A Love Hate Thing (Summer Knights)

01

The caterpillar is a prisoner to the streets that conceived it.

Its only job is to eat or consume everything around it, in order to protect itself from this mad city.

—Kendrick Lamar, "Mortal Man"

TRICE

Getting shot isn't the worst part. It's the aftermath that really fucks you up.

Six months ago, on a dark December night, I was lying in a pool of my own blood on the living room floor. Six months later, I was sitting in a car on the way to a new town to start fresh. In some ways, yeah, the wound had healed. In others, it never would. I didn't care, though. The last thing I'd cared about got me where I was.

         "You'll like it there, Tyson. The Smiths have prepared a new home for you," Misty from social services was saying as she drove the long stretch of highway toward Pacific Hills. It was only an hour away from where I used to live in Lindenwood, California.

         I didn't respond. Home was a meaningless word to me now.

         Misty peeked at me. "Aren't you going to say anything?"

         "I can leave as soon as I turn eighteen, right?" That was all that mattered. Fuck the rest. Five months, aka one hundred and sixty days, to go. On November twelfth, I'd be free.

         Misty sighed. "Look, I know what you're going through—"

         "Word? You've been shot too and all'at?" I glanced her way. This lady was going home to a million-­thread­-count sheet-and-­pillowcase set, resting easy once I was off her hands.

         Fuck outta here.

         "Well, no, but—"

         "Then shut up." I faced the road ahead, done talking.

         Misty let out a breath, her light tan skin no doubt holding a blush upon her cheeks. "Do you kiss your—" She caught herself, as if realizing where she was about to go. "I—I'm sorry. You just shouldn't speak that way."

         I felt an ache in my chest, but I let it go.

         I didn't care.

         Half a beat later Misty was rambling on about food. "Do you wanna stop and get something to eat, you must be starv­ing."

         "I told you I wasn't hungry."

         "Oh, well, are you nervous?"

         I hadn't thought about being nervous or the fact that I would never return home again and lead a normal life. Not like I'd ever led one to begin with.

         "No."

         "Well, good. Think of it as going to a sleepover at an old friend's house."

         One thing was true, the Smiths were old friends, but this setup was for the next five months.

         "It's been ten years since I last saw them," I spoke up.

         "This ain't no damn sleepover, and it's not about to be all kumbaya, neither."

         At least they were black. Moving into the uppity setting of Pacific Hills was sure to be hell, but at least I would be with a black family. Even if I wouldn't exactly fit in.

         I didn't look the same. I didn't act the same. I wasn't the same. And I didn't care.

         "Tyson—"

         "It's Trice." I had asked her to call me that from jump street. No one called me Tyson.

         I didn't want to think about that. I didn't want to think about anything. I didn't care.

         "Trice, please, try? I know it's been rough these past few months, but you have a chance at something fresh. The Smiths are good people, and Pacific Hills is a lovely town. I'm sure soon you'll be close to your old self."

         Misty had no clue what she was talking about. My old self? She obviously hadn't paid attention to my file, or she would've been smart enough to leave it at fresh and not bring up my past.

         Tyson Trice was dead.

         He died on the floor in the living room that day, and he was never coming back.

         When I didn't respond, Misty let up, probably getting that I didn't give a shit either way.

         I didn't care.