Living in Two Worlds by Dylan Emmons

Author:Dylan Emmons
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781784502638
Publisher: Jessica Kingsley Publishers
Published: 2016-02-26T16:00:00+00:00

“RUN HOME”

“You use ‘yo’ too much when you’re starting a rap. Use different words, like ‘dag, check,”’ I tell Jack. Like me, he’s into making his own rhymes. We’ve been bouncing ideas off of each other, debating which rappers are cool and which ones are wack. We don’t always agree.

“Okay, I could do that,” Jack says. We cross the weird, five-pointed intersection onto the street that will bring me to Mrs. Giles’ house. Jack keeps talking, but I’ve been drifting a bit, looking at the trash by the curb and remembering the bags of responsibility that still lay on my back porch.

“What do you rap about?” he asks me. I have to think for a minute.

“I write rhymes…about whatever I guess. I have one about Tic Tacs.”

“You ever cuss in your raps, or rap about more gangster shit?”

“Sometimes,” I lie, “but I don’t really see the need to swear a lot. And I’m not interested in drinking or doing drugs.”

Jack stops for only a moment, shakes his head, and smiles.

“I can already tell you’re gonna smoke hella weed and drink, you just don’t know it yet.”

I am sure he’s wrong. I am fresh out of the DARE (Drug Abuse Resistance Education) program and still know where my complimentary shirt and ruler are. He continues to question me down the street.

“So, what, are you going to even drive?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna drive! Not now…but I will. I’m not afraid of that.”

“At least you’ll be able to rap about cars. What about fighting? Do you know how to fight?”

I hesitate for only a second or two.

“Yeah, I’ve never been in a real fight but I take Karate, so I know how.”

He stops again, and so do I when I realize he’s not moving.

“Really? So what would you do in a fight?”

I feel a rush I only get when showcasing something I know I’m good at. I get the same rush playing a song I know well on piano or reading a poem.

“You want me to show you?”

“Yeah.”

Without any further notice, I turn and demonstrate one of the first offensive combinations I learned. I punch once towards the solar plexus, pivot, and punch towards the face with my other hand. I come within an inch or two of hitting him, but I don’t touch him. The martial art I take is taught as non-contact, and one earns points by finding an opening and striking within inches of it. Those we spar with we refer to as our partners rather than our opponents.

“What the hell, are you fucking with me?”

Jack bends over and picks up a ceiling fan lying in a pile of garbage, hurling it my way. I step out of the way just in time. It hits the sidewalk with a crash as the light on the bottom shatters. Jack’s eyebrows are turned down and his face is red. Though I have no idea what has just happened or how I have gotten myself into this, I start to jog away.

“Yeah, run home, bitch,” he calls after me.

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