PROLOGUE

Somewhere in the South….1959

In the quiet evening air, the moment before the blackness of night sets in; this should be a moment of general peace and contentment. The Southern night air is heavy, wrapping its inhabitants in a humid, clingy cloak, lulling them to sleep. However, not all who are out on such a night are calm; down in the swamp there is tension in the air.

The ugliness of ignorance and hatred raises its head in the form of five boys, striving to become young men. They are standing in a half circle at the foot of an old oak tree; from which a body hangs. A few of the boys are looking down, but the shortest one is looking straight up, his eyes gleaming in triumph as he exclaims.. “We did it! We lynched this dirty nigger! My ole man will be so proud!”

The crowing boy is so excited he does not hear the rustling of the grass behind him until it is too late. One moment he is standing and the next he is in excruciating pain; sharp teeth go straight for the bone, grabbing him from behind, snapping the bone in his leg, dragging him on his belly toward the murky swamp waters. He cries out. “Oh God! Somebody help me!” The boys look on in horror and shock. In a panic, two boys run for their friend and grab him by the arms to struggle with the alligator in a tug-of-war. Another boy races to cut the dead boy’s body down from the rope hanging from the tree. With much effort, he heaves the lifeless body at the alligator. The alligator turns and accepts their offer. Its huge jaws release the flailing boy; snatching up the dead body, trading one boy for another. The alligator sinks below the murky waters, silently taking its prey below, leaving behind only bubbles. The other boy is left rolling around on the ground, bleeding and moaning.

Terrified; the four boys grab their wounded friend and pile into the borrowed car, driving off to get help.

The group does not realize it yet, but they have committed the perfect crime. No one will ever know what has transpired this night. No one will ever know that these young men took the life of another, just for having the wrong color of skin.

2009 Cleveland, Mississippi

An old warehouse

“What am I supposed to do, Preacher? You keep callin’ me out in front of my boys. A man’s gotta have his proper respect. I can’t lose face with my crew. You Know This. Why you gotta keep preachin’ up in here?” The preacher sighs. “Get that gun outta my face. You KNOW me. I didn’t come here to confront; I came here to talk. You and I both know what goes on in those streets out there. Too many of our brothers are dyin’ in the streets; dyin’ because of drugs, dyin’ because of gangs. You Say people round here need protection, that this is YOUR hood; but YOU are the Problem. You’re takin’ Money from people so that You won’t be the one breathin’ down their neck and hasslin’ their business. THEY ARE PAYIN’ YOU FOR PROTECTION… FROM YOU!! How can you say they pay you for protection… when the biggest THREAT is YOU. These business owners just want to run their stores in peace. They don’t need you and your gang wars on their front doorstep. It’s time You leave them alone. You have got to stop sellin’ your drugs on ever’ corner in Cleveland. The people have just as much right as the next person to live in a clean, untroubled neighborhood.”

The man with the gun chuckles. “Stop sellin’, huh? It ain’t as easy as all that. How am I gonna feed my kids, how am I gonna take care my own? You think the government gives a shit if my ole granny has a roof over her head or enough food to eat? Nah. They don’t give a good goddamn and you know it. I gotta do what I gotta do to get by. And you’re gonna get out the way. I can’t have you preachin’ on my turf no more. You are bad for bizness... I’m tired of axin’ you nice. I ain’t axin’ no more. I’M TELLIN’ YOU. YOU BEST STAY OFF MY STREETS.” The Preacher looks hard at the man with the gun in his hand.

