“Baby, is that you?”
“You know it,” I answered, “Unless you gave another dude a key.”
With that, Bree bounced into the hallway from the kitchen to greet me at the door. She hugged me tightly like we hadn’t seen each other in weeks. Because of our many break-ups, I think she felt like she was always close to losing me. She kissed me once on the lips and on the neck just below my ear.
Breana Stanford was the oldest of three children, the daughter of a physician and a dentist from Uniondale, Long Island. I’d dated some attractive women in my life, but Bree was the only one I’d considered beautiful. She was just over five feet-tall, pecan complexioned, and maintained her athletic body with five days-a-week at the fitness club. She’d recently added a blonde highlight to her auburn-colored tresses. She had on the outfit I loved her in most: a white tank top undershirt and grey cotton sweatpants.
Bree was a former collegiate cheerleader who moved to Harrington after graduation to work as a State Capitol staffer. I’d met her almost six years ago at a legislative rally up on Capitol Hill. At first glance, there couldn’t have been a more unlikely pairing, but at the core, Bree and I were almost the same person; kindred spirits. Our completion of the other could not have been cultivated solely in the time we’d known one another. It was as if we’d been king and queen, together ruling an African nation, centuries ago.
I loved coming home to Bree although I didn’t know how living together would work out at first. I was a celebrated bachelor for years, so long that my friends had started calling me the “Black George Clooney,” because of the way I flaunted my single status.
“I’ll never get married,” I bragged on more than one occasion.
But being with Bree had altered my actions and my thinking. I hadn’t slept with another woman in over a year. This was an eternity for me. I never considered myself a player or a ladies’ man, but I knew what most women needed – and was able to give it to them.
“Did you bring home those corn flakes like I asked you?”
“Damn it!”
I could usually give Bree what she needed, but with Weedie Bryant on my mind, I forgot to get the corn flakes. Those were the special ingredient in her fried chicken that she made every Monday night.
“I’m sorry, I forgot.”
“Aw, Winston! Well I guess it’s sandwiches for dinner,” she said.
“I’m really sorry. I got a lot on my plate right now. I found out one of my old clients is in trouble and Talbot is all over my ass at school. I just gotta relax.”
“Well…maybe I can help you with that,” Bree said coyly.
I recognized the look in her eye as she danced seductively over to the taupe, microfiber loveseat where I was sitting. I say seductively, but for a woman of just under thirty years-old, Bree didn’t look old enough to legally drink. Her attempt at acting sexy was almost cute.
“You look like you want to get in some trouble,” I said.
“You’re a teacher right? Are you gonna give me detention?” she flirted.
“That depends on how bad you can be.”
“Oh I can be super bad, if that’s what you want, Mr. Winston.”
I stood up and gave her a long, deep kiss. Bree reached down and stroked my growing erection through my khakis. I picked her up and carried her to the bedroom, where we made love twice before she passed out. I laid there awake for over an hour replaying the love we’d just made, then trying to figure out how I could locate Weedie. I didn’t have many connections in York, but there were a few friends I’d made during my time in the life.
I closed my eyes tightly and tried to go to sleep, since I had to be to work in less than five hours – and I couldn’t afford to be late.
“It is seven thirty-five Mr. Winston,” a voice called out from behind me. I knew the voice. It sounded like faux authority. Like a child masquerading as an adult on the telephone.
“Yes? Well, thank you,” I said, “With you here, I feel good about my decision not to wear a watch?”
Ignoring my insubordination, he continued, his face forming the textbook definition of a “shit-eating grin.”
“I am in a lightened mood because today is my birthday, so as a courtesy to you, we will consider this a verbal warning and take no further action.”
I mumbled, “Thank you,” as I walked away. My left brain was angry with myself for not making it to work by my 7:30 start time, thus giving him another opportunity to get on my case. My right brain was thinking about shattering his jaw and storming out of the building.
Principal Earl Talbot III was my archenemy. He was The Joker to my Batman, Celtics to my Lakers, and the Marlo Stanfield to my Jimmy McNulty.
Not only did Talbot resent me for personal reasons (I knocked him out at a school dance when we were teens and I slept with his high school sweetheart and former fiancé weeks before their wedding, which was subsequently “called off”) but he also hated that I had made it into the professional ranks. He always assumed that this was one arena where he would best me – my street credibility would be useless against his starched shirts and advanced academic degrees. So the surprise was imaginable when I showed up as a teacher in the school where he was now the principal.
I guess in a way, it was cruel irony for both of us.
The fact is Talbot and I had been on a collision course for the past few years. I truly felt like he and I were the superhero and the antithesis; the universe could not exist in its proper order until one of us destroyed the other. The stage was set for our ultimate battle and Clinton High was ground zero.
Talbot knew things about my past, but none of it was a secret. He hated that I was striving despite my history. I was troubled in my teens and twenties before doing an about face and eventually graduating from Bridgeton University. What Talbot feared most was that I had something on him as well. I was just waiting until the right time to play my trump card. But once things were set in motion, I would have two choices: report my knowledge to the cops, or kill Talbot myself.
I was leaning toward number two.
As the late bell rang, the stragglers from my third period class filed into the room and took a seat in desks situated in their customary circle. My class was different on many levels, starting with the teacher, but not limited to the strange desk arrangement.
Contemporary Social Problems is what my class was called in the school district’s course catalog. It was a one credit elective that could be taken as an English class with special permission. For some students it was a class they took to fulfill graduations requirements. For others it was therapy, confession, and it was home.
We spent much of the period discussing gun laws in the U.S. Many of the kids couldn’t wrap their young brains around how the Vice President could get away with shooting his friend in the face during a hunting trip.
“He shot his boy in da face, and da nigga apologized to him,” said a student named Jzon Black, sending the other kids into an uproar.
I assigned them homework. I wanted them to make a list of everyone they knew who had been affected by gun violence, just to see how many peoples’ lives had been touched. I did this several years ago for a workshop I was leading. Back then my number was twenty-two but I hadn’t gotten up the courage to update it yet.
“Remember, if I don’t get your homework, it’s going to make you ineligible for the field trip, so I want to see everybody’s tomorrow. Okay, class dismissed. Hey Jzon, let me speak with you a real quick.”
The skinny manchild shuffled up to my desk, pulling his oversized jeans up from below his hips.
“What’s up, Mr. Winston?”
“You used to live in York, right?” I recalled from his student file.
“Yeah, I stayed out there with my grandmom for my ninth grade year.”
“What are some of the sets up there?” I asked, hoping he wouldn’t be put off by my forwardness.
“I ain’t in no gang, Mr. Winston,” Jzon said almost on cue.
“Yes, I know,” I assured him. “A boy I know fell in with some guys in York and I’m worried about him.”
“Oh, ok. Well, I know about The Up Top Boyz, the Paper Chaserz, and yeah, GSP. GSP used to mob real heavy when I was up there! That’s about it though.”
“Thanks Jzon.”
“That’s cool, Mr. Winston. You know I got you,” he said, slapping me five and exiting the classroom.
GSP, or the George Street Posse, was known for drug dealing, car stealing, and generally tearing shit up, throughout the ‘90’s. I wasn’t certain they were still around until Jzon confirmed my thoughts. He put me on the right path, but now the legwork was mine alone.
Finding Weedie didn’t seem like such an arduous task now. I just had to make sure I was ready to get my hands dirty after years of trying to scrub them clean.
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