My phone vibrated as the final five seconds of the state playoff game counted down.
“If you don’t make it back by midnight, I’m gonna whoop your ass!”
It was from my mom.
“We’ll make it back in time, right?” I asked my best friend, Andre.
“Jalen, we could drive home in a golf cart and still have two hours to spare. Don’t worry bro.”
I breathed a sigh of relief and tried to focus my attention on the basketball game, which had a score of 102-101. Our high school, Robertson, was winning. There was one second left, when the infamous John Doe, a guard from our hated arch rival school, McLendon High, made the shot that won the game.
We headed to the exits, our heads down. When the kids from McLendon filed on the bus, Andre motioned for me to follow him outside, where we met up with a mob of Robertson kids.
“They wanna beat us in our own house? Let’s show em a lil’ something,” Andre goaded the other kids, finishing the last of a Heineken. He fell into my arms.
“Go home Andre, you’re drunk,” I told him.
Before he could reply, he vomited into the bushes near the school.
Crazy things happen when a broke, ghetto school like Robertson meets up with a high-class, privileged, white school like McLendon. Andre darted towards McLendon’s principal, Mrs. Coconuts. Before I could stop him, he raised his hand to Mrs. Coconuts’ head and pulled her wig right off, throwing it into the bushes. Andre walked away laughing hysterically, and our large group of kids fell to the ground, laughing out of control.
“C’mon bro, let’s just go home,” I said to Andre.
We had an interesting friendship. He was always the more popular kid, got all the girls, but most of all he always got in trouble. I was quieter, smarter and got Andre out of trouble. They say opposites attract. We were the perfect match.
Andre unbuttoned his pants and started to relieve himself on the McLendon bus. One of the players from McLendon jumped off the bus and got in Andre’s face. But Andre was never one to back down. He took a deep breath and spit on the face of the McLendon kid.
That did it.
Kids from McLendon stampeded out of the bus and met up face to face with our school. Punches were thrown. Hair was pulled. Weaves got yanked out. As I tried to break up the brawl, there was a kid who went to our school—and to this day I can never remember his name—but I definitely remember him clocking me in the right eye for no reason during the fight, and me falling to the ground. Another kid from my school got knocked out as the world turned black for me.
Once the cops had shown up, everyone ran away. (Whenever you see a bunch of black people run, don’t think, JUST RUN.) As I tried to catch up to them, a painful sting zapped my back. I turned around and saw a police officer pointing a taser at me. Someone grabbed me from behind and screamed, “Rape!” A police officer clamped handcuffs on my wrists. Andre and the boys escaped, just ahead of me.
As I leaned into the police car, I remembered I still had to get home before midnight. It was 7:42 p.m.
“Lucky boy,” the police officer said as he unhooked the handcuffs revealing marks around my wrist that I still have today. I raised my eyebrows. “Looks like an anonymous someone paid your bail. You’re free to go.”
I tried to hold in my smile. I started to walk away when the officer grabbed my arm.
“I don’t want to ever see you here again, boy.”
I nodded my head as sweat poured down my face. I rushed to the exit, and checked my phone. It read 9:08 p.m. A sober Andre pulled into the parking lot with my car. The bumper fell off at my feet.
“You’re welcome,” Andre said with a smirk. I pulled him from the driver’s seat and took over. Silence blanketed us. I wanted to chew him out, but I was always scared of him, so I didn’t. As I drove ahead, red taillights flooded the Interstate. I sucked my teeth— accident. We sat bumper-to-bumper trading middle fingers, until I made my way to an exit and found a back road.
It was 10:02 p.m.
Driving along an unlit country road, an old woman appeared out of nowhere right in front of my car. I slammed on the brakes, hitting my head on the steering wheel.
“What the—”. I rolled down the window.
“You’ve got to help! My grandson, he’s unconscious!”
“Call 911?”
I started to reverse the car in order to get away from her.
“There’s no cell service,” Andre said. I was so intent on getting home on time; I had forgotten he was even here. I looked down the road, which was more deserted than a deadbeat daddy’s family.
The old woman banged on the car door.
“Look, Mrs. Doubtfire, I don’t have time for your games; I’ve got somewhere to be,” I said.
“Is that more important than saving this kid’s life?” Andre asked me. His face looked stern and serious, a stark contrast from how he was just a few hours ago. Of all times, now he wanted to be considerate.
“You’re the only hope I have,” the old lady said as a tear dropped down her cheek.
“All right!” I said as I rolled my eyes.
I busted the door open, which almost knocked the woman over. It took all my strength to throw the unconscious, overweight child into the back of my small Subaru. When I strapped him in, his shirt lifted up and racks of jellyrolls hung out.
“Hurry!” The old woman snapped as she buckled up. I got in the driver’s seat and drove off to the hospital, away from home. By the time Andre and I got back into the car, 10:57 p.m.
“We still have time,” I said to Andre. He nodded his head in agreement. “You’ve been fairly quiet,” I said.
He stared towards the window, somber. “This is the first time—”.
A car rammed into the side of ours.
The airbag smacked me in the face. As I tumbled from the car, I tried to stand, but fell back to the ground. My precious car was mangled. How did we survive this?
“Are you okay?” Andre asked me from somewhere in the pitch black night.
Blood ran down my face. I reached for my phone to call 911. 11:27 p.m.
“If you don’t make it back by midnight, I’m gonna whoop your ass!”
I approached Andre who was staring at the ground.
“We gotta get outta here.”
“Are you crazy?” Andre said.
“Just trust me.”
We left the accident scene. I spotted a nearby Ford perched in a driveway. I smashed the window. Glass shards sliced my fists.
“Jalen! You’re going too far!” Andre screamed at the top of his lungs. “Look who’s talking,” I said as I got inside the car.
I learned to hijack cars from my Uncle Bernie who I never wanted to be like, but, boy, would he be proud of me now. Andre couldn’t wipe the shock off his face as we drove off in the stolen car.
I pushed the gas pedal down like I was Paul Walker in a “Fast and Furious” movie. A police siren blared behind me. When the police gestured for me to pull over, I just floored it. Andre opened his door and dove out of the car right before I hit a roadblock.
My mom visited me in jail. At first, I was relieved to see her. Until she grabbed me by the ear and whooped me right then and there in front of everyone.
Andrew Huyghue is a freshman at CASA Charter School.
