old man. Dumping garbage into a truck every day. It’s an okay job, but I don’t need school for that.”
“You never know, bro,” Darnell said. “You might learn something you actually like. Besides, if my mom ever found out I wasn’t in class…she’d kill me.”
“Me too,” Jamal said, his hand slicing across his neck like a knife.
“Let’s go, brainiacs,” Carlos called out. “Are we here to talk about school or play some ball?” He tossed the pigskin to Eli, who would be playing quarterback.
After Jamal’s touchdown, the teams switched positions. Now Jamal was on defense. He lined up across from Carlos and waited for Eli to snap the ball to himself.
“Hup!” Eli shouted.
Carlos took off and sprinted straight downfield. Jamal knew he’d try to get back at him. He wanted revenge after giving up a touchdown. Jamal stuck beside him. He knew Carlos would try a move, so he had to be ready for anything.
Carlos cut to his right. Jamal thought he was heading to the sideline for a square out. He cut with him. But Carlos had a different pass pattern in mind. He turned upfield and headed for the goalpost. Jamal had been fooled, but only for a split second. He turned on the jets and raced after the tricky receiver.
Jamal looked back to check the quarterback. Eli was about to throw. He cocked his arm and fired the ball downfield to Carlos. But his arm wasn’t as strong as Darnell’s. The pass wobbled as it floated through the crisp September air toward its target.
“I got it!” Carlos shouted.
“Don’t think so,” Jamal said, jumping in front of him at the last second.
Jamal picked off the ball and cradled it in his left arm. He stopped on a dime, switched gears, then bolted the other way. Carlos chased after him. Jamal knew he’d be mad. No one liked to be intercepted.
Eli and Rico waited for him in the middle of the field. Their arms were spread wide—all they had to do was touch him. That would count as a tackle, and the play would be over. Jamal had other plans. He juked to the right and blew past the two defenders. With nothing between him and another touchdown, he crossed the goal line and spun the ball on the ground to celebrate.
Billy reached his hand high. “Up top.” Jamal grinned and high-fived him.
“I’m glad you’re on my team, bro,” Darnell said.
“Tomorrow we switch players,” Carlos said. “I’m tired of Jamal making me look bad.”
The friends fist-bumped each other before heading out. Jamal picked up his backpack and headed to the sideline. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a green car in the parking lot. Someone had been watching him.
Chapter Two
Jamal walked toward the thumping music. A rap track with heavy bass was pounding out of the rolled-down windows. It was no ordinary car. He thought it looked like a classic Chevy, at least thirty years old. The metallic lime-green paint on its hood sparkled in the late-afternoon sun. The sides hung extra low and almost touched the pavement. Suddenly the frame bounced up. Then Jamal knew why—it was a lowrider. He had spotted one or two driving around the Southside streets, but he had never seen one up close.
He kept moving toward the car and glanced inside. Two men looked out from the front seats. The man on the passenger side opened the door and got out, waving for Jamal to come closer.
The man looked tough. His head was shaved bald, sunglasses covered his eyes, and dark stubble peppered his face. He was short, and burly like a bull. He wore a black tank top that showed off thick arms covered with tattoos—a dragon, a knife, a gun. Every square inch of his skin was marked with dark purple ink. He leaned against the old Chevy, his dark jeans on the green door, his leather boots on the black pavement.
Jamal watched his bicep bulge as he waved him nearer one more time.
“You’re fast,” the man said.
“Thanks.”
“We could use a guy with your wheels.”
Jamal was scared, but he didn’t want to show
“You never know, bro,” Darnell said. “You might learn something you actually like. Besides, if my mom ever found out I wasn’t in class…she’d kill me.”
“Me too,” Jamal said, his hand slicing across his neck like a knife.
“Let’s go, brainiacs,” Carlos called out. “Are we here to talk about school or play some ball?” He tossed the pigskin to Eli, who would be playing quarterback.
After Jamal’s touchdown, the teams switched positions. Now Jamal was on defense. He lined up across from Carlos and waited for Eli to snap the ball to himself.
“Hup!” Eli shouted.
Carlos took off and sprinted straight downfield. Jamal knew he’d try to get back at him. He wanted revenge after giving up a touchdown. Jamal stuck beside him. He knew Carlos would try a move, so he had to be ready for anything.
Carlos cut to his right. Jamal thought he was heading to the sideline for a square out. He cut with him. But Carlos had a different pass pattern in mind. He turned upfield and headed for the goalpost. Jamal had been fooled, but only for a split second. He turned on the jets and raced after the tricky receiver.
Jamal looked back to check the quarterback. Eli was about to throw. He cocked his arm and fired the ball downfield to Carlos. But his arm wasn’t as strong as Darnell’s. The pass wobbled as it floated through the crisp September air toward its target.
“I got it!” Carlos shouted.
“Don’t think so,” Jamal said, jumping in front of him at the last second.
Jamal picked off the ball and cradled it in his left arm. He stopped on a dime, switched gears, then bolted the other way. Carlos chased after him. Jamal knew he’d be mad. No one liked to be intercepted.
Eli and Rico waited for him in the middle of the field. Their arms were spread wide—all they had to do was touch him. That would count as a tackle, and the play would be over. Jamal had other plans. He juked to the right and blew past the two defenders. With nothing between him and another touchdown, he crossed the goal line and spun the ball on the ground to celebrate.
Billy reached his hand high. “Up top.” Jamal grinned and high-fived him.
“I’m glad you’re on my team, bro,” Darnell said.
“Tomorrow we switch players,” Carlos said. “I’m tired of Jamal making me look bad.”
The friends fist-bumped each other before heading out. Jamal picked up his backpack and headed to the sideline. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a green car in the parking lot. Someone had been watching him.
Chapter Two
Jamal walked toward the thumping music. A rap track with heavy bass was pounding out of the rolled-down windows. It was no ordinary car. He thought it looked like a classic Chevy, at least thirty years old. The metallic lime-green paint on its hood sparkled in the late-afternoon sun. The sides hung extra low and almost touched the pavement. Suddenly the frame bounced up. Then Jamal knew why—it was a lowrider. He had spotted one or two driving around the Southside streets, but he had never seen one up close.
He kept moving toward the car and glanced inside. Two men looked out from the front seats. The man on the passenger side opened the door and got out, waving for Jamal to come closer.
The man looked tough. His head was shaved bald, sunglasses covered his eyes, and dark stubble peppered his face. He was short, and burly like a bull. He wore a black tank top that showed off thick arms covered with tattoos—a dragon, a knife, a gun. Every square inch of his skin was marked with dark purple ink. He leaned against the old Chevy, his dark jeans on the green door, his leather boots on the black pavement.
Jamal watched his bicep bulge as he waved him nearer one more time.
“You’re fast,” the man said.
“Thanks.”
“We could use a guy with your wheels.”
Jamal was scared, but he didn’t want to show
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