Chapter 4: Drummer Boys Before They Were Drummer Boys

I don't know about you, but I'm loving Drastic. When you read this chapter, remember that my BRILLIANT DRUMMER BOY is FIFTEEN, K?

K.

The song...Smile by Kota the Friend...Love this song for my Bae-B-Bodie. The Youtube seems a little blurry in the bass end, and it's definitely not supposed to be. I'm used to a cleaner cut on Spotify. Sorry for this version, but the vibe and the lyrics are so Bae-B-Bodie in this chapter...

Clayton Twelve and A Half Years Ago @ Mrs. JJ's Yard Sale

"It work?" I say skeptically, circling the toaster over like it's a used car. I flip open the door and peer inside.

Mrs. JJ nearly takes my nose off as she whacks the door closed and shoves the appliance at my chest. "Go on inside and make you some toast, boy. There's some plum preserves." She points a finger. "Don't you eat all my bacon. You can have three pieces."

I grin and take her porch like a parkuor court, vaulting off the third step, grabbing the spindling column with one hand and swinging over railing, landing with toaster oven tucked under my arm.

I only did that because of the girl.

As I pull open the screen door, I turn around to make sure she saw.

She's staring at me. The girl. Her head tilted just slightly, like she's curious, one perfect eyebrow arched slightly. As I give her a lazy player look, she raises her other eyebrow to match, and the look turns from curious to challenging. Then she rolls her eyes and returns her attention to the table of used books.

Ok. So she ain't easy to get up next to. That's cool.

I stroll to the kitchen—Mrs. JJ used to babysit me so she ain't worried about me being in her house. Through the window, I watch the girl checking out the books as I make toast.

It's not about her being the prettiest thing I've ever seen—even though there are a lot of pretty girls that hang around Dae's stash house—and she's cresting the top of all those. She might look like just another one of the dimepieces, but there's something in her details that's different.

Her nails are fancy...matte purple, all except the ring fingers that are sparkly silver. And her outfit—the way that tight, long waisted jean jacket hits just below the hips—keeping all the best curves in those beige leggings frustratingly hidden...I like that.

And the way her expression changes as she picks up and puts down books? She's reading the first pages, reacting subtly but differently to each one.

That girl is classic. And smart, I think.

What do you know? The toaster works fine. I smear the two pieces of toast with Mrs. JJ's famous plum preserves and shove them back in the toaster as I book it out the door because she's paying JJ.

I join them. Up close I can see caramel mixed into the darker colors of her hair and her eyes are the same—not quite any color, but streaked with amber. The way color weaves through her braids and matches her eyes makes her look like one of those stray tortoise shell cats that my mama gives scraps too.

A little skittish, but soft. A creature of beauty you watch from a distance for a while, but eventually you get the urge to see how close she will let you get.

Not too close, because she doesn't smile back when I grin at her. She just thanks Mrs. JJ and doesn't even look at me.

I give Mrs. JJ seven bucks for the toaster even though she argues with me that I can just take it—she loves me like that.

"What's her name?" I ask the older lady as we watch the girl walk off with three books.

"Jasmine, but it's spelled T-R-O-U-B-L-E," Mrs. JJ stuffs the money in her bra.

"Pssssshhhh, naw, Miz. J. Girl like that? She looks...sweet."

"Ain't no sweet worth drama," she warns.

I laugh and trip over myself as I whisper in her ear. "Don't worry about me. I know what you and my mama preach. Know it by heart. I ain't about no baby-mama drama."

That shit's for sure. I seen the way my mama has struggled my whole life, because some no-count rich white boy thought he was in love for five minutes with the pretty teen mixed girl he met downtown at a Brave's game, where she was working parking.

He took her up to Buckhead to wine and dine her. Two months later he left her pregnant in the hood.

Asked her how she could get herself knocked up...like it didn't take two. Gave her three hundred bucks and told her to get rid of me. When she wouldn't, he said it probably wasn't even his and she was just trying to trap him. He changed his number and went back to college. She never heard from him again.

