The Good Hair Family Sitcom

S2 E8.3: The Shady Side of Shadyside

Brayden's POV

I'm surprised when Deion pushes the stop button on the bus and begins to stand up.

"Here?" I check.

"Yeah."

The bus driver pulls over against the cracking cement curb of Woodlawn, a neighbourhood I've purposefully never stepped foot in. But here I am, stepping down onto the sidewalk, next to a boy who still decently terrifies me. What if he's only brought he here to to something bad to me? Am I going to get jumped? My hardly exhaustive list of shady tales based in Woodlawn that I've heard from friends and acquaintances include muggings, assaults, several break-ins, and of course drug cartels. I've also heard that there are members of a mafia group around here. Of course, I hold sparse details about any of these events, but I was quite frankly comfortable with never seeing the place first-hand.

The houses here don't feel real. They feel like the type of buildings from which would spawn an excellent short story about the perils of life, with their peeling sidings and rustic garden decorations dusted in snow. One woman watches us from her porch steps as we walk by. She's smoking something that smells the way Andreas does after he gets home late from parties and makes me swear not to tell mom and dad that he was ever out. I feel unsettled, but Deion has no such reaction. This is simply normal to him.

"This is where you live?" I say.

"Yeah," he replies shyly.

"Oh. Interesting."

We continue down the block, and I realize I've quickly gained a habit of looking behind me every few steps. I sense Deion's eyes lifting up to me at random intervals as our silence progresses, and eventually he breaks it.

"I'm sorry," he utters. "I should've told you."

"No, it's okay," I insist.

"You sure? You seem a little thrown off."

I shake my head. "I've just never—I've never met anyone who lives...over here. I've never been here either."

"Yeah, Woodlawn kind of has a bad rep," he admits. "But the people here are nice. Mostly. Just don't go out at night. But during the day, it's chill."

Across the street is a house with a spectacularly unkempt lawn. The yellow grass is knee high, muddy from the January precipitation, and folding over on itself. Where there's not grass, dead weeds stick to the stone pathway that leads up to the door. Deion notices where my attention's gone to and begins to explain it.

"That's Dave's house."

"Dave can't mow the lawn?" I ask.

"He works three jobs. Doesn't have the time."

I feel contrite for having assumed the owner simply didn't care. I guess since my family has always had good jobs and enough money, I didn't consider that someone else wouldn't.

We keep walking, and I notice a huddle of teenage boys farther down the street all talking around a car.

"Who are those kids?" I ask.

"Oh, don't look at them," Deion tells me.

I keep my head away from them as instructed and carry onward, following Deion like a boat to a lighthouse.

"Boy!" comes a shout from the house left of us, and I look over to see a an old lady on a rocking chair on the porch. "You from here?" She's talking to Deion.

"Hi, Mrs. Wilders," Deion responds. "I'm Deion. I hope you're having a good day."

"Oooh, polite," the woman says with a grin. "Your parents brought you up right."