DRASTIC (Book 4 of the Soundcrush Series)

Prologue

North Atlanta Twelve Years Ago

Clayton Jamison  age 16

"Hey, Clay.  C'mere," yells the red-headed kid. 

He's sitting in the shade under a big tree.

I told him not to call me that. I fight the urge to swing around and stab him with my mulching fork. 

Then I reconsider. 

 If I stab him, I won't have any help mulching all five million miles of these flower beds. I won't be walking back to the Marta stop when the rich rebellious boys—you know, the ones that are edgy and emo, the ones that don't have Saturday tennis practice or lacrosse practice or soccer practice or whatever the fuck whiteboy sport season it is right now—anyway, I won't be walking to the train stop at the right time, and I'll miss those counter-culture whiteboys blasting through the speed bumps in their neighborhood, blaring their Green Day and gunning their Jeeps with Grateful Dead stickers, looking for the guy to help them get their party on.

I'm the guy. 

It's why I'm here. It sure as shit ain't for the measly eight bucks an hour I'm making shoveling dirt.

I hear the red-head kid gulping down something sugary and flicking a lighter. I want to get this done, but the call of a smoke break must be answered.

I throw my mulching fork like a spear and it lands in the pile. I sprawl out in the shade of the tree beside...what's his name? Oh yeah.

Leed, he said.

"Want one, Clay?" Leed shakes out a Marlboro. Light. I fight the urge to snicker at his cigarette choice.

"I told you, Dawg, don't call me that." 

I do, however, say thanks for the cigarette. Cause, you know, a free cigarette is better than no cigarette, and I'm out. No cigarette, no lunch, and the change in my pocket is for the Marta ride home. My momma had to pay car taxes this month and the light bill was already behind so it took everything we had to keep the lights on and the car legal.  Expired tags on a hooptie as old as hers is the easiest way to get hassled by a bullshit pull over. Especially if I'm in the car with her.

I can't afford to get searched. I'm always trappin' now.

I relax  a little as I smoke. The money situation will be all right by tonight, if we get this damn mulch thrown and I make a few connections on my way out of this hood. Which I will, cause these boys up here know me now. 

See, that's  why Dae has me working this job with these landscapers. So I have a reason to be up here in these rich neighborhoods all the time. Well, he could have sent someone else, but he said that I'm approachable and these kids up here wouldn't feel as intimidated by me. That's a nice way for the leader of my gang to say I ain't really a brother. Cause, you know...I'm biracial.  He said these kids will look at me and think I could be the adopted mixed kid next door.

I ain't. But they can think that.

"What the fuck am I supposed to call you, then? It's your name, isn't it?" Leed takes a draw and grins at me. "You like Clayton better?"

"Man, y'all white people always wanting to call somebody by they name. Where I'm from we just  say "Dawg" or..." I look at him, then snicker, realizing he can't call me by the other word. I adjust my accent to sound like a whiteboy as I continue. "You know what, Leed? You can call me Clay if it makes you feel better. I wouldn't want you to feel  awkward. We couldn't have that. That's like...the worst thing in your world, right? Social awkwardness?"