Chapter 9: I Can Take You To ‘Em

(For mature audiences)

(This version isn’t finalized. All writings are from its origin and unedited.)

Daily was, more or less, repetitive. It was a childhood life. Teenage years of popularity or seclusion were the tasks. I was popular… amidst my nerd friends. In our eyes, we were equally so. No one favored over another. My devout interest, or obsession, in a particular girl did set me apart. Before gun-totin’ psychopath, she was distantly one of us but much more beautiful, and popular for that same reason. Best of both worlds. Pencils stopped or squiggled improper grammar when she cruised by at lunch.

In hindsight, my few friends were lucky for just seeing her during school hours. I, on the other hand, lived around the corner; meaning I saw her on the way to school, from school, and eventually forced time studying at the window until she went to the corner store. I was three spaces and a jaywalk away. Our second-floor apartment neighbored two one-story houses. A near-perfect view of my shining star drinking pop on a hot day.

What could’ve been more pathetic? I hadn’t even met her yet. None of the same classes at the same time and out of my circle’s caliber. First teenage female in history asked many times to be a cheerleader and got invited to all grade level dances without trying hard. All attempts thwarted with the sweet voice of rejection. I couldn’t understand her then either. The crowd was never a distraction. Straight As were the vice of her veins.

Walking home was borderline stalkerish between us, on my behalf, of course. The extra fifteen minutes there and back to her block sufficed. I hated days when I would leave the back gate too soon, thinking I’d missed her, then end up ahead. Looking back constantly or intentionally slowing for her to pass would’ve been a step too obvious. Those, and absences, were the two worst. Like standing at a train platform without a schedule.

Fear of talking yet being lovesick was a conundrum if I’d ever heard of one. It became worse. Somehow, I never figured she would notice we walked the same path. I assumed her back would be at me until we graduated. Against my better judgment, I started avoiding her. Going slower on the way home, getting to school early, and keeping my head low at lunch. I lasted two entire days. Then, going home on the third day, she was behind me. So convenient it felt planned. I didn’t know what to do. Each time I looked, her approach felt more swift. She even waved at me and wore a smile that should have frozen me stone.

Any adult in their right mind would have sworn I was being tailed by a serial killer. Closer she got, more my heart began sprinting inside my chest and playing bumper cars on my lungs. It had the right idea and I mimicked into a right bend. Under an archway that led to apartment doors on both sides. Nervous speed walk transformed into full-on sprint. As soon as I started my gallop, what sounded like birds flapping made me jump.

My bag was open. One of my books took a tumble and needed a hero. I couldn’t stop. Not for a book worth four weeks of allowances. I ran to the end where the path split. Stopped just before and took cover behind the steps leading to someone’s front door. Caught my breath quietly while waiting. Having no idea if she would search, it was hard to calm down. My heart still wanted to run. But then she’d know I was hiding there and make it a mission to find or talk about me if I ran twice.

Prone to slumped against the wall to seated, an hour passed. No person but a lot of lively ants. I finally peeked. The sunlit path did not have a textbook or a Quinntella on it. Relieving that I’d escaped that night and been eighty dollars out the next. Freshman daily tasks changed again: new book from the student booth and avoid Quinntella bubonic style. Different circumstances made homework in the window strange.

How I handled getting away haunted my thoughts into the longest evening; tossing and turning in bed didn’t help either. Waking in intervals like I’d anticipated being tardy to an important appointment. The next day, finding her was priority so I could better keep distant. Succeeded in hallway passes between classes. At lunch, she was with her friends, opposite the booth. I rushed to replace the book I lost before my next class. The line wasn’t long, although it was going about as fast as a snail’s newborn. A minute before class made me forget.

A girl stated, “I heard both student workers got fired the other day.”

The voice from behind was obviously projected at me, and I responded while facing ahead as if the line would decrease by watching, “I saw it in the newsletter at the bulletin board. This sub is gonna make me tardy.”

“Hm. Buying a book?”

“Yeah. I lost one of mine yesterday after school.”

“That’s funny, I’m here turning one in that I found yesterday after school…” The need to look back wasn’t in me as she continued over my sinking heart, “It belongs to someone named Jordan Greene. Do you know somebody named Jordan Greene?”

She caught me. Quinntella Wallace, the most beautiful and likely smartest girl in school, stood in line behind me. I didn’t know what to say. Obviously, she got my name right and I knew hers, but it wasn’t an ice breaker. She stoned me. The shock was major. Not assuming my book fell into her hands was stupid. Holding position in a line that refused to move, I ignored her.

Quinntella inquired, “Are you okay?” The bell rung and my mind still refused to let me talk or move, “I’ll put your book in your backpack for you. Then I’ll go to my class.”

