Bronxwood by Coe Booth

Author:Coe Booth [Booth, Coe]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-545-33246-0
Publisher: Scholastic Inc.
Published: 2011-03-03T16:00:00+00:00

MONDAY, AUGUST 11

TWENTY

It’s mad early in the morning when I hear him, and the only reason I do is ’cause I hafta get up and pee. I’m halfway down the hall when I hear the sound coming from the living room. It’s Cal, and he moaning and crying, sounding like a dog that got hit by a car or something.

I fly out to the living room and Cal is on the couch, laying there, and all I see is blood — on him, on his clothes, on the couch, on the floor coming from the door. It’s crazy. For, like, ten seconds I just stand there with my mouth open. What the fuck happened? Who did this to him?

“Cal.” I run over to him and bend down over him. “Cal, what happened?”

But all he do is keep on moaning.

“Shit. Shit.” I’m just standing there cursing to myself, but that ain’t helping Cal none. I get down on my knees next to couch so he can see me. “Cal, you gonna be a’ight, okay?”

Shit, Cal face is jacked up. He got blood running down from his forehead and landing in his eye that’s all busted up and bloodshot. And his lip and nose is bleeding too. And with all that, the thing he holding is his ribs. Shit, probably they broke too. Whoever did this fucked him up bad.

“I’ma call 9-1-1,” I tell him and get up, but he grab my arm.

“Nah. You can’t,” he say. “Andre gonna find out.”

“Fuck Andre,” I tell him.

“No, Ty. Hold on, hold on. I’m a’ight. Hold on.”

He actually try and sit up, but just by moving a inch, he practically scream in pain, and his face get all tight. That’s when I see the tears. Damn, I ain’t seen him cry since we was little kids.

“Cal, don’t move. How the fuck you even get up here?”

“I don’t know,” he say, then it look like more pain shoot through his whole body and he close his eyes for a second. Then he go, “Get Greg,” and it’s like he can’t hardly talk no more than them two words.

I go down the hall and knock on Greg door hard, but he ain’t there. I call his cell and I know from the way he sound that I just woke his ass up. Asshole was s’posed to be driving ’round all night keeping Cal and the other guys that sell for them safe out there, and he ’sleep. “Where you at?” I yell into the phone. “Why you ain’t doing your fuckin’ job?”

“Ty? What the fuck you calling me—?”

“Cal hurt. Somebody beat the shit outta him. He need a ambulance.”

Greg start cursing. “Where his weed at? Don’t call nobody ’til you make sure he don’t got nothing on him. Nah, Ty, matter of fact, don’t do nothing ’til I get there. I’ma be right there.”

I don’t never know Greg to do nothing fast, so after we hang up, standing there watching Cal in that much pain ain’t easy. ’Specially when it look like he can’t breathe all that good.

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