“Young man,” Mrs. Sakamoto said, “put that phone away.”
Dodson ended the call and dialed another. “Well?” he said. “Yeah, I can pay some rent. Where do I sleep? In the same room with who? Your grandmother? Fuck you, Freddie, and fuck your grandmother too.”
“Did you hear me?” Mrs. Sakamoto said as Dodson dialed another call. “Put the phone down immediately or you’ll get detention!”
Isaiah felt sorry for her. No leverage except something the guy didn’t care about. Like threatening a stone with water.
“Your daddy don’t want a gangsta in the house?” Dodson said, his voice going up an octave. “You a gangsta!”
“I’m going to get Mr. Johnson,” Mrs. Sakamoto said, her bracelets clinking as she walked away.
“Tell him I’m not giving up my chain,” Dodson said.
Isaiah talked to Mr. Avery, the guidance counselor. Avery wore black socks and sandals and wanted Isaiah to call him Seth. Isaiah told him he was quitting the team because Marcus was out of work and he had to get a job.
“Yeah, it’s a tough economy,” Mr. Avery said. “Tell Marcus it’ll be okay. When one door closes another one opens.”
What a bunch of bullshit, Isaiah thought. There are no doors without Marcus.
“You’re one of my favorite people,” Mr. Avery said, “and I have to be honest with you. We need you on the team. We’re not going to win the sectionals without your help. Now don’t take this the wrong way, but when I write recommendations for your college apps, well—just sayin’.”
He’s threatening me? This prick is holding college over my head if I don’t stay on the team? Like college means anything without Marcus?
“I don’t give a shit about college, the team, or you,” Isaiah said as he got up and walked out. “Just sayin’.”
Dodson was at his locker when Isaiah caught up with him. The inside of the locker door was plastered with pictures of Tupac and oiled-up naked women. Isaiah wondered if he was making a mistake but his brain was sizzling with static and he was in a near panic about losing the apartment.
“I’ve got a place,” Isaiah said.
“A place? What place?” Dodson said.
“A place to stay. A room to rent.”
“You got an apartment?”
“Yeah.”
“Who else is living there?”
“Nobody.”
“You got your own apartment? You ain’t no older than me.”
“You need a place or don’t you?”
“You fuckin’ with me you’ll be one sorry nigga.”
“Forget it,” Isaiah said. He was too tired for this. He started walking away.
“Where you going, nigga?” Dodson said. “Wait a goddamn minute.” Isaiah stopped but didn’t turn around. “How much is the rent?” Dodson said.
Isaiah thought a moment. When Dodson was on the phone he said he sold drugs. His gold chain looked real and he was wearing new Pumas. “Two-fifty,” Isaiah said.
“Two-fifty? Kinda steep, ain’t it? You smoke weed? Let’s make a little trade. I got some Sour Diesel that’ll make you forget who your mama is—where you going, nigga?”
Isaiah could hardly stand it, watching Dodson snoop around like a health inspector, turning up his nose at the kitchen, pinching the drapes like they were a suit he was about to buy, touching things he didn’t know the value of, things Marcus had touched. Dodson looked in the bathroom and said uh-huh, like he expected the worst and wasn’t disappointed. Isaiah was exhausted but he’d be damned before he’d let Dodson take advantage of him. Marcus said when somebody’s trying to screw you on a deal don’t argue, just hold the line.
“How’d you get this place?” Dodson said.
“None of your business,” Isaiah said.
“Your TV ain’t but twenty-seven inches.”
“Buy your own TV.”
“You got air-conditioning?”
“Do you see an air conditioner?”
“What’s all this?” Dodson said, looking at Isaiah’s awards displayed on their own wall. Honor Roll, AP scholar, Academic Mathematics Award, Honorable Mention in the Lipton Science Essay Competition, Academic Decathlon District Champion, a letter from the McClarin Park Community Center thanking him for teaching seniors how to use computers.
“Don’t worry about it,” Isaiah said.
“Is that the bedroom?” Dodson said, nodding at the door.
“You’re sleeping on the sofa, turns into a bed.”
“I thought you said you had a room.”
“This is a room. You got the kitchen and the bathroom too.”
“That’s bullshit. I ain’t payin’ that kinda dough for sleeping on no sofa.”
“Then don’t.”
“Let me explain something to you, son. I can’t have nobody peepin’ up on me. I’m a businessman. I need my privacy.”
“I don’t care about your business and if you need that much privacy stay someplace else.”
“Who you talking to, nigga?” Dodson said, getting chesty. “Disrespect me and I’ll fuck your shit up right now.”