Three hundred bucks was all the child support she ever got, and she didn't even use it for diapers. She keeps it in a jar in the kitchen, and she tells me the story now and then, so I know the difference in piece of a shit punk and a stand-up dude. She don't say it like that, though. She says, "You are my world, and I'm so proud of you. My only regret is that you don't have a father, because a boy needs a father. When you fall for a girl, don't put her in the position of any regrets, okay? Use that $300 for birth control, not as an escape clause."

Mrs. JJ is shaking her head at me, her hands shaking slightly as she rearranges the junk at her never-ending yard sale. "That ain't the kind of drama you need to worry about with that one," she mutters, but she's just trippin'. I ain't tryna hear no grumble about the girl being uppity, from old-school Mrs. JJ, just because she seems quiet.

I put a hand over my heart and wink at the old lady who is like a second grandma to me. Then I dip out on her to chase the pretty girl.

I catch up with her easily. She's reading as she walks down the sidewalk in her stack boots. Her purse strap is gathered in her hand and she's swinging the bag loosely.

"Hey," I say as I approach from behind. "Do me a favor and strap up so I don't have to run down some kindergartners?"

She turns and blinks at me, still holding the book open. "What?"

I step in front of her, put the toaster over on the sidewalk, gently take her purse and loop the cross-body strap over her head. "You were begging for trouble, walking like that," I smile at her. "You ain't from around here, are you? Never seen you before..." I pick up the toaster. "I'm Clayton. I stay right there..." I gesture to the little four room house with dingy asbestos siding but neatly mulched flower beds. "And they," I tip my head to the pack of middle-school punks loping up behind us, raising my voice so they can hear me "are a bunch of little shits that are gonna get they asses beat for even thinking about giving you rude welcome to the neighborhood."

They flow around us like water, mostly ignoring her and giving me thug sneers and mumbles like "you ain't nothing" and "I know where you stay."

"I know you know where I stay, Dawg. We live across the fucking street our whole lives!" I yell to the tallest one with two hundred dollar shoes. "Come on over later and act a fool, and you can leave in a body bag!"

He turns around and grins at me. "Thought she was lost. Didn't know she was your Shawty."

I grin back and shake my head. We ain't really mad, I'm just letting him know. "How you gonna rob a lost chic like that? Get the fuck on before I tell your grandmama."

"Oh," she says, a little delayed, looking down at the purse on her hip and realizing I meant she was at risk for having her purse snatched by baby bangers. They still do stupid shit like robbing randoms til they get up in the real business, but Daemon won't let 'em hang around until they are around thirteen, depending on how stupid or smart they are.

Me, I've been skirting around the edges the turf gang in my hood since I was about twelve, because my boy TJ's older brother has always been high up in the organization. A while ago, he found himself in charge, after a bad day and a high body count.

Daemon's good at being in charge. He's smart, he's stealthy and he's business-minded. There's more booze, bbq and benji's around his momma's house than ever. Probably there's more drugs and guns in his stash house too, but I wouldn't know about that...I'm not a gangster. Not officially. I haven't been jumped in. It's probably only a matter of time, though. I've been making a little cash doing errands for Daemon, and last time I'm pretty sure it was weed I took up to his cousin in North A—the one with the landscaping business that he sent me to see about a part-time job.

I try not to think about the what was in the box labeled "tulip bulbs." All I know is the fifty bucks he gave me to run it up to Duluth bought me and mom a week's worth of groceries, and that night we had steaks for dinner. It's been a while since we had steak.

The girl is still looking between me and the five punks ambling down the street.

"Don't worry, they won't bother you no more," I assure her. They better fucking not. I will beat their asses. It wouldn't be the first time I kicked on one of those little shits.

"I'm Clayton," I repeat, in case she forgot.

She smiles. "I'm..." she gets a weird expression on her face.

I laugh. "Girl, don't play me like that. Don't give me a fake name."

"Jasmine," she says hurriedly. "Jasmine Jones."

I raise an eyebrow at her. "Really?" Cause it sounds like a stripper's name, but I don't say that part.

She narrows her eyes at me and whips out an ID. Sure enough. Jasmine Jones. It says she's eighteen. It might still be fake. I eye her speculatively. She don't look eighteen.

"You wanna see my social security card, too?" she asks with a little bit of an attitude.

