I had never had any skill in any sport, so by sophomore year, I was already learning the ways of street corner politics. I made myself available. I carried product because I was underage with no priors, making myself the fall guy for whatever hustler that knew that if he went back inside, the only way he'd be leaving was through the back door.
Back then, it was weed or rocks.
Before long, I was doing the actual dealing with some other banger watching over me to make sure I didn't fuck up deals or take a cut that I wasn't entitled to. It wasn't more than a couple months before I was having a meeting with the shot-caller, a tall, skinny dude in his late twenties with eye teeth so pointy they looked like fangs named Terrell. It didn't take much for me to realize he wasn't long for the leadership position. First, he smoked rock himself. Second, aside from somewhat crazy eyes, there wasn't a fucking scary thing about him.
"Ain't got no time for no fucking pussies workin' for me. You want in, you get beat in. You survive, you're in. You follow orders. You don't run your fucking mouth. And we have a reputation to uphold. Don't be selling no wolf tickets. You calling someone out, you better back that shit up. Got it?"
"Got it."
That night, in the empty parking lot of an abandoned department store, a circle of Third Street boys closed in on me. Within minutes, I was unconscious. When I woke back up, I was in.
It was that easy. Fifteen years old and I was bringing in several G's a month, easing the burden on my mother and dropping way too much cash on bullshit like shoes and watches and shit. Young and stupid, that was me.
Terrell caught a charge for possession with intention to distribute and was put away for a dime. It didn't take more than an afternoon for someone else to step into his place, a much bigger guy by the name Darius with a rap sheet longer than my forearm. By all accounts, he was a better leader. As such, he was much more violent, much more paranoid and ruthless. You scuffed his shoes, you were eating through a straw for the next three months. You took a cut you didn't earn, you weren't heard from again.
So when someone started roughing up the whores, thereby stealing money from him 'cause no one wanted to pay to fuck a chick with a busted face, he was itching for some bloodshed. And who did he choose to go mete out that punishment? Yeah, just-turned sixteen year old me. With very little choice, that was exactly what I did.
I was never a violent person by nature. If you fucked with me or mine, I handled it. When pushing came to shoving, I was a mother fucking fighter. But I didn't enjoy it. I didn't get off on it like some of the other guys did. Maybe that was why I was picked, for my control. And as addicted as I was to the money lining my pockets, there was no way I was fucking up my standing in the gang by refusing an order. That and, well, roughing up a woman who had very little control over her own safety in the first place, that was some pussy-ass shit and the fuck deserved what he got. Which included eight stab wounds and a busted jaw. He lived, just barely. But he never went anywhere near one of our women again.
I moved up in favor, given power over the new bloods on the street, despite being the same age or even younger than some of them.
During this time, me and Enzo, we started drifting. He was the good kid. He kept up his grades; he kept his head down and his nose clean; he respected his mother's wish that he never fall into the streets. He had his jock friends and wanted nothing to do with his drug-dealing, pimping, fist-fighting, knife-wielding half brother. It was a wish I understood, even as young and cocky and money-hungry as I was, I got it.
I graduated at eighteen, just barely. Enzo recovered from his surgery and went to work at some pathetic nine-to-five that was eating away at his soul little by little. Each time I saw him, he seemed just a little bit more run down and hopeless.
I had a top of the line Mustang and a five-thousand dollar watch on my wrist. I also had a reputation and a squeaky clean rap sheet.
When Darius took three to the chest during a drive-by and bled out right at my feet, I decided it was my time. I was stepping up. I was calling the shots.
It didn't happen as effortlessly as it had for Darius. I was young. I wasn't as experienced as some of the other guys in the gang. But I was power hungry and still headstrong enough to think I was untouchable. Anyone who questioned me got a reminder of why Darius used me to handle his problems. If they didn't bend, they were broken.