. She saturated the air with a sweet, intoxicating fragrance. The scent of Warm Vanilla Sugar had fellas turning their heads and crowding her just to breathe her tantalizing aroma. And girlfriend had the perfect body to rock Victoria's Secret's off-duty style to a tee, looking cute in a pink fleece hoodie, matching pants, and white Nikes trimmed in pink. Her friend was looking good too. Samantha had some good company in Tracy McIntyre, with her caramel complexion, spiral curls, and voluptuous body.

“How are you doing today, Ms. Fox?” Xavier asked Samantha with a sly grin on his face.

Samantha didn't stop, but said to Xavier over her shoulder, “Didn't you ask me that in our English class today?”

The two girls giggled as Samantha whispered something—Xavier assumed it was about him—to Tracy.

“Girl, he always trying to be up in your stuff,” Tracy joked, while looking back at him and laughing harder. Samantha looked back and winked at Xavier.

Xavier caught the wink and blew Samantha a kiss.

“Dazam! X, you see that?” Dex asked. “Samantha winked at me!”

“Boy, get your mind right,” Xavier said to Dex. “That wink was for big daddy. I told you she was feeling me.”

“Whatever. Don't nobody want you. Samantha was probably winking because she had some dust in her eye.” Dex laughed and went into his locker, pulling out a thick textbook. “You're catching feelings for that chick Samantha? I see how you be sweating her—you and every other dude with a workable zipper in this high school. Give it up. You ain't got a chance with Ms. High and Mighty.”

“What do you know about her?” Xavier asked.

“Nothing much. She's in my Spanish class. All the little muchachos be sweatin' her something fierce—trying to carry her books. You should see those clowns tripping all over themselves to lay down their coats on the floor for her to walk over—that's that gentleman stuff. Why am I wasting my time talking to you, you caveman? You don't even know what the word
gentleman
means.”

“And you do, right?”

Dex popped his collar and said, “You know how I gets down, pimpin'!”

“Get to class, bum,” Xavier ordered Dex, jokingly.

“Later,” Dex said.

Xavier didn't feel much like going to his physical science class. He rarely skipped, but today he just needed a break from the heavy stuff. He had already studied the chapter belonging to centripetal force. Xavier could take that test concerning the material in his sleep and ace it.

Ne Ne was stressing him out at the crib. On his butt every time he turned around, sweating him like a sauna about getting out on the street to hustle so that he could contribute to the bills for the house.

If he was going to skip, Xavier needed a pass to roam the hallways. He knew just who to go to. His favorite gym teacher, Ms. Porter, would set him straight. He'd taken her gym class his freshman year and they had developed a good relationship. She loved his sense of humor, but most of all, Ms. Porter admired his dedication in working hard to maintain an outstanding GPA. So she extended him a few extra privileges on the low.

After the second bell rang, Xavier took his time getting down to the gym office, where he buttered up the butterball-shaped gym teacher. Ms. Porter was dressed in a red warm-up suit with gray and white stripes flowing down both sleeves and pants legs. Xavier kicked the game with her for a bit—jokes, laughs, gossip—then he was out with a pass. Xavier walked out of the office and back up the locker room steps into the gymnasium.

The boys were playing full court basketball, while it was the girls' turn to go outside and run laps, leaving the guys to play hoops until they dropped. He saw a couple cats that he knew, including Romello, who looked too busy to kick it with him. Romello was all show time with the rock, dribbling the ball between his legs and around his back in an attempt at shaking his defender to get to the basket for an easy layup.

But when it was time to run back down on defense, he yelled at Xavier, “Man, don't stand me up this Friday for teen night.”

“Stop sweating me, chump,” Xavier responded. “I told you I'll be there. You don't know how to play ball anyway, fool.”

“I taught yo mama how to play,” Romello cracked. A few of the guys on the bench started chuckling. That was until Romello let his man get away from him. The tall, lanky boy with the Will Smith ears drove right past Romello and went all LeBron James with it. He dunked the ball over Romello—hard, drawing a chorus of “oohs” and “aahs.”

Xavier taunted, “That's gonna be on SportsCenter tonight, homey.” He stepped out of the gym laughing.

Sounds of soft music were coming from a room two doors down, belonging to the dance class. Sometimes he went through to check out the girls kicking around in their leotards. Xavier's eyes almost bulged from their sockets as he caught a glimpse of Samantha. The girl had curves for days and booty for weeks. He merely stood there, mouth open and paralyzed, watching her move around the room like she was an experienced dancer. Her steps were simple and graceful, a seasoned dancer.

He had to have her. Samantha was a star, and if he could bag her, Xavier would definitely go down in the Players Hall of Fame. He wasn't a stranger to hollering at the ladies. Xavier didn't want to pop his own collar, but homeboy had many women sweating him—they were neighborhood chicken heads, though. Those girls came a dime a dozen. Not much game needed to be spit at them in order to get his action on. But Samantha was different in every sense of the word. She was big game—sophisticated, an uptown piece that wouldn't dare to look sideways at fools who weren't up to her status. A girl like her would instantly propel his reputation as a cat that had game.