The small line of students dispersed into nothing. Disappointed they would have to return. I felt slight tugging on my straps and listened to zips, followed by nothing. The teacher manning the kiosk left too. My peers walked by in groups of two and three, headed to class while intentionally trying to deduce my problem. Feeling stupid and hoping she would still be there, I turned to nothing. Second time I’d dissed her and both experiences were certainly worthy of another.

With no belief of a mutual romantic agenda involved, I looked like an even bigger ass. That walk home wasn’t awkward because I practically took flight. Sped like a maniac out the back gate and vanished before anyone could notice. Every opportunity of eye contact after was greeted with a smile from her. I was trapped inside my own skull. Blank and disassociated from the world for a couple of days. Constant reassurances finally wore me down. I went to sit. Speechless and zero eye contact.

As she worked on whatever subject and page in the textbook, a smile etched on her face. She felt my presence. Instead of being awkward, I made up an assignment to complete. Side by side but separated, my friends meant less. We sat together all the time. Friends of hers never acknowledged my presence, because I was never not in books, and that was okay. Down the road, conversation brewed in, especially on the way home from school. Then she officially joined my circle of friends as the newest recruit… that no one could stop staring at. Liking her already, it got weird. Us never speaking became best friendship; same age, same grade, awesome parents, great minds, and a bright future.

Dishonesty always lingered above me. I wanted a future alongside hers, and not in career choices. Signs weren’t given and I was too afraid to fall below the friend zone. Two years of imagining us together forever stopped all at once. Middle of the school year, on our way home. Muir Street was littered with police, their cars and a couple of wedged in ambulances. Cool sight of flashing lights became a glum scene, realizing they were centered on a yard I’d spent time in. People gathered, blocked by police tape and cops keeping the tape safe.

Tipped of the scattered viewing line, my parents were arguing with a cop. Beyond that, Quinntella’s house; riddled with dozens of holes. I was confused. We slowed down but didn’t stop, as if getting there too fast would change perspective. That arguing cop noticed us in the street, followed by my parents. They both had sadness on their faces and the neighborhood got still. Quinn saw the black bag on the stretcher through the crowd and lost it. She sprinted, screaming, and broke through the crowd.

Clueless what to say or do, I stood crying instantly and quietly. My dad moved fast. Intersected and grabbed hold of Quinn from charging through cops as well. Screamed so hard and loud that it resonated in me too. Enough to shatter ribs. I knew one parent occupied the body bag; neither parent mourning the other, they were both killed during the drive by. My mother was crying too.

They both held on comforting for at least five minutes until her voice couldn’t scream anymore, then cops took over. They blanketed and put the weakened young girl into the back of a police car. Paramedics waited near both filled body bag to assist the coroner’s load. My feet dragged to the police car that Quinn was in, and I sat next to the door. The sad puppy. Her head was at a low that I’d never seen it before; low enough to not know I was there.

People just started leaving but my parents stuck around for me to stick around for her. It got cold. Officers were finally ready to clear out. I stood to see Quinn lying in the backseat. That time, she noticed me at the window. My parents came to my side and saw me at my lowest self when the car slowly drove away. I didn’t know what to say, what to do, or what would happen. My future was over at a young age.

I asked my mom, “Where’s she going?”

“They’re going to find a godparent or relative that’ll be willing to take her in. If not, they’ll put her into foster care.”

“Can’t we take her?”

“Baby, that’s not how the system works. In order to adopt a child, it takes years to process legal documents, or else we would. The officer told us there’s a group home in the area until they find someone. Quinntella will be back in school before you know it.”

A warm kiss touched my forehead. I didn’t know anything about group homes to judge how good or bad they would be. I started to cry again. My parents walked me home, and a fresh atmosphere didn’t change a thing. Days after were crappy but I kept the same spot toasty for when Quinn would return, like my mom had said. Asking about her everywhere got me nowhere; school counselors and principal knew nothing, group homes in the phone books and police could only release information to blood relatives. When I lied “…with proper identification” was added.

Weeks went by. I went back to hanging with my regular friends. Hope stayed alive. It paid off. Eyes lit in the hall while she spoke to our counselor. I ditched class for the first time and waited on the bench for her to leave. Highly motivated about good news. Having visited myself and understood, he vouched for my perfect attendance with a slip. Quinn wasn’t the same; it would be sick to pretend otherwise.

Joyful enthusiasm could not break that kinda spell. Permanent sadness stained. No words left her lips to anyone, not even me. It hurt so much and I endured. Waited for a bone to be thrown my way. On certain days, she was allowed hours to hang outside of school; still, no words spoken, and I became okay with that because she chose spending time with me. My parents treated her like their own, unconfirmed if that created a harder strain. It discomforted them to let me walk her part way to the group home. One sunset, it clicked and stuck.

