“Who? Shit, like he was gonna tell me! What, you think his friend wants a finder’s fee or something?” Told him we was getting a shipment with the hottest shit this side of Bogotá. “Hold up,” I said, “who’s this Schultz guy?” “Ty! What the fuck’s going on? Why’d you turn off your cell?” I took out my cell and speed-dialed Sonny.

Time to get down to this brother’s real bread-and-butter. I ain’t worked there a day in my life-but the manager owed me. Mom thought I worked at the Flatbush Sports Club on Atlantic Avenue. “Yeah.” I gave up my cheek for a kiss while guzzling o.j., and she threw on her coat and hurried out the door. A few minutes later, she came back into the kitchen in her grocery store uniform, her name tag already pinned on like she was proud or something. I attacked the patties, only stopping to add more ketchup. When the commercial came on, Mom went to her room. She’d be getting up from the sofa in about three minutes, getting ready for fifteen, and out the door in twenty. “Yeah.” Sweet, clueless Mom never noticed that I hadn’t carried a book bag since the ninth grade. Starting tomorrow, I was supposed to show up at some alternative school. Really ass-to-the-curb kicked out this time.

“Good.” No way I was gonna tell her I got kicked out. When I came home from school, Mom was on the couch watching Dr. Mom always asked me what I wasn’t gonna be, and you know what she wanted me to say?Ī dealer, stealer, free-wheeler, player, hater, a downright dog-that’s what my dad was. What are you gonna be when you grow up?” That’s what most kids got asked. Street Pharm TYRONE JOHNSON, SELF-MADE MAN

Street Pharm by Allison van Diepen