Not to the Swift

Chapter 1

"Okay, Chris, soon as the bell rings and Mister Jax blows the whistle, make a break for the alley." Jamal grinned, the light in his eyes a warning that trouble was brewing.

Over a hundred teens milled about in the open yard of Pulaski High, separated into clusters by cliques based on race, gang affiliation, or social status. The two freshmen stood near the schoolyard fence.

On the other side of Lincoln Street, three men stood in the alley, puffs of smoke wafting around their faces. One of them beckoned Jamal with a wave.

Chris looked back toward the double doors of the school. Already some of the nerds gathered, working on homework, waiting to get back to class. When Jamal wasn't around, Chris would join them and get a head start on the next day's projects. But Jamal always had something else in mind if he wasn't busy with his connections or getting high in some dark corner of the school.

"Yo, you with me or not?" Jamal rocked on his feet, eager to escape the afternoon's classes. His thick arms and chest made him look big and slow, but he could sprint like a jackrabbit. Once again, Chris shoved down disappointment at his own awkward, lanky frame.

"Yeah, man," Chris said. "I'm with you."

"Then wake up, bruh, this is serious. These guys promised me a set to work, Eighteenth South, from Madison to Nelson. And I'm bringin' you in with me. We play this right, we can make serious bank."

"If we don't get caught ditching."

"Man, screw that," Jamal said with a soft shove at Chris's shoulder. "Wastin' time in a stuffy room, solving for x or talkin' about white dudes hundreds of years ago. That ain't gettin' you nowhere fast. My boy Lamar got stacks-a-cash for us—if we get out there and move his product. This is big time, bruh."

Chris scoffed.

"Okay, okay, true enough. This is a step to the big time. Lamar see us doin' good work, he'll maybe hook you up with your own set next to mine. Then we makin' double what we get at the start." Jamal looked across the yard at the school doors and Mister Jackson, called "Jax" by the students. The teacher was well out of earshot. "How's that for some math in real life, Jax? Hundred percent increase in profits."

Jamal checked his cellphone. "Almost time. Hope you run faster than I remember."

Chris nodded, swallowing fear. He tried to ignore the pounding in his chest. Mom will kill me if I get caught doing this. She will absolutely murder me if she ever finds out I had anything to do with drugs.

He looked up at the school's third floor, searching for the admin offices. Mom might be in there... what if she comes to the window? Once again, he decided it sucked having your mother work for your school district.

"Better not punk out on me, man," Jamal said. "We gotta make a good impression. Show 'em we can get it done."

A long, clanging bell announced the end of lunch break, and Mister Jackson—a former Marine—loosed a whistle blast that echoed through the yard. The scattered groups of teens plodded toward the doorway while Jax yelled for them to hustle and line up.

"Go!" Jamal took off in a dash, trusting the crowd at the door to serve as distraction.

Chris froze. He tried to pick up his foot and run off after Jamal, but terror held him in check. His eyes watched the office windows. No sign of her. It's safe. Go!

But something inside balked at the thought of Jamal's plan. Taking this step felt like getting on the metro. Once the door closed behind you, you went wherever the train was headed, no chance to get off.