"Naw, Jasmine, of course not." I say. "But you really shouldn't carry your social on you, you know. Especially when you engage in distracted walking," I gesture at her book. "Punks could steal more than your cash. They could steal your identity."

She gives me the strangest look, but then she laughs and it blows me away. It's cute and kinda sexy and nerdy all at the same time. Never heard anybody laugh so...real.

"Very good advice, Clayton."

She looks me up and down, but she asks me about the toaster. I tell her, and then I stash the thing in my house and walk her home as we share the toast. I ask her about the book—and she tells me it's a courtroom thriller and how she loves the author. She says this is the third book in the series she's read and she's addicted to the suspense. I ask her a bunch of details.

Her place is about five blocks away—a little brick place with a concrete porch that's been empty for a minute and sadder by the second. It's not sad now—it's miraculously brightened up. The windows have been washed, the tiny patch of grass is mowed, and there are planters in the windows—and curtains. She smiles as we approach, like the flowers make her happy.

"This is it," she tells me.

"You stay here with family?" I ask, my eyes going over the details.

"No."

I hook my thumb north. "You go to Tech or something?" Georgia Tech is in downtown Atlanta, just a few miles north of here. Some of the neighborhoods around here are changing. Real estate entrepreneurs are buying up cheap properties, renovating them, packing them full of college kids and charging the rich kids' parents high rent. But this place is a little deep in the hood, for that.

"No."

I smile, catching the vibe that she doesn't want to share her business. "Okay, then...Jasmine. Well...see ya around." I back away.

She steps forward, and thrusts out her hand. "It's really nice to meet you, Clayton. Thanks for your help today. Having my purse stolen would have been a real hassle. I just got my new id...I mean...you know...my change of address on my id taken care of."

I stare at her hand held out toward me. I grin. "Yeah, you definitely aren't from around here..." I shake it. Her hand is soft and warm and the touch is gone too quickly.

"No," she admits. "I just...well, I just got here recently. I'm not sure how long I'm staying."

I run a hand over my short hair. "Well, I kinda hope you stick around a while."

She doesn't say anything. She just watches me. I add the thing I've been holding back. "When you get done with that one, I have like five more by that guy. I won't give them to Mrs. JJ. I'll hold them back for you."

"You read these?" she asks.

"I used to. I mean, when I was a kid."

"Right," she snorts.

"Check the cover," I tell her.

She rifles the book, She suppresses a smile. "Clayton Jamison."

"That's me," I point to my chest with a grin, as I back away down the street. Then I give her a chin tip and throw up two fingers as I turn away.

"Bye, Clayton." she calls softly.

"Bye, Jasmine."

It feels like a really short walk back to my place, because my feet barely touch the ground.

———————————————

"How come you ain't ever home no more?" TJ complains as he bounces a ball on my porch.

"Cause I got better things to do than shoot hoops with your sorry ass," I unlock my door, flipping the light switch as he follows me in.

I flip again. And again.

No lights. No power.

"Fucking shit."

All the good I felt from roaming the stacks at the library with Jaz falls to the floor with the realization that our power has been cut off.

I know my momma paid the bill, and I know she's usually good about balancing the checkbook, too.

Some bullshit must have caught us short. Sometimes our money is so tight, an unexpected bank fee or late charge will fuck us over.

TJ is my boy. He could bail, but he don't. He hangs while I find a flashlight and search the bills in the basket on the kitchen table to find the 1-800 number for the electric company. They tell me the check got there one day late too late to be two months short, so now two month's bill is due—plus a reconnection fee.

A hundred eight-five dollars.

While I'm arguing with them about the reconnection fee, a new presence darkens the door. I turn while I'm pacing, to see TJ's older brother Daemon hulking in the small space of our living room. He pulls his wallet and offers a card.

I shake my head while I'm still talking. He follows me, cornering me in the small kitchen. The power company isn't budging an inch. I put a hand over the phone receiver.

"I only got about seventy dollars. Can't cover it."

"Don't matter." He holds the card out to me again."I can, and I got you this month."

I open my mouth to protest, but he pushes me against the wall. His strong face is deadly calm, sympathetic almost, as he says. "Don't make your mama come home to this. Ronna works too hard for this bullshit."