“And what if I can’t do that? What if I can’t stop preachin’? It’s what I have been called to do. What kind of MAN would I be if I just run in fear, like so many others you done run off? You think I could live with myself if I don’t try to change things? I’m a father too. I can’t stand by quietly and watch you do what you are doin’ in the community that I live in. I gotta do what I got to to make this neighborhood a place for my kids to grow up. These ain’t YOUR streets; this ain’t YOUR HOOD - no matter how many punks with guns you got walkin’ around. These streets belong to the people of Cleveland; the people who have real jobs, who make hard-earned, Honest money that they can be proud of. They don’t make the easy money that comes from sellin’ drugs that ruins young kids before they even know what they want or WHO they ARE. They don’t sell a product that people kill each other for. Don’t you know you are better than this? Don’t you want to do somethin’ you can be proud of, somethin’ honest and good? Do you really want your kids growin’ up knowin’ their father sold drugs on corners and was a gang leader -- and a killer?” The gunman’s hand is shaking now. “I ain’t never killed nobody, preacher! But that’s about to change! I TOLD you not to call me out. I warned you to leave me alone. You always think you are Right and I’m Wrong! You think there is only ONE WAY to live. That’s all Bullshit! THIS IS MY LIFE. I AM livin’ the life I was BORN TO. I ain’t gonna pretend to be somethin’ that I’m not!” The preacher scoffs. “WELL. I was waiting for it, and there it is. The “I’m just a poor black nigga who don’t know no better card. I was born in the same neighborhood as you. We grew up on the same block. We went to the same schools, had the same teachers. Yeah, my ole man made an honest livin’. Your ole man came home drunk every night from the pool hall. It’s true we wasn’t raised in the same house - but we from the same neighborhood. And a man’s not a man who can’t own his own mistakes. So don’t go blamin’ your poor choices on your upbringin’. Your father didn’t make you who are today any more than my father made me. We make our own choices. Own your own life, if you’re a man.”

“Damn right I’m a man. I’m a Man who has had enough of you. You say there’s only one way to live; but there’s a Million ways to Die, and this is one of them!” The man pulls the trigger and the bullet goes straight in the preacher’s chest. The preacher falls to the warehouse floor. The shooter drops the gun and walks out.

“Do not be afraid of those who want to kill your body; they cannot touch your soul. Fear only God, who can destroy both soul and body in hell.” – Matthew 10:28

CHAPTER 1

June 2014; Cleveland, Mississippi

SOLOMON

“Solomon, come here. You have a letter. Solomon, I’m a tiret’ old woman; don’t make me holla at you again.” I go to the kitchen to see my grandma. It’s the last summer before my senior year and I can’t wait to spend it at Jackson’s, playing Call of Duty. All. Day. Long. I pick up the letter. It’s from Martin Luther King Jr. Training Football Camp; a camp I used to try to get in when I cared about trying. Every year, for three years, since I was about 10 years old, I would fill out the application and write the essay about what going to the camp would mean to me (my dad) and mail it down to Atlanta, Georgia. Every year I would get rejected.

Then five years ago, my father was shot to death while he was out doing his “street preaching”, making peace between the gangs, fighting for civil rights, preaching the word of God, and teaching R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Preaching is what my father was most passionate about and preaching is what got him killed. Go figure. After that, I kind of lost interest in sports and in life altogether. I started hanging out at Jackson’s, a kid my dad told me to stay away from, but my father isn’t here anymore to tell me to do anything. So…

I open the letter, which makes me curious because I don’t recall filling out an application this year, and I see an Acceptance Letter? Get out. I check my name at the top again just to be sure they have the right person. Yes, it’s my name; Solomon Nathaniel Jones, DOB 7/9/97, address 1325 John Brown Ave. Apt. #13, Cleveland, Mississippi. I want to throw this letter away. I don’t dare hope that I will go. I haven’t even looked at the price of the camp, one I know we can’t afford. As I read further, I see that they have accepted me as a scholarship student. A small seed of hope has sprouted in my chest and though I want to squash it, I can’t help but feel a little excited. Grandma is standing at the stove, sneaking looks at me out of the corner of her eye.

