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“Whoa, whoa! Don’t be pushing me around, girl. That’s battery, you know.”
The others had drifted over. Guess they didn’t want to miss the big show.
I eyed them surreptitiously. Two guys and two girls. All white. All corn-fed inbreds.
The young man peered at me. “You’re the one called the cops on us, ain’t ya?”
“Yes, I’m the one,” I said. “So why don’t you leave my friend out of it? And try not playing your music so loud you wake up people in Philadelphia.”
“I didn’t break no rules. I can play music as loud as I want.”
“Local ordinances say otherwise.” Ocean City had noise ordinances because of the overabundance of “June bugs” (the local term for rowdy high school kids doing their “school’s out” ritual) and bikers on Harleys with straight pipes.
“Well, being that my daddy owns the building, I think I ought to know what I can and can’t do.”
Oh, Christ. I’d about had it with the little shit. Jamila continued to look stoic, standing proudly erect.
“Your daddy may own the place, but you can’t just ignore the law.” Asshole.
Once again, Jamila tried to maneuver around the tall blond. He grabbed at the container Jamila held. A brief tussle ensued before he wrested it from her hand.
“What’s this?” He tore the box open and tossed it aside. The wrapping paper sailed off on the breeze. “Well, ain’t that cute?” He surveyed the antique music box like he’d unearthed it from an archeological dig.
“Hey, check this out, guys.” He waved the music box around.
The group drew closer. Their eyes were vacant. They simply followed the leader.
Jeez! What is this? Day of the Dead? The Ocean City Zombie Brigade?
“So, tell me,” the young man said. “How does a nigger afford a fancy car and a fancy box like this?”
Jamila stayed silent for a long moment. “Give that back,” she finally said, in a firm voice.
“How do I know it’s yours? You probably stole it.”
The group snickered again. They sounded like a pit of rattlesnakes.
I was losing it, so I tried to snatch the box. The kid threw it to someone in the group. They tossed it back and forth like a hot potato.
Jamila’s look never wavered, but I could sense desperation, worry, and anger. The two male friends circled around me and Jamila as they played catch with their leader.
I tried to make another grab for the box as it sailed past. It bounced off my fingers and smashed on the pavement. The delicate inlay shattered. The box lay scratched and splintered. And no amount of Krazy Glue could repair it.
A string of curse words passed through my mind. Jamila retained her impassive expression, but I knew she probably wanted to cry. I wanted to impale myself on the nearest stake.
“Don’t go blaming me for that,” the young man taunted. “I’da caught it, if you hadn’t gotten in the way.”
“And this whole thing wouldn’t be happening if you hadn’t grabbed it and started throwing it around, you ass wipe.” I’d reached my limit.
“Aren’t you the tough girl?” The young man lorded it over me.
“Why don’t you leave them be, Billy Ray?” The voice was female, faltering and soft. The face was pretty, the hair light brown and shoulder length, the eyes hazel and sincere.
“Don’t be telling me what to do, Danni!” The kid snapped. “You ain’t my girl no more. You can’t be bossing me around.”
“Well, isn’t she the lucky one?” I muttered into Jamila’s ear. She gave the ghost of a smile.
“What did you say?” Billy Ray turned his rabid, beady gaze my way.
