threw a stone that pegged off the side Rich’s head. Rich stomped around the front end of the Diesel, jumped in, and we peeled off.
“FUCKIN’ NIGGERS!” Rich screamed maniacally from his window.
A wash of garbage and rocks clinked and banged against the windshield and side panel. Monteff whipped a half-empty RC can that clanked on the windshield and splattered a string of fizzy, brown suds across the glass. The Bronco careened out of the alley.
“WHY THE FUCK YOU HANGING OUT OVER HERE!” Rich screamed, spittle spurting from his teeth.
“They’re my friends!” I replied, writhing in Nancy’s arms. My head pulsed as lumps inflated along my forehead.
They quarreled as we pulled in front of the house. I hopped out and ran upstairs to my room and collapsed on my bed. My chest heaved as I sobbed. The dark-blue drapes were drawn closed, and they filtered the harsh light. A cool, turquoise haze filled the room. Stone-sized knots swelled on my forehead beneath my scalp—pulsing mounds that itched and burned like giant chicken pox. My hands and wrists felt large and hollow, and a thin film of blood dried on my knuckles.
Light footsteps entered my room. I bawled uncontrollably, lying flat on my back. Jan’s pudgy hand appeared, palm up, and her deep-brown fingers spread. A sopping-wet dish rag peeked out from between the gaps in her fingers. Droplets of cool water dripped off her knuckles and spattered on my cheek and brow. She brought her hand close, and the ice cubes jostled in the folded rag. Then, she flopped it onto my forehead. I gasped. The shocking chill instantly soothed and deflated the burning knots.
My whole body eased as Jan sat on the mattress beside my arm. Her soft, brown face. Her thick, frizzy hair pulled back and tied with a rubber band. The silky, black curls splayed out over her shoulders as she gazed peace-fully out the window at the head of my bed. The slow breeze parted the drapes, sending vertical slivers of light across her chocolaty skin. A thought slithered though my mind: is she a nigger, too? Strings of agony coursed down my throat and planted in my heart. She stayed beside me, silently strumming her fingers gently through my hair. My love for her, my sister, like a giant, deep lake with bright yellow sunlight streaking its peaking surface. I went to say it—to say it all—but it got caught in my throat as the exhaustion billowed up and encompassed me in a heavy, warm fog, and I sank into sleep.
•
I LOVED THEM the way boys love older sisters, and they adored and tortured me equally. When I’d started grammar school, I hated it. I’d fight and refuse to go each morning while Ma was out picking up the babysitting kids. At first, they’d scream at me to get ready, I’d scream back, and we’d get nowhere. Later, they’d bargain and offer to carry me piggyback. More often than not, they’d carry me to school. Grandma saw us a few times as we crossed through her gangway, and she told everyone I was their prince. In a way, I was, I guess, but I was also a despised pest. Once, as I rode piggyback in the falling snow, my boot slipped off. I didn’t say anything until we got to St. Greg’s in the hopes it’d disqualify me from school that day. They screamed at me the whole way back trying to find that boot. Jan was inconsolably enraged, and Rose was near tears because we’d been late several times that month—all my fault. I don’t know how they put up with me. On summer nights, they’d get their revenge.
Jan’n’Rose hung out with their Filipino friend Marge and her effeminate little brother, TeeTee. Jan had this way of turning everything into a military action, so instead of strolling the neighborhood, they’d march. Or, Jan’d march and they’d follow. Whenever Jan saw me, she’d unleash this seething scream and sprint after me. I’d take off running, and the rest of them followed, laughing. It sucked sometimes, but I loved them like that—like every moment of my life they were my sisters. Not my adopted sisters, or my black sisters, or my Afro-Caribbean sisters. Just my sisters—that simple. Our neighborhood was so accepting of us and them that it was like nobody noticed. That fight was the first time it’d been thrust in my face. They were different than me. Even though every fiber of my being knew they were part of me, and I part of them.
CHAPTER 4
QUARK
MY BROTHER RICH was a racist, but he was one of the few individuals in the world who actually almost had the right to be one. He was the victim of a terrible hate crime.
It happened earlier in the same summer as the fight. Rich, Nancy, and another friend of theirs named Garret were walking through some alley in Rogers Park looking for a basement party they’d gotten bad directions to. It was about midnight, and they passed a liter of Old Style amongst themselves. The neighborhood streets were quiet. Suddenly, two black men burst out of a gangway behind them. The first brandished a heavy, muck-covered lead pipe. He surged toward Rich, hefted the pipe over his head, and swung it down hard, nicking the side of Rich’s skull and planting deep into his collar bone. Rich’s knees buckled. The other one rushed at Nancy and grabbed hold of her shirt. She screamed, instantly reached up, and gouged at his eyes with her nails. Rich staggered and leapt at the one who’d grabbed her and thudded his fist into the guy’s head.
“Go!” Rich shouted. Garret yanked Nancy free, and they ran. The pipe finally found its mark over the back of Rich’s head, and he flashed out like the streetlights had been shut off, but Nancy said he never hit the ground. The heavy-set ex-cons snatched him up, blabbering something about guard brutality in Statesville and how they were ’doing this for dem brothas in Statesville.’
The two men dragged Rich into an abandoned basement and ripped his clothes off with their incredibly strong hands while they muttered, laughed, and grunted.
Nancy and Garret ran down the alley screaming for help. Then, they cut onto Clark and ran right out into traffic, waving their arms. The cars swerved and screeched around them. Nancy screamed, “Rape!” then, “Fire!” and a light clicked on.
Rich’s mouth filled with blood. Some slid down his throat, and it gargled there as he begged for mercy.
Finally, a police squad swerved up to Nancy and Garret. They jumped in and surged into the alley, where they frantically searched for the gangway. They found it thanks to a red hand smear on a wooden garage siding. When they got down in the basement, the men had Rich’s pants down to his knees. The shirtless one was hovering above him, stroking his own semi-hard cock hanging out of his undone pants. The cops pulled out their firearms.
The ex-cons said it was consensual—that Nancy just got jealous. The cops were reluctant to arrest them, and Rich didn’t pursue it, so they let them go. The cut on the top of Rich’s head wasn’t bad enough for stitches, and the bruises eventually healed. Nothing else ever did.
•
MUSIC DOESN’T MEAN MUCH when you’re a little kid; it’s just sounds and the emotions they produce. None of your identity is aligned with what you listen to. You’re a clean pallet.
I was on my way upstairs to my room when I heard laughter booming out of Rich’s open bedroom door. My head still ached from the fight. I reached up and felt the soft lumps along my forehead, now all purple and blue. I could hear Rich over Pantera’s fast, rippling metal.
“My baby brother, he was fighting with twenty little niggers at once,” Rich roared, his voice all high, squeaky, and excited. “I came up and saved him and beat the shit out of a few of ’em myself. But, man, I’m telling ya, twenty of ’em!”
“OK, Rich. Fuckin’ superhero over here. Where is that little rascal, anyways?” I recognized the gravelly voice. It was Sy.
I reached the top of the stairs. It was early evening, and a bright yellow light radiated
