Down by Law

The Ni-Ni Girl Chronicles
Shortie Like Mine
If I Was Your Girl
A Girl Like Me
Teenage Love Affair
Upgrade U
No Boyz Allowed
True Story

 

 

Hollywood High series (with Amir Abrams)
Hollywood High
Get Ready for War
Put Your Diamonds Up
Lights, Love & Lip Gloss
Heels, Heartache & Headlines

Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

Dedicated to Ke'Ron L. Green for staying with me on the phone until the wee hours of the morning. For believing in my story and encouraging me to just write without standing over my own shoulder. I thank you for that. Here's to you never hesitating and having only one request! I hope the pages make you smile.

Thanking the Creator for the gift of storytelling and the outlet to express it.

To my husband, my parents, my children, my entire family and friends: Thank you for your love and support.

Amir Abrams, thank you for being there whenever I needed you. You are truly the best!

K'wan Foye, thank you for only being a phone call away.

Sara Camilli, thank you for all of your hard work.

Selena James and the Kensington family, I truly appreciate every one of you for all that you do.

The bookstores, book clubs, schools, libraries, and everyone who has ever supported me in my career: I could never thank you enough!

And saving the best for last: the fans! I have the best fans in the world. You all inspire me in so many ways. I pray that
Down By Law
touches, teaches, and entertains!

Please email me at
[email protected]
so that I may know what you think!

 

One Love,

 

 

No iPhones.

No iPods.

No CDs.

No Internet.

No cell phones.

Pimps had car phones.

Drug dealers had beepers.

The bigger your radio, the more respect you got.

Rap battles and mix tapes regulated if you had the juice or not.

Top rockin' it, windmills, and beatboxin' electrified the cardboard and the concrete.

Beat bitters and dope style takers were straight suckers.

Hip-hop was real.

Kool DJ Red Alert was on the attack, and Mr. Magic couldn't make him disappear.

Fab 5 Freddy was the underground mayor.

Jesse Jackson had hope and was so dope that he wanted to be president . . . twice.

Don Cornelius had sooooooooul.

Ronald Reagan crowned the welfare queen, while his wife, Nancy, wanted the subjects to just say no.

Crack was on a mission.

AIDS was dissin' and dismissin'.

And yo' rep was everything. Period.

A
ll I could do was get off the ground and run.

No lookin' back.

No time to hook off on nobody.

Just zoom through the streets of Newark until I reached the corner of Muhammad Ali and Martin Luther King Boulevard and made a mad dash for Douglas Gardens. Better known as
Da Bricks
. Twenty L-shaped, seven-story buildings that took up four blocks, connected by a courtyard. To the right was a basketball hoop. No net. Just a rim. To the left was a row of ten rusted clotheslines, where the only thing that hung safely was a beat-up pair of white Converses.

There were begging-behind crackheads er'where, scratching they necks, carrying they snotty-nose babies on they hips. And dope fiends who stood up, nodded out, but never fell down.

There were some people leavin' out for work. And some just coming in; rushing straight from the bus stop to they apartment. Never speaking to nobody. Never looking no other way but straight. Never coming back outside until the next day.

Old ladies hung out the window and cussed out anybody making noise.

Winos sat on the stoops and complained about yesterday, every day.

Somebody's boom box echoed through the air. And another somebody was spittin' rhymes.

Kids raced behind the ice cream truck like roaches who'd seen the light.

Fresh ballers had a pot of money at their side while they rolled dice.

B-Boys break danced, making the cardboard come alive.

Then there was me. Twelve-year-old Isis. Five feet even. Short arms. Short legs. Skin the color of honey. A too-big booty bouncing. And size six feet zippin' er'thing, as I burst into building one-seventy-two, rushed up the pissy stairway, and swore that once I got inside, to apartment three-twenty-five, I was never gon' come back out. Ever.

 

“What da hell wrong witchu?” Daddy stood up and slammed both hands on the kitchen table as I clung to his waist and buried my head into his side. My mother, Queenie, and brother, Face, did they best to stop the guns, blades, and bricks of rock that lay on the glass table top from sliding to the floor.

“Isis. You hear me?” Daddy lifted my chin.

I didn't answer him. Instead, I wiped snot with the back of my bruised and trembling hand.

