Right. Left. Right cross. Left hook.
I’m up at damn near four in the morning in the basement of my uncle Xavion’s house, waiting for my alarm to tell me it’s time to go to school. I run through the sequences in my head, remembering what Unk has been teaching me since I was little, burning off the negativity I built up over the past couple of days.
Sweat soaks my shirt, but I don’t care right now. I just need to get rid of as much of this aggression as possible.
Left hook. Left hook. Right. Right. Left. Right. Uppercut. Just like that.
If I had a choice, I would’ve gone and done something that, technically, Unk wouldn’t approve of, mainly because I’m not exactly old enough to go by myself to do what I’d prefer to do to blow off some steam. Too many questions to answer. I don’t have the connects here that I have in the A, so I have to settle for taping up my hands, pulling on the sparring gloves, and taking out as much frustration on the heavy bag as I possibly can.
I need this anger to go away, but it only grows with every jab.
My life has been upended. Again. What did I do to deserve this?
I mean, my uncle is cool as hell, and I love spending the summers with him, but there’s a huge difference between coming down here for a couple of months and living here for the rest of the school year.
No one has told me why I had to move. I shouldn’t be here, and I sure as hell didn’t do anything wrong.
I had a whole life in the A, and my nana—God bless her—did everything she could to raise me. The SWATs—Southwest Atlanta—can either make or break a person, and I don’t break easy. Nana made sure of that.
Hearing the heartbreak in her voice when she said I had to move was more than I could bear. She was vague about the why of it all, but she kept saying that it was for my own protection.
The jabs come faster and harder now, and the impacts echo against the walls. My vision blurs as I blink away sweat and tears.
Right. Uppercut. Left hook. Hook. Keep hooking. Overhand right. Faster, bro. Faster.
The alarm on my phone blares, shaking me from my thoughts. I stand still and clear my vision, and whoa, I’ve left a sizable dent in one spot on the heavy bag, nearly ripping the fabric. I let out a low whistle. A few more punches and that would’ve torn for sure.
My arms feel like someone tied kettle bells to my wrists. The exhaustion and soreness, though? That’s exactly what I need, and I focus on the soothing, burning sensation coursing through my body. I rest my forehead against the bag and take as many breaths as I can to cool down, then stagger toward the stairs to take a shower and get ready for school.
“If you keep that up, I might have to seriously consider getting you into Golden Gloves.”
I flinch, mouth, “What the—” and look up. Then blow out a breath. It’s just Unk. I guess he decided that scaring the hell out of me needed to be checked off his morning to-do list.
“Yo, how are you able to move around this house and I can’t hear you coming?”
Unk gives me this grin like he knows some ancient secret or something. “Don’t worry about all that. I might teach you when you’re older.” He makes his way down the stairs, then glances at the bag. “You okay? Is there anything we need to chop it up about?”
I shrug. “I feel like the reset button got pressed on me again. Sorry about the heavy bag. I’ll fix it when I get home later.”
He walks toward me, nodding, then finds the scissors and cuts the tape off my hands.
“You’ve been through a lot,” he says, “and I know this feels like another bump in a road full of roadblocks and potholes, but tough times don’t last. Tough people do. You’re one of the toughest I know, and I am wowed every day by what you can handle.”
Man, does he have to break out the monologue?
“I hear you, and spending summers down here with you was always lit, but on a full-time basis? No disrespect, but this ain’t it.”
Unk throws away the tape he cut, does a quick check of my hands for bruises, and sighs. “All I ask is to give it a chance. We have to make the best of things for now. Who knows? You might actually like something about Oakwood Grove.”
That’s debatable, but now isn’t the time to argue. I’m gonna be late for school if I don’t hurry up.
“Yeah… Who knows?” I put the gloves away and then start trudging up the stairs. I don’t realize how dead my legs are until I take the first step. Arggghhh.
As I head to my room, I avoid any and all mirrors. I know what I’ll see. My emotions are still there. Raw. Edgy. Volatile.
Once in my room, I start the shower, praying for relief as the steam rises, hoping my thoughts are clearer by the time I finish. I step inside to scrub the weird energy off of me, then close my eyes and allow the soothing sandalwood scent from my handmade soaps to transport me anywhere but here.
I swear, this town better not be a total snooze fest, or I’ll be putting a lot of miles on my Jeep on the weekends.
…
As I pull up on the Oakwood Grove High campus, I start going through my long list of stress-relief techniques. The 4-7-8 trick should quell the rising anxiety I normally feel when I enter a new environment.
Inhale. Out. Close your mouth and hold. Finally, exhale…
“Yeah. Nope,” I say out loud. And trying it a second time doesn’t do a thing for me, either.
I switch to the 3-3-3 method. First, I have to pick three things I see around me. I scan the immediate area to get a good look at the massive building, noticing the crimson-and-gray dome that accentuates the front entrance to the school, with the words OAKWOOD GROVE HIGH SCHOOL emblazoned across the overhang. The brick surrounding the entrance gives way to long columns that flare out and make the building appear V-shaped. And what’s with all the huge windows? I can see right into the classrooms.