Dae coulda said a hundred things, but nothing could hit as hard as that.

I swallow and take the card, knowing what it means before I even start to call out the number to the woman on the phone.

It means Dae's right.

About this, and about the things he's been telling me for months now.

I ain't a kid no more.

It's time to help my mama out.

It's time to earn.

It don't matter how.

It just matters how much.

———————————————

It's bright and early on a Saturday--working up to be a hot summer day, when it's really still Spring. I've been working my weekend job about two months. Hopping on the marta to North A to throw some mulch for Dae's cousin—and deal some green for Dae—when something surprises me.

Jaz steps on the train.

"Dayum," escapes my mouth before I even know.

I've seen her so many times in the last few months, and every time she makes me cuss. Today's the first time I said it out loud, though.

She's looking cute as fuck. Black ripped-up overalls hugging her hips. Tucked underneath, a bright white tee with Chinese writing, wrapped tight around her upper curves. Keds just as spiffy-white as the tee. Even her bare ankles are gorgeous.

Her hair is loose. The first time I've ever seen her without braids. It's not like I thought it would be. It's shoulder length, heavy and wavy, and those pretty caramel streaks bend it into even prettier swirls.

Her eyes train on me at once, like she sensed me. She swivels to the left like she's going to jump off the train, but then her head kinks awkwardly to the side like she's working through some awkward shit, and she sighs. She glides toward me with a shy smile.

"Hey," she says as she sits on the edge of the seat beside me.

"Hey." I chuckle. "You gonna be all shy? That hurts my feelings."

She softens in the seat, slowly sliding back against my arm that was already thrown over the hard plastic back. I sit up slightly—not a lot, just a little.

Just enough so she knows...it ain't just her, relaxing back. It's me, leanin' in.

I really like the way this feels.

I'm smiling at her eyes and her lips when I say, "Where you going, girl?"

She was smiling back, until I said that. Now she looks away and shrugs. "Nowhere, really..." she can't even come up with a lie, but there's something sad in that one syllable.

"Where?" I say, my fingers easing onto her shoulder. "Tell me."

"It's so...crazy." She sucks in a breath and blows it out, crossing her eyes. I bust out laughing at her weird expression. I can't help it. She busts up in this train looking hella sexy and then she throws a weirdo look like that. I bury my laugh on her shoulder without even thinking. She's tryna shrug me off, but now I'm gripping her other shoulder a little more snug, keeping us close.

"Boy, why you trippin'?" she says with irritation.

That's the first time I ever heard her really sound like a sista.

"Why Jasmine, you surprise me. Are you finally becoming fluent in ghetto?" I say with my best white-boy voice.

She looks surprised. She never heard me talk like that. "Well. I guess we are both exploring our heritage."

I shrug as I catch one of her curls in my fingers. "I guess we both gotta lot of sides to explore, huh?"

She smiles at me. "I met your mom down at Jordy's Stop-N-Shop last week. She's really nice."

I twirl the silky strand. "She's the damn best. You tell her we are friends?"

"No. I introduced myself as Jasmine. She didn't the recognize the name," her tone is a little frosty and I snicker.

"Girl, don't be like that. I ain't never met none of your people, and I know you don't live in that nice little house alone. So don't be actin' like I'm doing you wrong. I'm your...friend. I show up where you ask me to. But you're the one ashamed of me."

She shifts, squaring herself in the seat against me. "It's not like that."

"No?"

"No."

"Then show me something about yourself," I tell her. "Besides your smile and how funny and smart you are, and the books you like to read."

Her eyes narrow, and her head angles to the side again. "You want to see something about me?"

"Fuck yeah."

She grabs my hand as she rises. "This is my stop."

The way she's tugging on my hand makes me realize she wants me to come with. Suddenly I'm feeling racy in the chest cavity. I ain't ever been late to my landscaping job. And I ain't ever not unloaded my product either. But even though my heart is protesting, my feet are following her.

"Where we goin'?"

"To my mother's," she says.

Her mama's? Well then. That's...real.

I pull out the pre-paid flip phone. "Okay. I gotta make a call to my boss, though..."

Her mama's?

It's not what I thought it was.

