Fracture
Youโve been here before, your friend holding an innocent captive behind the blackened barrel of a silver Glock. His fatherโs. Faint rings of white powder crust around his nostrils like crystalized sugar, and his shoulders sag. It takes all his energy to lift his right arm, the pistol snagging gravity like a bell weight.
But he stands firm, the clerk mesmerized by those glazed eyes.
He switches hands and bumps your shoulder. โI told you he would cry, Hopscotch.โ He laughs. โSee.โ
Hopscotch is your nickname. They gave it to you the first day, after fists beat you to the ground. The way your arms protruded and your legs were in an upside-down V made it look like the childrenโs game. Trevor said it was honorable, but you donโt feel it. Itโs drowned out by the streams of water running the clerkโs face.
Heโs Arabโฆor something like that. Maybe Indian. The sun-dried brown skin says so. He has yet to speak. He sinks back against display cases of cigarettes and tobacco cans, gaze fixed on the threat. He reached under the counter earlier. Thereโs a silent alarm sign outside. You donโt know if he tripped it, but the door wonโt budge.
โHeyโฆJimmyโฆman,โ you say. โMaybe we should let him go. Just get outta here.โ
He scoffs. โCome on, man. Donโt you wanna be in?โ He licks his lips and wipes the sweat out of his eyes. โJeremy was clear, man. We go back without em, heโll hang us dry.โ
Jeremy. Darkest dealer in Detroit. Some call him Fuller, the name of the street he operated from in high school, out of an abandoned shack with F*** OFF written on the side. He parks his carcass in a rundown gray wood slum east of downtown. A suburban block littered with lowly souls enduring the torture of pre-afterlife. Drugs go quick in those parts, the bodies flooding in and out of that crapshoot apartment like an assembly line. How he keeps things discreet no one knows, but some suspect itโs the abortion clinic just down the street. The pro-lifers seem to draw attention with their protesting like a bear tramping through a Dollar Tree.
Trevor got you and Jimmy stuck with Fuller. Said he had connections, could get you anywhere you wanted to go. You were wary at first, though. Trevor is really good for nothing except wiping his own pearly white cheeks, though he probably even needs a guidebook for that. But for a teenage kid whose single mother battles stage three cancer and canโt see her own reflection in the mirror, much less her only son, the idea of going somewhere was salivating to you.
Fuller sized you up that first day. Wasnโt sure a puny, Caucasian runt from San Francisco could run with the big dogs. After you survived the barrage of fists (his first test), heโd pinned you to the floor and shoved his shiny revolver between your split lips. This is what life is, kid, heโd said. The doorway to death. All it takes is a littleโฆ
He pulled the trigger. Your heart cracked.
He rolled off you, laughing hard, holding his sides. When done, he helped you up and patted your back. You got guts, kid, unlike the rest of my worms.
He sent you to the drugstore a block down, claiming the owner had failed to pay up. You werenโt sure exactly what that meant, but you agreed anyway. He promised you entry into his clique as a bagman. Said he had one on every corner of the city. They collected fees and were the best of the best, so you had to beโฆif you wanted him to get the word out to all his larger clients. Wealthy brokers who dealt under the table to protect their billion-dollar name tags. They were always inquiring about young protรฉgรฉs like you.
He only let Jimmy come along because you asked. Thought he was a danger to the operation but let it slide. Jimmy asked too many questions and seemed like the sort who would back down from confrontation, but Fuller didnโt know him like you do. It was his idea to get the Glock, his idea to walk inside and point it right at the clerkโs face. You were the coward, but you werenโt going to admit that. Not a chance in hell.
โMan, this is ridiculous. This guy hasnโt doneโโ
โYou chickenin out on me?โ
You shake your head. โIโm just saying, Jimmyโโ
He points the gun at your forehead, periodically glancing at the clerk to make sure he stays put. โGet over the counter and pop the register.โ His breath is fast. โDonโt you dare ruin this for us!โ
You comply, reluctantly. You put your right foot on a box of candy bars and push up. They crackle under your shoe and go flat like flounders. You can picture the pieces squishing against each other, shattered. But when you look down, they still have their puff, only fractured, like your arm when you fell off your ten-speed in seventh grade.
You land beside the clerk. Heโs watching you, wide-eyed. The dark stain on his blue uniform is growing. You want to tell him itโs okay, that everything will be fine, but you canโt. Not with Jimmy. With him, you never know.
Your mother never liked him. Told you he was bad vibes. But since she was always wrapped up in that mystical crap, you paid her no mind. You shouldโve listened, but you couldnโt let him go.
Youโve known Jimmy since Pre-K. He was the wily sort then but never got into much trouble. It was the years that changed him, brought out his worst. His father beat his mother bad. Jimmy would come to school sharing stories with you of how heโd thrown her into the cabinets or slammed her head into the table or smashed her jaw with his wooden slugger. You asked him why she never got out of it, and he said they were coupled, whatever that meant. He just stared at the cherry trees flanking the playground, kicking rocks.
The fights always got worse. And when his father lost his job at the insurance companyโฆ
You and Jimmy were sophomores then. It was late. You heard the knock at the door, but not until it became banging. Your mother was yelling, rambling on about the ruckus in the neighborhood and how the black family next door (she called them Negros, but you never liked that word) could never keep it down. But when you opened the door, it was Jimmy. His face was covered in tears, shining as if it waxed. He was sobbing, heavy gasps that forced him to lean against the doorframe for balance.
He fell into your arms and you pulled him to the couch. He lay there heaving, water darkening the fabric, while your mother ran over, frantic and yelling Is he hurt? Whereโs he hurt? You saw the first-aid kit in her hands.
You turned him over. It took effort, but he slowly rolled, still shaking. What happened? you said.
He sucked in deep. The slobbery panting of an overworked hound.
Sheโs dead, he said. He shot her.
Your stomach sank as he told the storyโฆ
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