Xavier stood in the doorway with his mind running the fantasy footage of the two of them hurrying down the aisle—while rice was being thrown in the air—to get into their awaiting white limousine, a huge Just Married banner on the trunk, when the head of security took a sledgehammer to his fantasy.

“Mr. Hunter,” said a tall, slim, brown-skinned man named Doug with a nice-sized bald spot in his closely cropped hair. He wore a utility belt bearing hooks that hung a nice-sized ring with a gazillion keys, a flashlight, and, of course, Mace. “Shouldn't you be in class, Mr. Hunter?”

Xavier was familiar with the guard, so he handed Doug his hall pass.

After Doug finished examining it, he said, “Ms. Porter must be getting senile. She didn't put the time or date on this thing. Mr. Hunter, I've been watching you, checking up on your every move. It seems that you are quite the student—one of those brainiac, academic types. But you're a different kind. You have the kind of swag that allows you to live on both sides of the fence and you think you're too smart to get caught up in the game. Let me tell you something. Every single day on my way home, I drive by former students who had your talent, your intellectual gifts, passing the wine bottle around to each other on the corner. Now tell me, where are you really supposed to be?”

Xavier lied, “The lunchroom.”

“I suggest you get there and next time tell Ms. Porter to write down the time.”

“Yes, sir, Doug E. Fresh,” Xavier joked.

“‘Doug E. Fresh,' huh? I got my eyes on you, Mr. Hunter. Boy, you better never give me any trouble. You know I grew up with your father, Noah.”

Xavier wasn't aware that the exchange outside the doorway of the dance room had halted all activity. Everybody was looking, even the teacher, Ms. Tarpel.

“Okay, girls, the show is over. Our security has it all under control,” the teacher ordered—not before one of Samantha's buddies pointed out Xavier to her. To poke fun at Xavier, the little heifer rubbed a hand over an imaginary bald head and started walking with her shoulders hunched, head leaning to the right, arms hanging slightly curved, balled fists almost touching, imitating the swag of a tough guy.

The girls were pointing at Xavier and laughing so hard that the teacher had to quickly restore order.

“That's all right, Jennifer,” Xavier retaliated, “with those bat claws of yours, shouldn't you be hanging upside down in a cave?” He looked at the rest of the giggling girls in the class. “Now y'all laugh at that, you Bigfoots.”

“Douglas, please remove that student from in front of my door,” Ms. Tarpel requested.

Xavier wanted to give her a couple of jokes too, but decided against it.

“Well, Mr. Hunter,” Doug said, wanting to laugh himself, “the tribe has spoken. These girls can be ruthless. You'd better be headed to lunch now.”

Doug handed Xavier's pass back to him and walked off, trying his best to keep a straight face.

Xavier had thick skin. He let the insults slide off. Meanwhile, he pointed his finger at Samantha and blew her a kiss. She quickly caught it and smiled.

Halfway down the hallway, Xavier kept on telling himself that he wasn't a stalker. He had no idea why Samantha's vibe was so powerful. There were dozens of girls at Coleman who would go out with him in a heartbeat—but none as exquisite as Samantha.

Xavier had to laugh at his foolishness as he continued down the corridor. His cell phone vibrated, signaling that he had a text message. He instinctively knew that it was from his mother. Frustrated, he raked a hand down his face and slowly touched the white envelope icon for messages:

That's Einstein, Ne Ne,
Xavier thought.
Not Epstein, you goofball.

What a load of guilt to drop on him. He was being pulled in all directions to do illegal things that he knew later on he'd regret. Why couldn't he have a mom who was more supportive of him achieving academic success? And where was his father? Xavier never blamed the old man, but if he ever needed him, it was right now. A sixteen-year-old had no business trying to make grown-up decisions. He was poor and barely getting by. Behind his back, people made fun of his clothes, sneakers. The way things were going for him, it was a wonder that he wasn't strung out on Xanax or eating OxyContin like Skittles.

He was a sophomore at Coleman High and he wasn't going to let anything or anyone hold him back from his destiny. Xavier was determined to walk across that stage in two years to collect his diploma. In the meantime, he had to figure out a way to survive inside this steel and concrete high-school-like penitentiary. It was a place where savages roamed the halls and used textbooks, fake smiles, and ID cards to mask their true motives. He wasn't all that concerned about the gang members. Xavier had the heart of a lion and wouldn't hesitate to go toe-to-toe with any sucka.

He knew all of the players, and most of them stayed clear of him because of his old man's reputation. But there were exceptions, like Dylan Dallas's D-Day losers. And Rolling Deep, which was led by Dutch Westwood. Also, a generic crew named Go Hard—but those boys weren't making too much noise. Xavier was cool with a gang that went by Second Street. The leader, a cat by the name of Felix Hoover, had been Xavier's homey all through junior high. All the rest of these gangs—with the exception of Second, were making it do what it did. Slinging whatever they could sell in the glorious pursuit of the dollar bill.

Even his boy Romello belonged to a gang. Zulu had members ranging in ages from fifteen through grown-ass man status. Only ten of them attended Coleman High though. Romello might resemble Usher, but the boy had a monster reputation and wasn't scared to pop a cap.