Jasmine makes me lurk behind a tall redtip hedge with her. It's making me nervous. Usually when I'm up in a gated neighborhood with McMansions like this, I'm wearing dirt and a safety vest that clearly states: Hired help. Please don't accidentally run the fuck over me.

Today, in our pristine but undeniably urban attire, and spying behind a hedge on the house across the street, we scream: Outsiders. Call the cops.

"Jaz, this shit gets people like us arrested," I hiss.

She gives me an irritated look. "Stop acting so conspicuous."

"I'm a black man casing a million dollar house," I snap back. "How can I not be conspicuous up in this hood?"

She looks me up and down and giggles. "Black man? Really?"

That's the first thing Jasmine has ever said that runs down my spine wrong. "What else would I be?"

She looks immediately anxious. "Uhhhm...I...well...I mean...you are whatever you feel like you are, sure. But aren't you...kind of...somewhat...?"

"Yeah. I'm somewhat," I growl. "But I didn't grow up somewhat. I grew up where I grew up, you know what I'm sayin'?"

Jaz turns back to her hole in the hedge. "Yeah, I get that."

Seeing the anxious set to her shoulders, I feel like a little bitch, gettin' testy with her right now. I try to smooth my voice. "What are we doing here, Jasmine? Is this your hood? Is that what you are trying to tell me?"

It wouldn't surprise me. I've always known, the girl is from a different world than where she lives now. She can braid her hair and fill in her eyebrows to fit in, but her...vibrancy. It betrays her. She's not worn down at all.

"No. I didn't grow up here. But my mother lives in that house. Any minute now, we'll see her. She'll walk my half-brothers down to the tennis courts for their lesson."

I stare at the three story brick house across the street. I'm sure it has some architectural descriptor—Colonial, Cape Cod, Craftsman—I've read about them all but I don't really know which-is-which. The brick and mortar is no longer important. I'm trying to fill in the cracks in Jasmine's life, not the space between the bricks.

"Your mother. She lives there?"

"Yeah, but I've only met her once, six months ago. I came. I saw. I...asked. She turned me away. She gave me up a long time ago." Her words are clear, even though they are spoken into the thick green leaves.

I don't say anything. I just watch with her as a slim, sandy-haired woman in Bermuda shorts and a coral top opens one of the bays of the three car garage and walks out, stretching in the dappled sunlight. She shoos sons and their tennis racquets down the driveway.

The boys are bouncy and the mom is...secure. So fucking secure, up in this place.

Jasmine and I..we are not.

I study the woman, shooting glances at Jasmine. They aren't copies by any means, but there is a lot in common. The shape of their faces. The look around their eyes. Their bodies—the way they move.

Then the woman laughs at something the younger sons says, and the sound rolls the fuck all over me.

It's exactly the same as Jasmine laughs.

I put a hand on Jasmine's back, rubbing slowly up and down as we watch the threesome breeze down the sidewalk. When they turn left at the end of the street, Jaz straightens and moves back onto the sand-colored, pressure-washed sidewalk. We pace in silence out of the neighborhood and back toward the Marta stop. On impulse, I take her elbow and steer her into a coffee shop. I've hardly ever been in such a trendy place, but the atmosphere--low-lighting and plush couches--seems like a comforting place to talk some shit out.

After Jasmine orders confidently and I mumble that I'll have whatever-the-frap-fuck she's having, I pull out a roll of dead presidents. She doesn't protest when I pay, but watches with heavy eyes as I peel off a Jackson that's backed by a few more, and a couple Benji's, too.

It would be nice if I could feel proud of my green, but I'm betting despite her...vibrancy...Jasmine is not so innocent that she doesn't know my deal.

My bank is blood money.

I leave a tip that I can now afford, and we move off to a velvet loveseat in the back, beneath sparkly Christmas lights that are everyday decoration in a place like this.

She takes the top off her coffee and stirs slowly with the little stick. The seconds tick slowly.

Fuck it. Imma say some shit.

"I never met my father. He's just some asshole that donated sperm. It's always been just me and my mom."

