On the Come Up - Softcover

Hunter, Travis

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0758242522 ISBN 13: 9780758242525

Verlag: KTEEN / Dafina, 2011

Inhaltsangabe

Growing up in the heart of the Atlanta ghetto, siblings DeMarco and Jasmine Winslow have developed a talent for survival. But if given the chance, they would do anything for a fresh start. . . .

By the time DeMarco was fifteen, being locked up was better than being at home. So whenever he got hungry or cold or just plain tired of living in the ghetto, he'd steal something and make sure he got caught, 'cause going to juvie was like going to heaven: video games, basketball courts, a big screen television, and three hot meals a day. And now that he's back in the hood, things seem worse than before.

Jasmine, DeMarco's twin sister, hasn't had the luxury of vacationing in juvie. She's had to balance being an honor roll student with fighting off advances from her mother's boyfriend. After her mom sides with her boyfriend, Jasmine's out on the streets and running with the DIVAs, a rough group of girls whose number one goal is to get paid. But when Jasmine finally gets her chance to break free, she learns the hard way that no one leaves the hood unscathed. . . .

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Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Travis Hunter is the founder of the Hearts of Men Foundation, through which he mentors underprivileged children. He is also the author of eight novels for adults: The Hearts of Men, Married But Still Looking, Trouble Man, A One Woman Man, Something to Die For, A Family Sin, and Dark Child. Hunter graduated from Georgia State University with a bachelor’s in Psychology and is a veteran of the U.S. Army. Hunter lives in a suburb of Atlanta with his son Rashaad.

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ON ThE COME UP

By Travis Hunter

DAFINA KTEEN BOOKS

Copyright © 2011 Travis Hunter
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-7582-4252-5

Chapter One

DeMarco

"Resident DeMarco Winslow," said a loud voice over the intercom. "Please report to your room."

I listened in closer. "Did they just call my name?" I said to Coo Coo, one of my friends from the neighborhood where I grew up.

"I think so, homie," he said. "Whatchu do?"

"I haven't done anything," I said with a frown as I thought back to what I may have done. I stood from my desk and closed my textbook. "I wonder what they want."

"You better go see," Coo Coo said. "Maybe you going home, boy?"

"That would be nice," I said. "But I doubt that."

"No other reason for them to be calling you."

I thought about what my friend said for a second and realized that he was right.

"Hold it down out there until I get home," Coo Coo said with a blank expression on his brown baby face. He reached out to shake my hand as if he was congratulating me, but we both knew going home wasn't anything to celebrate.

Coo Coo was in for stealing a candy bar from a gas station, and the owner of the store was acting like he was a bank robber. He pressed charges and the judge gave my friend nine months in the pokey for a doggone Snickers bar. He was only fourteen years old and already seemed to be getting the hang of life behind the fence. Coo Coo had lived a very hard life and his eyes told his story: sad, droopy, and void of any signs of a future. His mother was in prison and his father was shot and killed during a botched bank robbery. Coo Coo lived with an aunt who treated him like he was a leech. He got his nickname because folks always called him crazy, but he was as sane as anyone else. He only acted crazy to keep the nuts away.

"Resident DeMarco Winslow. Please report to your room," the voice said again.

I sighed and picked up my drawing tablet and walked to the front of the class. Officer Scales appeared in the doorway and nodded at me. That was my cue that he would be escorting me back to my "room." I don't know why they called them rooms; I guess it was because we were juveniles and they wanted to be politically correct, but in my book, they were cells and we weren't residents, we were inmates.

Officer Scales asked, "How ya doing, boy?" He was at least six feet ten inches tall and was mostly muscle.

"I'm good."

I followed him out of the classroom without a word to any of the thirty or so other kids who looked and dressed just like me. We were a sea of black faces, navy-blue jumpsuits, and orange flip-flops.

"What's going on, Scales?" I asked as we walked side by side. "Why they want me?"

"Don't know, lil buddy," Scales said. "Maybe you have a visitor. Today is your birthday, right?"

"What's the date?"

"August twentieth," he said.

