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What I couldnt get out of my heart was this joy-grabbing stone I felt there.
He would never, ever be coming home.
Credit: Knopf Books for Young Readers
My daddy, Benny Rachpaul, had bought me these sneakers when I turned twelve over the summer.
I wasnt about to let two older boys strolling down 125th Street snatch them off me.
And then, when he found out, Daddy Rachpaul would drive over and whup me again.
I heard the two boys following me quicken their pace.
Their footsteps behind me crunched on the ice that much faster.
My heart was beating faster too.
The streets around me were cheery, though.
Harlems main street was laid out tonight with bright lights, and Christmas tunes played constant on loudspeakers.
I guess to put you more in the Christmas spirit.
I was through with it.
Done with all of the Christmas music, wreaths, ornaments and happy holiday shoppers.
I had decided weeks ago that I would never be happy again.
Because it wasnt fair.
Wasnt fair to get robbed of somebody I thought would be there for the rest of my life.
Someone who was supposed to spend this Christmas with me, plus lots more Christmases!
It also wasnt fair that I couldnt even walk down 125th Street without being harassed.
Rushing along down the sidewalk, I glanced up at all the men who were passing.
All of them older and most of them Black like me.
I felt like I had put my life on the line, straight up.
All of these old dudes lived in a different world from me.
I crossed the street and dipped into a gift shop on the corner.
I sucked my teeth and turned toward the salesclerk.
Happy holidays, my young man, the clerk said.
Help you find something?
For a minute, his eyes peeped outside at the two boys waiting.
He frowned at them.
I watched them leave and sighed with relief.
The clerk cocked his bald head to one side.
I need an excellent Christmas gift, I said.
One for my mother, and another one for her, um,friend.
And for my father.
But I dont have much money.
Last-minute shoppers, he said, smiling at me.
Well get you straightened up.
Youre lucky were open this late on Christmas Eve125th Street is shutting down.
The Apollo Theater, the Adam Clayton Powell Building and the Studio Museum are all lined up along 1-2-5.
If Harlem was a human body, then 125th would be its pumping heart, throbbing all the time.
I dont know what the neighborhoods brain would be.
Ma and Yvonne would both be happy, I hoped.
And Daddy, with his gift too.
But the bag handle cut into my fingers.
And just as I switched the plastic shopping bag to my other hand, I saw them.
Across the wide blacktopped, slushy street, those two older boys had caught sight of me again.
Where I live, its all about borders.
But when you start to get oldabout my age, twelvethings start to change.
You cant go everywhere.
You got to start worrying about crews.
Crews are like cliques.
Groups of mostly boys, and sometimes females, who hang out together.
Mostly for fun, but for protection too.
And each crew got its territory in their neighborhood.
When I was young, I used to have a friend over on East 127th Street.
His name was Cody.
Nowadays when I see Cody and hes with his crew, we dont talk at all.
He just glares at me like Im about to get jumped.
He does it because we live in different places and were old now.
Thats how crews work.
There wasnt no real roadblock set up for them.
But if theyd done that, somebody woulda jumped them boys.
Excerpt copyright 2017 by David Barclay Moore.