Students are making their way into the building, and the sheer number of them pumps up my anxiety again.
I don’t even want to get out now, and I’m not rolling down the windows so I can hear three things around me. I just wanna stay in my bubble.
No. Scrap that plan.
I rub the amethyst teardrop pendant laying on my chest—a gift from my nana meant to center my energy—to ground me for at least a few minutes, as a last resort, but my anxiety levels have shot through the roof.
When I slow-roll into the parking lot in my black Jeep Wrangler Rubicon—I named her Storm, after the baddest and prettiest of the X-Men—I notice all eyes on me, which triggers more anxiety. I know my Storm stands out, and real talk, how can she not? The lift kit and thirty-five-inch oversize tires with glossed black matte twenty-six-inch wheels alone turn heads, not to mention the neon purple lights that glow underneath at night.
I notice the eclectic mix of vehicles spread out over the space, from the sports cars grouped together in one corner to the pickup trucks that take up most of the spaces, and I even see other Jeeps. At least Storm won’t be the only one. They’re nowhere as dope as mine, which is why all the attention is so laser focused on me until I get out.
Still, I really don’t want the spotlight right now. Maybe once I get my bearings, I’ll be all right, but today ain’t it.
I’m planning to make the best of a bad situation, though. Like Unk said, maybe this town isn’t as bad as I think. My plan is simple: Get in. Take the damn classes. Get out. Rinse. Repeat. Pray that graduation day comes faster than it takes a hot knife to cut through butter and get the hell out of this town on the first thing smoking.
When I pass by one of the benches, I notice they’re splashed in the crimson and gray school colors, with the phrase “GHSA AAA State Champions 2019” painted in bold lettering across the back.
Yep. Football is religion in the South, and this is undeniable proof.
At the center of the courtyard stands a massive oak tree that takes over the entire area. Okay, so massive doesn’t quite cover it, but from the width of the trunk alone, the school had to be built around it, because that tree was here first. I snap a pic on my phone for later, for inspiration. There’s a landscape painting in my mind, and this would fit in perfectly.
When I pull my phone away, I spot a group of girls sitting at the base of the tree. I hadn’t noticed they were there.
But…wait a minute… Who’s she?
I don’t mean to stare, but even from this distance, her hazel-green eyes capture me, making me want to stay there in the moment. The other girls aren’t all that pressed, and they seem to fade into the background, leaving just her sitting there, trading glances with me.
She narrows her gaze while we stare for what seems like forever as her honey-bronzed braids frame her heart-shaped face. Her golden-brown skin makes her eyes stand out that much more. I’m already lost in whatever dream I’ve accidentally slipped into, and I don’t want to leave any time soon.
She touches her face with her hand for a moment, and I follow with my eyes as it moves from her cheek to rest in her lap. Her legs are tucked under her, perched on a blanket she shares with the other girls around her.
What in the world have I gotten myself into already? I haven’t been here three seconds, and I’m standing here looking like I’m lovestruck.
Settle down, bro. We’re not here for all that.
Then she grins, and my defenses have almost disappeared. I return a smile of my own and consider motioning for her to come and say hello.
Maybe this town won’t be so bad after all.
But I think better of it; I don’t know anything about her, regardless of the way she’s managed to turn my whole attitude around with a simple glance. I shake out of whatever trance she put me in and head for the front doors.
Inside, I find the front office, and I’m pleasantly surprised at how helpful they are with everything I need to get started. That’s a plus. It’s definitely the opposite of what I’ve dealt with at the other high schools. Still, I’m guarded.
Ms. Tyler, a petite woman with an oval-shaped face and flawless beige skin, gives me my schedule, flashes a smile. “You’re all set, Mr. Salah. If you hurry, you can make it to your first class before the late bell rings. Welcome to Oakwood Grove,” she says.
“Thank you, ma’am. I’m looking forward to being here.” Okay, so I’m lying, but I don’t want to be rude, either. I turn into the hallway, look down at the schedule and the location of the first class, and… Where’s a tour guide when I need one?
I move through the crowd as everyone rushes to their classes, trying to temper my anxiety over the weird glances and all the whispers. I turn around the corner, frustrated over heading down another wrong hallway, and this one’s decorated a lot more than the others, with large signs and bold lettering all over the place. One banner sums up the reason why everyone is still in the halls—it’s Rivalry Week. I don’t have time for this mess. And then I see something about a Bicentennial event or whatever, and I know I’m over it all.
It’s bad enough I have to transfer in the middle of the semester. Now I gotta deal with school spirit on steroids?
I spin to head back in the other direction and accidentally bump into another kid. I put my hands up to show I’m not there for any pressure. The last thing I need is to get caught up in something for no reason.
From the irritated look on this guy’s face, though?
I’m gonna need to buckle up and get ready for whatever heat he’s gonna bring.