"Oh yeah? Well, I guess it is," I said with a hunch of my shoulders.

"Yeah," Scales said. "The staff here was trying to do a lil something for you this morning, but the new director is a butt-wipe and he shut it down."

"It's all good. Don't nobody wanna celebrate their birthday up in here anyway," I said as if I had a better place to be.

Scales chuckled, then used his large key to open the steel door leading to the main building. We entered through the cafeteria, walked through the commons area, past the control booth, then down a hallway all the way to my "room."

"Happy birthday, DeMarco," a short, white nurse said as she walked by.

"Thanks," I said, thinking of how many birthdays I had spent in this place.

"How old are you now, Dee?" Scales asked.

"I'm sixteen, man. Getting old."

Scales stopped in front of my "room" and opened the door.

"I've been working here for four years and for four years you've been coming in and out of this place. When are you going to wise up and realize that you are better than this, Dee? You're a good guy, man. I mean you could really be somebody, but you gonna have to leave that street crap alone or whatever it is that keeps bringing you back here. I know I wouldn't want to keep coming back to jail all the time. People like you, and you're smart. Those are two of the best qualities anyone could ask for, and you just take it for granted and throw it away by coming in here."

I nodded my head but didn't say anything. What was there to say to that? Once he had my door open, I walked in. I looked at my bed and there was an empty box sitting on my bunk. That could only mean one thing—I was leaving.

Scales held out his hand and I shook it.

"I don't wanna see you come in here no more, boy. Take my number down. If you're hungry or something, call me. Just stop doing the stupid stuff, man. When you turn seventeen it's over to the big jail, and that's when it gets real," he said, slapping his huge paw on my shoulder.

I nodded my head, but I wasn't really paying him any attention. It was always so easy for folks to sit back and judge me. They didn't have a clue as to what I had to deal with when I went home, and truth be told, I wasn't really looking forward to going there.

"Don't just stand there looking crazy, go find something to write my number down on," he said.

I walked over to the metal desk that was bolted to the concrete wall and wrote down his number on a piece of paper.

Once Scales had stepped away from my room, I gathered my personal items: my drawing tablets, a shoe box containing my tattoo supplies, and a brush for my waves. I walked out into the hallway and waited to be escorted to the intake building where I would be sent on my way. As I stood there waiting, I saw Prodigy Banks. We called him Mr. P. He was a volunteer teacher who was also a mentor to a lot of the real knuckleheads at the facility.

Mr. P was about six-feet-three-inches tall, had a bald chocolate head, and everyone seemed to love him. Especially the female employees. They just blushed and blushed whenever he walked by, but from my viewpoint he never paid them any mind. There was something about Mr. P that said he was above all of the drama. He was very passionate about helping his boys, as he called us. We hit it off one day after I had gotten into a fight and was sent back to my room for "cool down," which was exactly what it sounded like. Mr. P came by my room, had one of the officers open my door, and handed me a book. He told me that I needed a little something to kill the boredom of being forced to sit in a six-by-six space for the next twenty-four hours. Before that day, I had never read a book on my own. He was smart enough to give me something I could relate to. It was a book by a self-published author called Bliz. The book was interesting and it made me want to read more. Before long I went from street fiction to reading Sun Tzu's The Art of War.

Mr. P motioned for me to come his way and I walked over to where he was standing. The intake building was directly behind him so I strained my eyes to see if I could catch a glimpse of my mother, but the lobby seemed empty.

"You ready?" he asked.

"Yeah," I said, confused as to why he was asking me that question. "Who signed me out?"

"I did," he said. "Go on and give these folks their clothes back. I'll be waiting right here."

He didn't have to tell me twice. I was authorized to be released three weeks ago, but my sorry mother never came to sign me out, so I was stuck here until I could find a relative or somebody who the officials at Metro trusted enough to vouch...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: KTEEN / Dafina
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2011
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0758242522
• ISBN 13: 9780758242525
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 256
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Dietmar Rusche; 15110751138; rusche.dietmar@gmx.de; ; Dr.-Willi-Bergmann-Str. 13; St. Andreasberg; 37444; Deutschland