Jasmine looks up, her lips parted. She shuts her mouth deliberately and goes back to stirring her coffee. "I'm sorry. That's...hard." She looks up at me. "I grew up with a mom and dad. Not like where we just came from—not in some fancy neighborhood with a golf course and tennis courts—but I grew up with everything I needed and more." Her shoulders shudder in irritation. "It doesn't matter. I don't want to talk about my shit. I don't even know why I took you there. It's just...it's fucking weird, you know? To see yourself in someone you don't even know."

I slide my hand down her forearm and lace my fingers in hers. I look at our skin pressed together. Mine just a subtle shade lighter than hers.

"Yeah, I know." I say.

She leans her head on my shoulder.

——————————

Jasmine tastes like...fuck I don't even know.

She tastes good.

That's all I know.

She pushes me against the wall of my bedroom. I grab her head and twist, reversing our positions.

She breaks the kiss and makes that cute, sexy, snorty laugh.

"I can't. I mean it. No," she whispers.

"No? You started it."

She pushes me off for real. "I did not! You jumped me!"

"Save your defense for the closing argument," I murmur, moving toward her again. She's older than me—I think. I'm still not sure about that ID she flashed me the first time I met her months ago. But somehow age and experience don't matter now. It's not about who's in charge. It's about whether or not she changes that no to a yes, and whether or not I'm smart enough to sense the difference between teasing and serious.

"Clayton..."

I almost bite through my lip at the way she says my name. Not just because I dislike my name. Because there's walls upon walls in her tone.

Shit. She said no and she means it.

I think maybe I read Jasmine all wrong. I thought she like liked me.

But we are just friends.

I ease away from being pressed up against her.

In that same second, my phone vibrates in my pocket.

Thank fuck for the save.

I turn away from her and flip open the cheap burner.

"You got Bodie," I say automatically without really giving a fuck.

The dude on the other end spews a tense inquiry about my next run to Roswell in the North A.

Poor teen bastard. He's had a bad day. But he's also planning to ease his anxiety with a big fucking party tonight, and he's got the bank to underwrite it.

I glance at the beautiful girl inches from me, and I can still feel the reluctance pouring off her.

I breathe heavy. Jaz is up against the wall of my bedroom, but she ain't about me. Every cell in her body is pushing me away.

I step away. I focus on my phone call. On my business.

"Yeah, dude. I'm deep in my Friday night too, but I'm here for you. I can...alter my plans...and be at your place in an hour..." I murmur. "If you do me a solid. I mean it...i come all the way the fuck up there right now...you do me for real."

"Anything," he breathes in relief.

"You tell your three closest boys...Bodie is the brother to do business with."

"Dude. You're the fucking man," he promises.

"That's fucking right," I say with my best gangster tone. I flick the phone closed.

When I meet Jasmine's eyes, her expression surprises me.

It's not fearful or questioning.

It's...casual. Resigned.

"Sounds like...you gotta go to work." Her eyes are lowered, and her sweet face is fucking gorgeous in the shadows.

Her beauty can't overcome the piercing pain in my gut.

She knows. She knows about this life. She knows I'm a drug dealer.

Fuck. I have no defense, but I'm gonna try...

"Jaz—"

"Bodie..." she whispers hoarsely, her face turned to the side, guarded from me.

It's almost shocking when she meets my gaze in the near dark.

"Bodie," she repeats again, and her laugh is not the natural, weird combo.

It's...hard. Fierce.

"I heard your name around." She puts her hands on my chest, feeling downwards. "I know who you are." She drops to her knees. "I swear...I like you anyway..."

"Jaz—" I grab her head, not sure if it's terror of not knowing what-the-fuck or just...a feeling of wrongness rocking through me.

"It's okay...I want to..."

I want to stop her, but I don't. I let her.

Fuck. I let her. I can't fucking believe how...powerful it is.

After the first best shit I ever felt...I kiss the top of her head, feeling nothing but her. "Jaz..."

Her head shakes beneath my kiss and murmurs into my stomach, "I wish you didn't deal for Daemon, but it's too late for wishes. I like you anyway."

"Jaz—"

She stands, and I fold her into my arms, kissing her like I don't have a deal on the hook.

Fuck the deal.

I kiss Jasmine like I feel. I kiss her like I've known her forever. Like I will always know her.

I will never forget...this. Her. Now.

Right?