Despite her wishes to the contrary, Stephanie was pretty. Waist-length hair hung like a thundercloud around a full mouth and cola-colored eyes. She was tiny, and could have been a doll had she been so inclined, but beauty was an unimportant variable to her, a hindrance, if anything—much like being a girl in the first place. She wouldn’t allow anyone to comb her tangle of hair, and howled the time mother told her she was getting too old to go around shirtless. Her favorite outfit was a pair of pants with leopards running wild, up and down the length of each leg. And a matching safari vest. She loved the sleek and handsome James West from Wild, Wild West with his black bolo hat and quiet confidence, and talked often about how fun it would be to shimmy up gutters and jump from rooftops.
She was a tomboy. I heard people say it, and took note of the admiration hanging in their voices. Hoping some of it might rub off, I followed her around. But it was Steph, not I, who jumped from two-story porches, did chin-ups ten at a time, fought anyone, anytime—even boys. And it was into her ear, not mine, that Terrence let his secrets fall.
Though he was in her grade at school, Terrence was older than Steph. Eleven or twelve. Tough and quiet, his mother was a hooker whose skin shone with makeup and perspiration. Her doorways sparkled with long strands of plastic beads; red velvet pillows lined a leather sofa.
Based on the nature of his mother’s work, Terrence was not allowed to play inside, and when he was out on his porch, he was selective of his friends. Steph was one of the few he invited to join him as he hopped fences, cut through back alleyways, and explored neighborhoods beyond our own.
I was tight with self-pity, couldn’t stand their adventures, couldn’t stand the way Steph began to mimic Terrence, the way she’d taken to saying “finsta” for “fixing to.” Finsta this and finsta that. She and Terrence were always finsta do something.
Though generally levelheaded, Steph thought nothing of making her hands into fists and fighting. Boys her age and older feared her. Rice lived on Grand, had squinty eyes, and called himself “the San Francisco treat.” As if his self-imposed nickname weren’t enough to mark him, he made the mistake of engaging Stephanie in combat. He’d run up, touch her, or say something whenever he passed. Rice must have been stupid, or simply desperate for attention. No matter. Steph would tackle him, pin his shoulders under her knees, and stuff his shirt with freshly mown grass.
“Let me up, let me up,” he’d cry, his voice ragged. He would whine and beg and threaten to call the police while we all gathered round, laughing. We hated Rice. For his weakness. His lack of judgment. His mewling. He was always out of school healing from car accidents that people said his mother made him have for the insurance money.
“Why don’t you stop your crying and go jump in front of a car,” we’d say when Steph finally released him. And he’d run home, grass falling from his sleeves, calling over his shoulder about getting the law involved.