"Oh." Wince's face slipped, a ripple of disappointment vanishing under a practiced smile. "I didn't mean anything."
"No. Maybe after or something? I didn't know how long it would take you." Jeez. Everything they said to each other meant all this other crazy shit. "Sorry."
Wince shook his head and squeezed his kid, voice raw. "Sorry, nothing. No way I coulda got there fast enough. I owe you, Jug."
"No, man. You know that." Jerome knew he knew.
"I remember."
First week freshman year in the cafeteria, Jerome had been pouring himself fruit punch from a plastic jug when kids behind him shoved him, and he stumbled forward. "Hey!" Punch sloshed onto the floor and his new Nikes.
He straightened just as Thad Plasky said, "Nigger!" hissing the word at him like an ugly prayer. For real? The jug clamped in his wet fingers.
The kids in line froze around them, rubbernecking. But before Jerome could do or say anything, Wince Farley, class criminal, had shouldered through the ring of bodies holding his empty lunch tray. "Wha'd you say to him, Plasky?" Everyone had already heard he was a pitiless psycho with junkie parents; a week in, kids were warning each other about him.
Thad squared his shoulders without turning to look, "I said nig--"
Whap!
Wince swung that tray and knocked Thad clean off his feet, like ... his shoes actually came off the floor a second. Food everywhere and the room shouting. Pandemonium. Jerome froze holding the jug with dripping fingers. Thad collapsed into the counter and slid to the floor, nose crooked and the side of his face salmon pink.
Cafeteria mayhem and everyone pushed closer, hemming them in, egging them on. Whimpering through bloody snot bubbles, Thad scrabbled back from the class lunatic. Wince simply ignored him, turning to face Jerome. He hadn't even turned until that moment.
"Easy, Jug." He touched Jerome's arm, above the hand holding the punch.
When their eyes met, Jerome gave him a wary, grateful nod. Wince winked in reply and elbow bumped him. Instant friends, almost like they'd been looking for each other all this time.
Thanks, man.
Shared smiles, right before the gabbling teachers pushed through the mob.
No sweat.
Both Thad and Wince got suspended for three days, but Jerome had met his best friend. Fair trade. They were a perfect match.
First time they hung out, he discovered Wince loaded up on cafeteria food because it was the one meal he could count on. He attended Walton Academy under Prep for Prep, a charity program that paid for poor kids to go to private school in New York City. Tuition, books, everything, but you had to keep your nose clean, something Wince didn't do well. Jerome did it for him so he could survive.
Jerome's parents were wealthy, but Wince lived "at risk" in the Gompers Projects with absent addict parents and anger to spare. He'd grown up a great bullshitter who hit things hard and first, with no respect for authority. He got his nickname 'cause even the seniors flinched when he moved. Even now, even as a grown man with a kid of his own, he came at things like a groggy cage fighter.
"Jug." And that was Wince, seventeen years later like no time had passed, looking at him with bright eyes and a loose heart. "Thank you."
"You're so welcome." A real smile passed between them and knotted itself firmly. Long time no see.
An alarm beeped nearby, yanking Jerome into the present. The curtain skittered open.
"Dad?" Keisha stood over him with raised eyebrows. "Are we gonna go, like, ever?"
The quiet bubble around them melted, and they were sitting in an emergency room again looking at his impatient daughter.
"Soon." Sheesh.
She gestured at her fuzzy gray rig. "Wardrobe flippin' out."
"Sorry. Uhh, yeah. Sorry hon."
"Cool costume." Wince probably wanted to split, too.
Keisha twisted her braids into a thick coil and smoothed it over her collarbone. Her mother's gesture, her mother's bones. "Is he dead or what?" She eyed Flip.