Queenie frowned. Shoved a hand up on her hip. “Ain't nuttin' wrong wit' this lil high yellow heifer.” She snorted and popped her full lips. “'Cept she selfish as the day is long. Mannish. Spoiled. And she stay lookin' for a reason to tear up our groove and bust up our party. But I tell ya what: Had my rock hit the floor, or one of them guns went off, you was gon' have a reason for dem tears. Now tell us what happened to you!”

“Relax, Queenie,” Daddy said sternly. “Now, baby girl—”

“Baby?” Queenie sucked her teeth. “This strumpet ain't no baby. When I was her age, I was ripe, ready, and on my own. Baby? Puhlease. Ain't no dang babies around here. Now, Isis, you heard what I said—”

“Pop! Queenie!” My fourteen-year-old brother, Montez—who we called Schooly 'cause Queenie said it didn't matter that he was a touch of retarded, he was still the smartest black man she knew—bolted into the room. “Yvette is at the door crying and saying some chicks jumped and jacked Isis for her Shell Toe Adidas and her dookie chain.”

“And my neon jelly bracelets!” Yvette's quivering voice squeaked in from the hallway.

I could feel all eyes land on me.

Before I could decide what to do, Face stuffed a nine at his side.

“Sit down,” Queenie said. “And put that gun back on the table.”

“But Queenie,” he pressed.

“What did I say?!”

He put the gun back and Queenie walked over to me. She slung me around, and my wet lashes kissed the base of her brown neck.

“You let some hos do what to you?” She shoved me into the corner and sank her elbow into my throat, pinning me against the wall. The heels of my bare feet was in the air and the tips of my toes just swept the floor.

My heart raced.

Rocks filled my mouth.

I couldn't breathe.

I couldn't think.

All I could do was suck up snot and do my best to not to choke on it.

Queenie pressed her elbow deeper into my throat, causin' me to gag. “Look at me when I'm talkin' to you! You out there in the street lettin' some hos disrespect you?”

I lifted my gaze to meet hers and spotted a gleamin' blade in her right hand. My eyes sprang wide and drops of piss drowned the seat of my panties.

I froze.

She leaned into my ear.
“I asked you a question.”

Silence.

“Answer me!”

“I can't . . . breathe. . . .”

She eased the pressure of her elbow a little, just enough so that I could speak but not too much where I could move. I licked the salty tears that ran over my lips. My stomach bubbled and I knew at any moment Queenie's elbow would be speckled orange.

I hesitated. “They-they-they-they-they . . . snuck us. We was mindin' our business and they stole on me. All me and Yvette was doin' was walkin' down the street and some chicks came outta nowhere. I swear to
God
, Queenie, I didn't see 'em comin'.”

“Who was it?”

My eyes shifted from hers to the floor. “I don't know.” I shrugged. Then looked back at her.

Queenie eyed me from my torn neon-pink and stretched-neck T-shirt, to my skin-tight Jordache jeans. Her thin neck turned into a road map of thumping veins and her glare burned its way through me.

I chewed the corner of my bottom lip.

Queenie was going to kill me. Question was: when?

I glanced over at a boney and freckle-faced Schooly, whose sunken chestnut eyes revealed that he was petrified. He was nothing like our eighteen-year-old brother, Ezekiel Jr., who up until he saw the movie
Scarface
we'd called Lil Zeke. Now we had to call him Face.

Face would try anything once, including runnin' up on Queenie. But Schooly . . . Schooly was slow. A straight pussy. Always went to school. Never smoked weed. Never did no licks wit' us. Never got in no trouble. Never talked back. And with his twisted left leg that dragged, there was no way he was gon' leap over here and save me.

I looked toward the doorway. A teary-eyed Yvette stood peekin' into the kitchen. Another useless one.

Queenie snatched my face around. “As much as you stay fightin' in school and I have to cuss the teacher out. And as much as you 'round here tryna fly kick Face in the chest and he makes two of you, ain't no way you got robbed. You musta gave it to 'em.”

“Nah-uhn,” I spat, shaking my head. More tears filled my eyes. “They jacked us. At the store. Soon's we walked out the door. Knocked Yvette out cold. Slapped me to the ground and straight jacked me for er'thang. I was looking fresh to def too.”

I scanned Queenie's eyes. They narrowed to icy green slits. She pointed the tip of the blade lightly into my jugular and I held my breath.

