Chapter Thirty-Five

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Chapter Thirty-Five

 

11 years earlier

1991

Lake City, LA

 

This school shit is for the birds.

Lincoln groaned. He had just finished his second official basketball practice and was sitting on the curb in front of the St. Louis Preparatory Academy boy’s gymnasium. Lincoln had been back in high school for two weeks and didn’t see himself surviving another two. He just didn’t have the patience to deal with the upper-crust 90210 wannabes that attended classes with him. Going back to juvenile detention was not an option, however.

Moses was the only reason he hadn’t completely shown his ass yet.

Where the fuck is Moses?

Moses knew practice ended at 6 p.m., but for some reason was not on time. Lincoln decided to call Murda or Stacy from his gang to come scoop him up. He moved his six-foot-five-inch frame in the direction of the entrance.

It was locked.

Maybe Danny the janitor was still working. Lincoln walked around to the other side of the gym toward the sports faculty parking lot.

No cars. No lights. No dice.

Lincoln gave the door handles a few healthy shakes.

Gonna have to break in if I wanna use the payphone.

The school’s lay out was in alphabetical clustered pods labeled A to G. Each pod had a different academic focus. Although only 6:30 p.m., the school’s many entrances were already barricaded.

Somebody has to be around, right?

Lincoln circled the perimeter of the school, checking each entrance for vulnerability. He saw a black vintage 1963 Corvette parked in the honors lot. Could have belonged to a teacher, but Lincoln knew better. This was some spoiled rich kid’s car.

An almost uncontrollable urge to jimmy the car door and take the ride off said rich kid’s hands overtook him. Instead, he ran his palms over the Vette’s metal curves in appreciation and awe.

Then he saw it.

A teacher had left their classroom window open. Lincoln was inside in an instant and quickly made his way toward the gymnasium.

The payphone was just outside the boy’s gym, where the St. Louis Crusaders did their business on Tuesday and Thursday nights. Lincoln jogged down the hall and picked up the receiver. The payphone was dead.

Fuck!

He was about to make his way back through the silent school when he heard a strange noise coming from inside the gymnasium. Lincoln pushed through the double doors into the gym. Empty.

Something clattered to the floor inside the men’s locker room. Lincoln followed the sound. Nothing could have prepared him for what he found behind the second set of double doors. A chair lay on its side in the middle of the room and a white boy dangled from a rope tied to the rafter, his face swollen, and bluish red.

Lincoln froze.

Oh shit. Is he alive?

The kid’s body spun lazily.

Lincoln reached the teenage boy in three long strides. He righted the chair, removed his switchblade, and grabbed at the rope, hoping to cut through it. The kid kicked him in the solar plexus.

Still alive.

Lincoln rose with renewed purpose and sawed at the rope. The noose was notched tight— the kid must have been a boy scout. Lincoln looked into the boy’s face. He recognized him.

Kris Lafitte?

They played on the team together.

Lincoln cut through the last strand of rope and Kris fell to the floor. Lincoln quickly maneuvered the noose from around the boy’s neck. Kris let out a sputtering breath before pouncing on Lincoln—slobbering and sobbing like a wild man. It took Lincoln a moment to regain control of the situation.

He soon had Kris pinned with his face against the floor, arms behind his head. Lincoln struggled to hold Kris down. “Fuck is wrong with you, bruh?”

“Fuck! You!” Kris spat.

“Look! Calm the fuck down, man. I just saved your fuckin’ life.”

“Didn’t…ask…for…no…fuckin’…help.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I’m supposed to die,” Kris gasped. He stopped struggling and went limp.

“We all gonna die, bruh. But ain’t nobody dyin’ today.”

Lincoln released Kris’s hands and pulled him to his feet. One thought was on his mind.

Why the hell is this silver spoon rich white boy trying to kill himself?

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