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Chapter One
Twenty years ago.
“I need to have your English paper, including your thesis statement, by tomorrow, Mr. Andreas. I can’t keep giving you extensions. We are sorry what happened to your father, but you still have obligations to uphold here at Excelsior Prep,” reminded Mrs. Thierry, my bitch of an English teacher.
“Then fail me on the assignment.” As I stood before her desk, I gripped the straps of my bookbag, tampering down the overwhelming need to strike this woman who lived to torment me. If she really knew my family, she would bend over backward to give me anything I wanted. She sure in the fuck wouldn’t be harassing me about a shitty assignment on Shakespeare. “I’ve aced every one of your assignments and tests. You know I’m an ‘A’ student. This paper won’t change that.”
She peered at me from underneath her leopard print glasses. “It’s worth thirty percent of your grade. Your average will drop to a C if you’re lucky. Again, although I understand that you are probably grieving, your paper is due tomorrow. Period. I am truly sorry.”
The explosion I tried to taper down burst. “Bullshit!”
Mrs. Thierry’s head jerked back. “Gianni?”
“You heard me. You’re full of shit. I doubt you’re really sorry. I’m ‘probably grieving.’ What the fuck?”
She admonished, “Gianni. You’re being disrespectful.”
“I only give respect when I get it. You don’t care about me, and you’re not sorry my father is dead. If you were sorry, you wouldn’t be hounding me about an assignment that means nothing in the real world. Don’t treat my father’s death like he had a heart attack, stroke, or even fucking cancer. My father was gunned down in broad daylight, less than fifty feet from where I hid behind a car to avoid being killed a month ago. My mother would have buried two of us if I stepped a foot closer. I witnessed my father being shot to death. His blood and flesh splattered across my shirt. I held his lifeless body until the ambulance arrived. That shit is ingrained in my mind forever.” I jabbed my finger in her face. “Excuse me if I don’t give a fuck about a thesis statement or my grades when all I do care about is vengeance.”
Mrs. Thierry’s eyes widened in shock, pushing back from her desk slowly. Fear crept across her countenance. A fear I welcomed.
I jumped at the feel of an arm around my neck.
“Bro, calm it down,” Lafayette’s deep voice soothed. Then, the charming black boy addressed Mrs. Thierry with an engaging broad smile, “Let me help him with his paper. Give us until Monday. Today is Thursday, anyway. Besides, this weekend is the French Quarter Festival. Didn’t you tell us that you and your husband attend every year? You don’t want to be grading essays when you could be having fun?”
I still struggled to maintain composure. Mrs. Thierry looked warily at me before responding to Lafayette, “I’m holding you responsible for him. No more deadlines.”
“I got him.” He tugged me away from the classroom. The moment we were alone in the hallway, he shook his head. “G, you have to keep it cool. I know she’s a bitch, but your Mamma needs you to be strong more than ever before. You can’t get expelled.”
“I don’t give a fuck about school. I just want to kill the man who shot down my father.” Although I had only been a few feet away when he was murdered, I’d ducked behind a car and didn’t see the shooter.
Lafayette frowned as he looked around the empty hallway. “You can’t talk like that, G. They’ll have you locked up somewhere in a nuthouse.”
I wanted to yell in frustration though I spoke in a low, wavering voice, “My mind is as clear as it will ever be. I want that man dead. If you lost your father....”
“If I lost my father, the guilty mothafucka, who killed him, would be dead already,” Lafayette threatened. His eyes glinted with an undercurrent of menace I’d never seen in my best friend.
“Huh? Then why tell me to not talk like that?”
“If someone took my father out, I would kill without hesitation. I understand your rage.” He looked around again before lowering his voice even more. “I meant people might be listening, and if you kill this man, someone can say they heard your threat. Save this conversation for home.”
We made it to our lockers which were next to each other. Lafayette leaned against the lockers watching me stuff my backpack with books. Although he spoke in barely a whisper, I heard his words loud and clear. ”I loved your father, too. Find out who did it, and I’ll help you kill him.” When I met his angry, determined gaze, he held his fist for me to bump. He uttered, “BFL.”
We touched fists, and I claimed, “Brothers for Life.”
