WE ARE SOOO not supposed to be here.
I know it the second the door to P.J.’s dings when we open it, but I can’t just leave my best friend, Sneaky, hanging, so I walk in behind him, my stomach karate-chopping the whole time.
Sneaky acts like he’s been here before, which he probably has. I’ve only heard horror stories. P.J.’s Liquor Spot is a little store on the corner of 5th and Creighton, and if you know anything about Creighton, you know that something bad’s always happening there. Like, every week. Sneaky’s mom and mine always tell us to stay away, even though P.J.’s has the cheapest candy and ice cream bars. For the most part, I listen. Sneaky doesn’t.
“Yo, hurry up,” I say to Sneaky in a whisper, noticing some older kids watching us with narrowed eyes.
As if being on Creighton isn’t bad enough, P.J.’s is also kinda dark inside, and not that clean. The music playing makes me feel mad for no reason, and a frown inches across my face.
I follow Sneaky to the candy aisle, which is right near the front counter. While I keep glancing around, Sneaky studies the candy bars, taking his time when we need to get outta here!
“Aight, ’Saiah, get six Snickers and six Milky Ways,” Sneaky says, reaching for Skittles and Starburst.
I grab what he says, and some bubble gum, too.
“Mike O wanted gum yesterday, remember?” I say.
“Oh yeah! Good look, bro.” Sneaky grabs some packs of M&M’s, and I get Butterfingers and Laffy Taffy. By now, our arms are pretty full.
“Some 3 Musketeers?” I ask, but I don’t get an answer.
Bam! Bam!
I almost drop all the candy on the ground when the guy at the register bangs on the counter to get our attention.
“Hey, candy man,” he calls, nodding at our stash. “Y’all got money for all that?”
“Yeah,” says Sneaky, walking to the counter. The guy studies us to make sure we don’t try to slip anything into our pockets or backpacks. We dump everything on the counter and the guy starts ringing it up.
“Eight thirty-five,” he says, putting the candy into a bag but not handing it over until Sneaky gives him the money. Eight dollars and thirty-five cents exactly. Sneaky don’t play when it comes to his candy business and his money.
The guy slides the bag toward Sneaky, and he puts it into his backpack before we walk out.
“That place is crazy!” I say, breathing a sigh of relief, but Sneaky doesn’t notice.
“Yo, I’ll make, like, a fifteen-dollar profit once I sell this,” he says, all excited. “See, that’s why I come here.”
Sneaky’s definitely right about the candy prices in P.J.’s. But when I hear the door ding again and glance over my shoulder, I wish we had just gotten our candy at the 7-Eleven near Sneaky’s house.
I stop walking, and so does Sneaky, trying to figure out what I’m staring at.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I say. I have to force myself to turn around and keep walking, instead of racing back to P.J.’s. “Thought some of those dudes were coming for us.”
Sneaky sucks his teeth. “Man, forget them. They’re not gonna do nothing to us.”
I don’t remind him that a kid got jumped over here just last week, or that Creighton schools are our rivals. I’m too busy thinking about other things.
Like how I just saw Mama go into P.J.’s, and how I know exactly what she’ll come out with.