We were approached and nodded by an obvious thug, “It was yo folks got shot up in that house, right?”

Rude conversation starter. Quinn didn’t acknowledge the older man. Sailed by without a care. I’d seen the man before, but on another side of the basketball court near our neighborhood. Usually with others. Mid-thirties, and by his baggy attire and color preference, represented a street gang.

More aware, I ignored the man too, then he spoke again, “I know who killed ’em.” Quinntella pumped brakes to an abrupt halt, keeping mute toggled but certainly listening, “The gang that shot up that house hit the wrong spot. It was your folk that got blasted but they was comin’ for me, Tre-Block. I can take you to ’em. Where they at. Right now.”

For about twenty seconds, all muscles were stagnant. When she did move, it was to face the man yet maintained the same blank stare. Very little consideration went into his offer. He pulled a pistol and gestured it to her while smoking a puff with his nondominant hand.

I lowly called out, “Quinn?”

I was a kid. Swaddled in another situation I didn’t know how to handle. But the only adult available was wrong. That chance to try passed quicker than I could think. She went straight to him. It was just us. Barrels of courage couldn’t spawn a law-abiding citizen to notice or stop what the man was doing. Gun in her hand, he led the way, and close to where I lived. Like an idiot and great friend, I followed them both into the gangster’s car.

As my best friend drifted further again, I whispered, “Think about what you’re about to do… He’s just using you. He could do this hisself.” My words weren’t getting through, as usual, yet I didn’t give up, “Give him the gun back and let’s go. Come on, please.”

Tre-Block was so confident in her that he ignored me. Knew my breath was being wasted and the contest was won before I even got in the car. Options limited, I did what I thought was right and grabbed for the gun. I lost so fast.

She yanked it away and shouted loud in my face, “Leave me alone!”

I flew backward in my seat hard enough to get swallowed. It was anger I’d never seen. Fury. Rage. All of them behind blackened eyes. Tunnel vision was welcomed home and led to the predetermined outcome. I was too scared to talk. Tre-Block pulled over safely away from a rundown, two-story house. Loud music blared off the block. It wasn’t a house party yet sounded like one. Nobody was outside, and it didn’t seem like many were in. There were barely cars in front.

Tre-Block walked us over then stopped across from the loud house, “This it.”

Without hesitation, Quinn stepped off the curb and sped across the street. Gun glued at her right side. I tried to stop her fall into a plan to rid someone else’s enemies. Last time with fear.

“I know you’re mad, but you can’t go in there. Those people shot up your house, they will kill you.” The lane divider was a stopping point because fear told me I would cross a line, “Quinn please!”

When she mounted the curb, it was a commitment. An unbroken bond. And again, when she crossed the chain fence threshold. I couldn’t cross my line. When she entered the unlocked house, I just waited. One bang startled me. It overlayed and blended well with the rap music. A second bang repeated the startle. Muzzle flashes lit downstairs windows. A woman’s scream roared, then a gunshot ended it.

Faster fire instigated in doubles to where I couldn’t tell what gun might have been Quinn’s anymore. Neighbors came out of their houses, close to their gates in case they needed to run back inside. Tre-Block ghosted us; his parked car was gone too. Why stick for the aftermath when he can just watch the news later? Free as a bird. What could I do? Muzzles went upstairs, for a short time. Shooting ceased. Every minute past felt like a year. No one came out of that house, but the party didn’t quit.

Cops arrived. One pulled me from the street to create a safe perimeter of yellow tape, although my eyes never broke contact on the house. Red and blue lights swallowed the neighborhood. Nobody was asleep without blackout curtains. Each bystander told officers I’d seen everything. Shaking and projecting questions in my face had no effect. The tunnel had me. Police raided the house and cut the tunes. Few officers stayed back and surrounded the house. More minute-years went by. A couple of officers came out first, empty-handed. Gave ambulance operators permission to go in.

Operators entered. In passing, officers came out with my friend, detained in cuffs, splattered in blood. Her expression never changed, in spite of what she’d done to eighteen occupants. No one, including the passionate version of Quinntella Wallace, survived the firefight. Her eyes locked with mine and I couldn’t sense any type of hatred. It was bizarre. That night, she was reborn into someone different; someone dark emerged out of her mind’s abyss.

Juvie was the next stop for the committed slaughter. I wrote letters every other day. Most sent, some of the more heartfelt literature didn’t. I never received any mailed response or return letters. My parents took me to visit once but she refused; therefore, I just kept writing, knowing no one else would. After a year of silence, mom convinced me to stop sending and I listened. I lost track of my first love; a love that I would never forget.