Hawthorne Heights [Editing]

one [edited]

Khari Vincent Spence

They say that you have three faces. The first face, you show to the world. The second face, you show your close friends and your family. The third face, you never show anyone because it is the truest reflection of who you are.

Some wise guy—with an immeasurable amount of flies—told me that quote while I stood in line at the checkout counter of the library. That was three months ago back in Atlanta when I actually enjoyed speaking to others. Now I'm in St. Louis, residing in a decrepit apartment building by the infamous name of Hawthorne Heights.

-Khari

"Boy, when you gon get ya nose outta that journal and go outside?" Cleo complained as her hair spilled out of large orange rollers.

My aunt's champagne-colored eyes gazed disapprovingly at the worn black journal that I carried around with me for twelve years. Her right hand tugged a roller out of her inky-black hair and she dropped it in a plastic container she held with her left. She'd rather me go outside and sell dope opposed to writing all day.

Underneath the constant whir of the sputtering air-conditioning system, I mumbled, "When the building catches on fire."

I moved away from my family to avoid reminders of my past, yet Cleo's words sounded so much like my mother's that I had to blink and make sure that I sat in front of my aunt. I blinked slowly, wondering where I would go next if Saint Louis became a repeat of Atlanta.

"You sure you ain't gay? You been inside all summer reading those books instead of going outside. It's not a problem with you being gay or anything. I'd rather you be gay so you won't be bringing no babies back in here." She combed a strand of hair. "What's wrong with you? Why don't you just go outside like everybody else?"

And that's how I ended up sitting outside of Hawthorne Heights with Yessir Whatever blasting through my earbuds. The sun crept over the homes on the opposite side of the street, spilling its light onto the front steps that I sat on. Skeletal trees wore leaves tinged with an amber hue around the edges; winter would arrive soon. The air carried the aroma of lavender and nicotine trailing from Mr. Otieno's third-floor apartment. Echoes of children squealing and skateboards grinding against the sidewalk rattled through the earbuds jammed in my ears.

I moved to Hawthorne Street from Atlanta hours before I ended up on the front steps, and I already discovered that it wasn't a dormant street. A corner-store offering tripe sandwiches and fifty-cent Vess Sodas seemed like the hot-spot for old people and men showing off their babies. Just across the street from the store, a crowd of teenagers sat on the front steps of an abandoned school socializing and chasing each other around the block.

A muffled slam brought my attention up to a girl with frustration evident across her sun-kissed features. Long spring-like strands of hair caressed her high cheekbones with every stomp that she took away from the door. She rushed past me carrying a weathered brown basketball on her hip and a mouthful of curse words spilling past her glossy lips.

"Excuse me." Her tremulous voice eased its way past Quasimoto's song, causing for unadulterated chills to ease down my spine.

I nodded my head at her while wondering if she was alright. A dark man's frame stood tall in the glass door, towering over the dark-skinned scowling woman standing behind him. They both eyed the girl's retreating form with burning eyes and tight lips. The man's posture appeared hesitant, fists clenched and jaw taut as if he wanted to follow after the girl. The woman walked away.

I shoved my hands in my hoodie to avoid the chill grasping them.

The distant echo of a basketball reminded me of the reason why I sat out here in the frosty air to begin with. My aunt—like the rest of the women in my family—believed that less aggressive men were instantly gay or at least a suspect of it. My family banned me from reading books with girls as the main character and pushed dating on me at a young age to prevent any femininity rubbing off on me. They never allowed for me to say certain things, I couldn't laugh a certain way, and playing with my sister's toys was out of the question. At five years old, I glanced at a girl and suddenly gained the name 'Casanova.' They force-fed me their own idea of what masculinity was to them and hoped that I would swallow it. I had eyes on me from birth up until I moved to Saint Louis.

Growing up in a small two-bedroom home with three generations sprouting up like weeds, privacy never walked my way. My mother gave birth to me in the shadow of everyone else born before me. I shared a room with my two brothers, Mekhi and Jelani, and a bathroom with everyone else living under the same roof. Taking a single step into the hallway meant being asked, "where you goin'?" I could never take a breath without someone breathing down my back, knocking me around in my ill-fitted clothes, and smacking me upside my head.

I learned how to ride my brother's old bike, wearing my other brother's sneakers and my dad's old t-shirt. Everything I received were hand-me-downs. My shoes, my clothes, my school supplies, and my genes. My father gave the only thing that I had to my name—my journal. I only used it after they took him away. I inherited my attitude from my mother, fiery and ruthless, yet I never indulged in the anger that threatened to burn down everything around me. So they called me soft.

Little did they know that I imagined burning down that apartment building at least four times before in the past. Hell, they'd probably be happy if I did burn down the building. Maybe then they would take me seriously.

☽

«fireside chat: this is the edited first chapter! i'm slowly dissecting this story and fixing everything that i looked over the first time around. i hope you enjoy the improved story! »

thoughts on the chapter & characters so far?