The next day I hang with Mike after school again in his apartment. I meet two of his brothers, Jim and Desmond. But they’re jetting so we don’t really speak.
His mom ends up being there for a little bit too. I meet her as I leave but she doesn’t say much either. None of Mike’s family stays long enough in each other’s space for anyone to talk-talk.
The next week I’m glad when Mike says, “Let’s head to your place.” I’m happy because it’s my place, and Ma said she’ll be home early so she’ll be around. That feels better to me. So just like that, we stop going to his apartment.
Once in my place, Mike points at a photo on the living-room shelf near the TV. It’s of Pa and his friends from jail. They all rock prison uniforms. Nobody smiles. Mike grins and says, “They gangster.”
I nod and tap his elbow. “Come on. Let’s go over . . .”
He ignores me and leans toward the photo the way someone in a museum does when they want to study every little part of a painting. Mike’s eyes trace Pa’s face in the photo. “Your pops is the man.”
“Yeah.”
That makes me think of when I was little and Pa asked me, “Would you rather have people like you or be afraid of you?” Back then, I said I didn’t know and Pa told me, “You want them afraid of you. If they’re afraid, they’ll respect you. Being respected is better than being liked.”
“So how’d you get to know my pops?” I ask Mike.
“One day when your moms was helping us at the center, your pops was there. Your moms thought he should talk to me because my dad’s not around.”
I look at Mike. I wonder where his dad is.
“So from then on,” he says, “if your pops saw me around the neighborhood, he looked out for me.”
I knew that from the times Pa hit Mike off with change and advice.
It’s funny how back before I knew Mike, it bugged me how Pa and Ma paid attention to him. But now that I know Mike is cool, I don’t mind so much.