The Vikings' practice had finished almost an hour ago, yet Isiah and Marshall were still in the bleachers. They were the only Vikings left at the practice field, but their focus wasn't on football, not at the moment. Instead, they were locked onto the girls' Track and Field practice still ongoing.
'I'm tellin' ya, nigga, that snowbunny's a squirta,' Isiah said. A wolfish grin distorted his features. His lecherous eyes were locked on the behind of a senior he'd describe as "thiccer than yo mama".
'Bullshit. Yo balls ain't even dropped yet, nigga. Ain't no senior bitch know yo name,' Marshall said.
'Then why she was screamin' it last weekend? Hah, screamin' and creamin', that's that Jet special, baby.'
'Fuck off.' Marshall crushed his empty Red Bull and pelted it at Isiah's head.
Isiah ducked out of the way, laughing.
'Yo jet ain't ever took off,' Marshall said.
'Hah! Like ya any different.'
'I ain't ever bringing my girl 'round a freaky nigga like yo ass.'
'Quit actin' like ya got a bitch.' Isiah jabbed Marshall with his foot.
Marshall took the kick with a smirk. He stood from his seat and started down the steps. He'd met a girl just the other week, at a party one of the juniors on the team threw to celebrate the end of the regular season.
Though he wasn't about to let Isiah in on that info, not like it was even official yet. She was just a side bitch. Never mind the fact you needed to have a main chick to even have a side piece to that in the first place, Marshall wasn't worried about that right now.
As Marshall thudded down the steps, Isiah got up and followed him. As both boys finally left the field—the trash of their after-practice snacks and drinks a clear indicator that they'd been there—they both took one last longing look at the girls on the other side of the field.
The two stomped off school grounds and through the streets. They weren't the only two young teens who thought they were hot shit in that town, but they had some of the best cases for thinking the little patch of California around Downey High was their personal stomping ground.
And they didn't give two shits about anyone else in it.
On the sidewalks, They never moved out of the way for other pedestrians. God help you if you bumped into either of them or stepped on Isiah's J's.
They "flirted" with any "sexy bitch" they came across, at least that's what they called it, harassment would be a more fitting word to describe it.
They flirted with death more. When Marshall stepped out onto the road, he didn't look for a crosswalk telling him where and when to do so, and he never even glanced in either direction for cars.
Isiah didn't either. Both boys had different reasons. Neither were TRYING to get themselves killed, even though they were lucky such an outcome hadn't happened yet.
Marshall did it because deep down he believed he was too important. Life had a bigger role for him to play, and he wasn't going to get killed crossing the road on some random school day. In short, he—like other kids his age—believed he was immortal. (Though other kids only act that way because they simply don't think death holds any relevance to them. Usually one brush with it is enough to make them realise they're just as mortal as any other person.)
Isiah, on the other hand, wasn't thinking about life or death, nor did he think it impossible for something bad to happen to HIM. IN fact, it was the opposite. Each time he recklessly stepped off the pavement and into the road, he was HOPING someone tried to kill him, just so he'd have an excuse to fuck them up in return.
So when tyres inevitably squealed and a horn blared at them that day, Isiah stepped towards the wall of noise and slammed a hand on the trunk of the offending car.
'DO IT YA FUCKIN' PUSSY!'
The balding, weaselly man behind the wheel stared at Isiah, slack-jawed, eyes as massive as dinner plates behind the thick rim of his glasses.
Isiah laughed and kicked the car. 'Stay in ya fuckin' car. Pussy ass nigga!'
'Yeah okay, you made him piss his pants. Get yo psycho ass out of the road.' Marshall pulled him away from the car, and once Isiah was clear of the car, it took off leaving smoke in the air and tyre marks on the road.
Isiah laughed, watching the car vanish around the corner.
Marshall shook his head. 'Yo ass gonna get flattened one of these days.'
'Like ya any different.'
Marshall was different. At least in his own mind. He was important. Special. Isiah on the other hand. He was talented, but that was it. There were plenty of talented athletes around, and still plenty more tragedies that befell those talented individuals.
Marshall dragged Isiah off the road and the two continued down the opposite pavement now.
'You been like a rabid dog ever since we lost,' Marshall said.
'Why the fuck ya bringin' that shit up? It was a fuckin' fluke, nigga. Damn.'
"It was a fluke yo ass got burnt on the last play?" But Marshall kept the words to himself. It was true Isiah had cost them the game against Warren, but what was the point of pissing off his best teammate? Isiah was an important tool, and until he wasn't, Marshall needed him.
'Yeah well, you can prove it's a fluke in a couple weeks.'
Isiah punted a rock into a parked car ahead of them, chipping one of the taillights and setting off the alarm. 'Why the fuck we gotta wait? We the best team in the region, erryone knows it, why we gotta beat these other worthless teams again?'
'I bet the Bears think the same and are asking why they can't go straight to State. It don't fucking matter, we're gonna face them again, doesn't matter how many shitty teams we have to beat first.'
Isiah grumbled but accepted the answer. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. The two didn't run away from the alarm, they didn't even acknowledge it, but both their strides coincidentally got longer and faster until the alarm faded out of earshot.
Isiah fumed in the silence for a while. Losing was bad enough on its own, but to lose to that dopey motherfucker. The same motherfucker who was even more arrogant than Marshall. He couldn't stand it. He needed to smack that smug motherfucker in his dumbass face.
But he knew beating him would hurt him more than punching his teeth down his throat.