Hot specks of spit checkered my face as she said, “One thing I can't stand is somebody tryna play me. You must want me to slice your lil lyin' throat open and whip yo' fresh lil—”

“Okay. Okay. Just pleeeeeeeeease don't kill me. Pleeeeeeeease. Queenie. See ummm, what had happen was, ummm—I was in a break-dancin' battle—” My heart raced and my body dripped with sweat. Queenie hated break dancin'. “And the prize was a Doug E. Fresh cassette tape.” And she hated cassette tapes. She was stuck on forty-fives and eight-tracks. “But I wanted that tape baaaaaad. So I killed it on the cardboard. And this girl Aiesha and her crew got mad 'cause I won.”

“And
. . .”

“I called 'em fake break-dancin' hos. I gave 'em the middle finger and told 'em to take they ugly behinds home. But. That didn't give 'em no reason to jack us!”

“
And
they was bigger than us!” Yvette tossed in. “
Waaaaaaay
bigger than us!”

“I know you ain't care about no size?!” Queenie snapped, grimacin' at me. “I know you ain't stand out there and let some ho beat you down 'cause she was big?!”

“No!” I practically shook my head off. “Size don't matter to me. 'Cause I woulda left they lungs on the sidewalk. But. It was four of them and only two of us. It wasn't a fair one, Queenie.” Fresh tears sprang from my eyes. “Now I don't have nothin'. Not my favorite sneakers. Not my chain. And not my tape. How I'ma be fly
and
jacked? That's bad. Real bad. Hella bad.”

“And where they jack you at?”

I sucked in a breath. Slowly eased it outta the side of my mouth. “We dipped off.”

“Where?”

I hesitated. “Umm . . . we was in Weequahic—” Before I could finish, Queenie slapped me so hard that my neck whipped to the left and a gush of spit kicked its way through my lips.

She'd told me a million times to stay outta the park. That too many girls was raped and left floatin' face down in the lake. But... I was nowhere near the lake. The break-dancin' battles was always on the playground. I started to tell her that, but judging by the look on her face, I didn't think now would be a good time.

Besides, it was no secret that Queenie hated me. Before I came burstin' through her golden coochie, she'd been daddy's bottom treat, beatin' the concrete and keepin' his stable of hos tight just to prove her love. But. Once she gave birth to me, the hustle changed.

“A'ight. That's enough, Queenie,” Daddy said, finally saving my life. “Get that blade outta my baby's face and don't slap her no more.”

“Zeke—”

He shot her a look. The same look he'd given her the other night when he'd told her to shut up. She hadn't listened. So he'd wrapped his belt around her neck, dragged her around the room, and made her be quiet. “I
said
that's enough. Now come here, baby girl.”

Queenie grabbed me by the shoulder and pushed me over to Daddy. He pulled me into his lap and wiped my face and neck with the palm of his hand. “Did you forget who you is?”

Silence.

“Answer me.”

I blinked back tears and sniffed. “No. I ain't forget.”

“Well, it's lookin' that way to me. You lettin' somebody punk you in the street.”

“I ain't forget, Daddy.”

“Then talk to me. Lay it down fo' me. Who is Isis Carter?”

I sucked up snot. “Yo' princess. Yo' baby girl, and I ain't never s'pose to be scared.”

“And why is that?” Queenie interjected.

“ 'Cause I'm betta than that.”

“And . . . ?” Daddy pressed.

“I know my rep is er'thing. That's why I know how to shoot my own gun and fight my own fight—”

“Damn skippy.” Queenie beamed.

Daddy continued, “Then you already know you gon' have to go back out there and handle this on ya own.”

Silence.

“Now, go change them clothes and getchu a bat—”

“A bat? Oh, hell no. She gon' take this blade.” Queenie placed the shiny metal in the palm of my hand.

My eyes bulged and my heart sank to my feet. I'd been in a whole lotta throwdowns, but this was a whole other level.

“This is war,” Queenie spat. “So you may as well get your mind right. 'Cause you goin' back out there. And if you come back in here wit' out them tennis shoes, that gold chain, and that Doug E. Somebody tape, then I'ma peel the high yellah black offa you.” She pointed to the pile of blades on the table. “Now try me if you want to.”