Page 33 of Juliet's Echo

Was this nigga afraid of people his own age too?

Sweat, trash talk and competitive energy filled the outdoor court. We had a good five on five going and my team was up by two. Christian jogged beside me as we reset on defense.

"Aye, what's up with your cousin?"

I glanced toward the sidelines where Alonse sat stiff as a corpse beneath an umbrella, writing in a notebook.

"He different," I shrugged.

"Nigga looks like he audits taxes for fun," Christian snorted.

"He probably does. Forget that man, focus — I got money on this game," I responded.

The ball came my way at exactly the right moment. I hit my signature left crossover with a mean lean back.

I took the shot.

Swish.

"That's game, baby!" I shouted.

Groans erupted from the other side while my team exploded in trash talk and celebratory laughter. After we dapped each other up I pointed toward the pool area. The chef had lunch waiting and it was the perfect way to wind down and keep the energy going a little longer.

A spread of burgers, grilled chicken, pasta salad and all types of fruits and drinks adorned the table.

"I don't know, bro — he's got a serial killer vibe going," Christian continued, still on the subject of Alonse.

I grabbed my stacked plate and virgin Bahama Mama and posted up near the bar seating. My mother had the pool area — including the pool house — designed like a luxury vacation in Tahiti. It was the perfect place to decompress, except my homeboy was actively killing the vibe talking about my strange ass cousin. Honestly, everything I knew about Alonse was surface level — enough to sense that something traumatic had shaped him without wanting to go down that rabbit hole. He had agoraphobia, and from what his mother told mine, it developedfrom years of never being socially accepted. I also knew from family gossip that his parents split around the time he was fifteen or sixteen. Something about him getting mixed up with the wrong crowd. My family hadn’t settled in Havenbrook yet at the time of Alonse’s parents separation and my mother never pressed for the full story.

"And what's with the thick ass socks?"

"Bro," I snorted. "Chill — that man wouldn't bust a grape."

Another conversation nearby had quietly pulled at my attention. Not because I had any interest in the people having it. More because I didn't like what I was hearing.

"Who's that Dave East looking nigga?" I asked Christian.

"That's Nazir. Why?"

"Who's his people?" I asked, burning a hole through who I now knew as Nazir's chest with my eyes.

"The Clarkes," Christian clarified.

The game that won me twelve hundred dollars earlier had been a friendly bet between me and my homeboy Duck. I'd known Duck since preschool and although he didn't hold Christian's status as my right hand, I trusted him. Which is why I hadn't questioned who he brought to my crib to round out his team. He already knew what kind of man I was. Anyone who disrespected my home — the place my mother laid her head — wouldn't leave functioning the same way they arrived. That's if they left with the ability to function at all.

"You good, bro? Why you looking at him like that?"

I knew Christian was talking but didn't hear a word because I was already fixated on the idea of punching ole boy directly in his face.

"Man, I'm telling you — I'm on Juliet Everette this semester," Nazir leaned back in one of the chairs, grinning.

One of the guys laughed. "Juliet? Naz, please. You couldn't bag her if she came sealed and delivered to your doorstep."

"She mean and her brother will beat the shit out of you," another chimed in.

"Man, fuck y'all. I already stepped to her at Flip'd a minute ago. She as good as gave me the green light," Nazir flexed.

"Okay then, Naz — I see you, my boy. Didn't peg you for the courting type," Duck dapped him.