'Who the fuck's standin' in our way this week?' Isiah asked.
'Didn't coach say it was … who? Those bum ass Dongs or what?'
'Dongs… Dons… shit, the old mutts?'
Marshall's stride hitched for a moment, which caused Isiah to step on the back of his shoe, which caused a further stumble. Marshall recovered by whirling around and shoving Isiah.
'Don't shove me, nigga!' Isiah shoved back.
'Don't step on my shoes then, retard!'
There was more needless posturing but no further shoving.
'Don't have such big ass feet then, nigga.'
Marshall cracked a smile. 'You know what they say about niggas with big feet, right?'
Isiah smiled as well, then both boys cracked up in laughter. But at the back of Marshall's mind, a pesky little thought had resurfaced. The Dons had one annoying little mutt. A mutt that had almost got the better of him and stolen the game from him.
Marshall knew he was special. One mutt wasn't going to change that. But still, a little part of him doubted, and there couldn't be ANY doubt about their victory. Thankfully, more than one mutt made up that sorry excuse for a team that were the Dominguez Dons.
He turned to Isiah. 'You remember the Dons right? That old nigga that couldn't guard shit, yeah?'
A vague image of Deshaun appeared in Isiah's mind, no matter how hard he crunched his brain he couldn't paint a clearer picture. It wasn't his fault, it was hard to remember someone's face if they were always lagging behind you.
He chuckled. He sure remembered torching that sorry mutt. 'Yeah, but I think they woulda put that old nigga down after last game.'
'Nah, didn't you peep that badge on his chest? Nigga was a captain, shit's embarrassing.'
Isiah had a look on his face like he'd just stepped in shit barefoot. 'I'd fuckin' kill myself if I was on a team so shit, that THAT mutt was captain.'
'So you ain't gonna lost to him, right?'
'The fuck?' Isiah stopped. He was staring at Marshall like Marshall was the weaselly little pussy who chickened out from running them over.
'He's there weak link. But he's gonna be guarding YOU. You gotta take that old nigga out back, and put him down. Beat him so bad he ain't ever gonna play football again.'
'Of fuckin' course I will. Ya ain't gotta tell me, nigga. Why ya actin' like that old mutt could EVER beat me?'
'Nah. You just need to remember this is your warm up for the Bears. Beat that old nigga's ass, then you'll get your revenge.'
Isiah wet his lips. He remembered that old dog barked too much. He couldn't wait to hear it whine when he put his knee on its neck and squeezed the life out of it.
Marshall shook his head and hurried ahead. He liked Isiah, even if he wouldn't admit it. Isiah was a baller, and someone he could connect with but sometimes, sometimes he got this look in his eye that reminded Marshall of—
—Myles.
Speak of the devil—think in this case—and he will appear. Standing at the crest of the bridge just a block before Marshall's house, was Myles, standing on the railing, staring down into the water below. It was thirty feet down to the gently running river. He didn't notice them approach.
'Yo, Myles. The fuck are ya doin', nigga?'
He only looked away from the water when Isiah spoke. 'Oh, hey, friends.' He dropped from the railing to the safety of solid ground.
'Weird ass nigga,' Isiah muttered.
Marshall didn't like Myles's eyes. For one, they were purple; what kind of freak had purple eyes? They were just like that little Don freaks weird teeth. Second, they never seemed present, like he was always looking at something BEYOND what he was facing.
But he couldn't help looking at them, he didn't know if he should maintain, or avoid eye contact. Myles reminded Marshall of a crack addict, and crack fiends were like animals. Marshall just didn't know whether they were the kind you were supposed to stare at or not. Either way, he decided to stare, and he hadn't been stabbed yet so he liked his choice.
'The fuck were ya doin' nigga?' Isiah asked.
'Every year, five bodies are dumped in this river. I was looking for one.'
Even Isiah was stunned for a moment. Both boys understood they needed to smuggle knives with them, or maybe even a gun, whenever they went to school. Else they could end up as one of Myles's bodies floating in the river.
'What were you doing?' Myles asked, suddenly a step closer.
'We were just headin' to Marshall's house to play some Madden,' Isiah blurted.
Marshall slowly turned to him with a look that was more deadly than their perceived notion of Myles. Isiah was ignorant to his mistake.
'Cool! … Cool. I've heard that's fun. Can I join? You don't mind right?'
'Not at all,' Marshall cut in before Isiah could tell Myles to fuck off. He didn't want to get on this psycho's bad side.
Myles grinned and linked his arms over the taller boys' shoulders, following them across the rest of the bridge. 'You guys looking forward to the game this weekend?'
'I can't wait 'til we face a real team. Imma fuck those Bears up,' Isiah said.
'Bears? We're playing the Dons first.'
'Yeah, but nobody gives a shit about the Dons,' Marshall said.
'Aww, really? But they were so much fun last time.' Myles's grin widened.
Marshall thought back to the fight that Myles sparked last time they faced the Dons. He'd taken out two players for the price of one, another helpful tool, probably the only reason anyone on the team tolerated him.
'Try not to get ejected and suspended this time, Myles,' Marshall said.
Myles laughed, the kind of laugh you have when you remember a cherished memory from a long forgotten past. 'I hope they don't break as easy again.'
Both Isiah and Marshall shuddered. As they entered Marshall's home—he couldn't come up with an excuse as to why they suddenly couldn't come over, so as to keep his address a secret from Myles—they were glad they were on the same team as the mad man.
They even felt a little bad for what the Dons were going to have to deal with. … Only a little.