grass. They were a long way from their days of youthful innocence: catching lightning bugs in jars, playing freeze tag on the Cherry Hill streets, and going to the Ocean City beach on summer days with their mother. The days of using a shopping cart as a go-cart, pushing it to the top of a hill, and letting gravity pull them down to the bottom were over. He realized he was staring at a mirror image of himself.
"You know what, dude," he said, "I'm good." Tony was exhausted. Tired from the beating he just gave Wes. Tired from repeating himself. "If you won't listen, that's on you. You have potential to do so much more, go so much further. You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink, right?"
Tony leaned over to pick up his hat--it had fallen to the ground during their fight. He spun it around and placed it backward on his head. He walked off the lawn and into the street. Mary called out to him, asked where he was going. Tony yelled back over his shoulder, "Home," and kept walking down the block. He didn't look back again.
That was the last time Tony ever tried to talk to Wes about the drug game.
Mary raced over to Wes and examined his nose. The bleeding had slowed. "I am so sorry, Wes. That's just how Tony gets sometimes," she said.
Wes looked back at her but said nothing. They walked together into the house, where Mary wet a rag and started to clean up the scrapes and bruises Tony had left on his brother's face and body. The wet rag felt good over the open cuts on Wes's face. The deeper bruise, however, Mary could do nothing about. Wes knew he was disappointing his brother, which hurt much more than the beating he'd just taken. Wes was so confused. He loved and respected his brother. Tony was the closest thing Wes had to a role model. But the more he tried to be like his brother, the more his brother rejected him. The more he copied him, the more Tony pushed back. Wes wanted to be just like Tony. Tony wanted Wes to be nothing like him.
Tony's outburst did accomplish one thing, though. It motivated Mary to dig a little deeper into Wes's new income flow. The next day, after Wes went off to school, Mary began searching through his drawers. She hoped that he was not involved in drugs. "Please let it be DJing money. Please let it be DJing money," she prayed.
She lifted his mattress and found a few extra shoe boxes under his bed. She placed them on the mattress. They were light, so she knew they didn't hold sneakers, but something was rattling around in them. As she reached for the top of one of the boxes, she pulled her hand back. She whispered to herself, "Don't ask a question unless you are ready to hear the answer."
She reached again for the first Nike box and opened it. Inside were pills, marijuana, half an ounce of powdered cocaine, and half a dozen vials of "ready rock," or crack cocaine. She felt like she'd been punched in the stomach. She sat down on the bed, unsure of what to think. She wasn't only upset about the drugs, she was upset about the lying. She didn't even bother looking in the second box; she already knew all she needed to know. Both of her sons were drug dealers.
She sat paralyzed on the bed for fifteen minutes before springing up, suddenly decisive. She took the boxes into the bathroom, lifted their tops, and emptied the contents into the toilet. She watched every ounce, every rock, every leaf, every crystal float to the bottom of the toilet bowl, until the water was cloudy and white. She flushed it away once, and then again and again until the water in the bowl returned to its normal clarity. She put the tops back on the boxes and placed the boxes on Wes's bed.
A few hours later, Wes walked into his room and saw the two shoe boxes. His heart plummeted. These were his work boxes. He knew he was busted.
He started to think about what he would say to his mother as he slowly walked toward his bed. Maybe he would blame it on someone else. Maybe he could say he was holding them for a friend
"You know what, dude," he said, "I'm good." Tony was exhausted. Tired from the beating he just gave Wes. Tired from repeating himself. "If you won't listen, that's on you. You have potential to do so much more, go so much further. You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink, right?"
Tony leaned over to pick up his hat--it had fallen to the ground during their fight. He spun it around and placed it backward on his head. He walked off the lawn and into the street. Mary called out to him, asked where he was going. Tony yelled back over his shoulder, "Home," and kept walking down the block. He didn't look back again.
That was the last time Tony ever tried to talk to Wes about the drug game.
Mary raced over to Wes and examined his nose. The bleeding had slowed. "I am so sorry, Wes. That's just how Tony gets sometimes," she said.
Wes looked back at her but said nothing. They walked together into the house, where Mary wet a rag and started to clean up the scrapes and bruises Tony had left on his brother's face and body. The wet rag felt good over the open cuts on Wes's face. The deeper bruise, however, Mary could do nothing about. Wes knew he was disappointing his brother, which hurt much more than the beating he'd just taken. Wes was so confused. He loved and respected his brother. Tony was the closest thing Wes had to a role model. But the more he tried to be like his brother, the more his brother rejected him. The more he copied him, the more Tony pushed back. Wes wanted to be just like Tony. Tony wanted Wes to be nothing like him.
Tony's outburst did accomplish one thing, though. It motivated Mary to dig a little deeper into Wes's new income flow. The next day, after Wes went off to school, Mary began searching through his drawers. She hoped that he was not involved in drugs. "Please let it be DJing money. Please let it be DJing money," she prayed.
She lifted his mattress and found a few extra shoe boxes under his bed. She placed them on the mattress. They were light, so she knew they didn't hold sneakers, but something was rattling around in them. As she reached for the top of one of the boxes, she pulled her hand back. She whispered to herself, "Don't ask a question unless you are ready to hear the answer."
She reached again for the first Nike box and opened it. Inside were pills, marijuana, half an ounce of powdered cocaine, and half a dozen vials of "ready rock," or crack cocaine. She felt like she'd been punched in the stomach. She sat down on the bed, unsure of what to think. She wasn't only upset about the drugs, she was upset about the lying. She didn't even bother looking in the second box; she already knew all she needed to know. Both of her sons were drug dealers.
She sat paralyzed on the bed for fifteen minutes before springing up, suddenly decisive. She took the boxes into the bathroom, lifted their tops, and emptied the contents into the toilet. She watched every ounce, every rock, every leaf, every crystal float to the bottom of the toilet bowl, until the water was cloudy and white. She flushed it away once, and then again and again until the water in the bowl returned to its normal clarity. She put the tops back on the boxes and placed the boxes on Wes's bed.
A few hours later, Wes walked into his room and saw the two shoe boxes. His heart plummeted. These were his work boxes. He knew he was busted.
He started to think about what he would say to his mother as he slowly walked toward his bed. Maybe he would blame it on someone else. Maybe he could say he was holding them for a friend
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