“I don’t want any trouble,” I say.
It’s a lie.
I’m actually kind of hoping the bald guy makes the first move. It’s been one of my bad days, where my skin doesn’t feel like it fits. Like I’m just waiting for someone to come at me. I’m edgy. Pissed off. Looking for a fight. And I found one—this over-muscled chrome dome shoving around a skinny kid with glasses in front of the convenience store.
The bald guy in the Lakers jersey looks slowly over his shoulder at me and then snorts. He exaggerates letting go of his victim—his fingers snap open to release the kid with glasses. The kid’s wearing the same uniform as me. The uniform of Norfolk Academy.
Bald guy swaggers toward me. “What, you standing up for him? Private-school code of honor?” He laughs and shakes his head. “Would be funny, except your friend Jonathan here owes me money. So, you step off and let me finish my business.”
“Mason,” says the victim—Jonathan—from behind him. “Take it easy, bro. We can sort—”
I stand my ground. “Know what? I don’t know him and I don’t know you. And I don’t care what your business is with him. But you don’t do it on the street in front of me.”
“Or what? You gonna get your nice white shirt all dirty?” Mason gives me a shove, both hands on my chest. I stumble and then come back fast. Push him with one hand on his Lakers jersey. He doesn’t move, but his expression darkens. Game on.