I hand her the letter and I go to my room. What was I thinking? For a split second I was thinking I could go. How could I forget my little sister, Esther? Esther is 14, so technically she can stay home by herself by law; but we don’t live in the safest of neighborhoods. It’s just me and my grandma and Esther who live in our two-bedroom apartment. Esther shares a room with my grandma, which she handles with such contentment; her lack of irritation makes me irritated. Esther says she enjoys staying home with grandma, cooking with grandma, cleaning with grandma, listening to all of grandma’s stories that she tells over and over and over again. I keep waiting for Esther to show some sign of insincerity, but so far all I’ve seen is how much Esther enjoys spending time with our grandma.

We have a mother somewhere. She was a street junkie when my dad met her. He helped her get off the street and cleaned up. They fell in love. They got married. She had my sister and me. When I was 5 and my sister was 2, my mom took off again and went back to the streets. My dad was always more forgiving of my mother then the rest of us. My grandma never talks about my mother. I overheard my sister ask grandma once to tell her stories about our mother. My grandma just answered quietly, “some stories is better left on the bookshelf.”

I’m in my room thinking about life and that football letter. I look down where I am sitting on my room floor at my rug. When I feel overwhelmed, I like to sit on it. It’s a very colorful rug that has colored lines on it that go in circles that never end. There is something about the continuity of the lines that make me feel better. I tried to explain it to Esther once when she was feeling down. She just said “I give my troubles to God.” Esther is a very spiritual 14-year-old. I’ve decided she has enough faith for the both of us. My dad had more than one Bible, but he had his favorite that he carried everywhere on his preaching days, and now Esther carries that same Bible wherever she goes. It’s very worn, with many marked pages and high-lighted words. Sometimes when I look at that Bible, the feeling of my dad’s absence is overwhelming; and I have to go and sit on my rug and get lost in the lines. It doesn’t have the same effect on Esther. She says carrying that Bible around is like carrying around a piece of her father and it comforts her. I believe her; she even sleeps with it.

I feel a presence. I look up from the rug and see my grandma standing in the doorway. She has tears running down her cheeks, but she is smiling ear to ear. “Solomon, you are goin’ to that football camp. Esther and I will make it just fine here without you. You just go on down there and show ‘em what you can do. It’s your one chance.” I hear Esther come around the corner. “Did he get in?” I didn’t know Esther was in the house. How did she know about camp? Esther is jumping up and down in the hallway and clapping her hands. She blurts out; “I FILLED OUT THE APPLICATION! I WROTE YOUR ESSAY! I PROBABLY SHOULDN’T HAVE BUT I KNEW YOU WOULDN’T! I JUST KNEW THIS WAS YOUR YEAR!! I HAVE BEEN PRAYING AND PRAYING EVER SINCE I SENT THAT LETTER IN! I TOLD YOU SOLOMON, GOD LISTENS!” Now she’s twirling around in the hallway and giggling. I can’t help it; I am starting to feel hopeful. I don’t know what to think about what my sister just said but I don’t care. I am going to Football Camp; the football camp my friends used to make fun of me for for even applying, the football camp only the Elite rich kids from Private High Schools attend. Solomon Jones, a poor boy from the wrong side of Cleveland, is going to the only camp this side of the Mississippi River that has the highest percentage of football players who go on to play college ball.

I run over to my best friend, Jackson’s house to tell him my news. “Jackson, you won’t believe it! I’m going to football camp at Martin Luther!” “WHAT? Ain’t that some crazy expensive football camp for crackers? Ain’t you a broke ass nigga’?” “Yes and Yes. But I got a scholarship!!” “Hey man, that’s cool. Guess I won’t see you around much down at Gaines on my slushee breaks then. Guess I’ll have ta find myself a girl to talk to while you’re gone.” “Yeah, right. You have been crushin’ on Eva for three years. Like this will be the year you start talking to her.” “Solly, you are prolly right. But a guy can dream. I will. You’ll see. It’s jus’ those big blues eyes and turned up nose of hers wanna knock me over – She’s So Intimidatin’! The girl ties me in knots! Now that you be out the way – I’ve no one to hide behind and no more excuses. I am GOIN’ to talk to Eva.” “Okay, Jackson, maybe. Good luck with that. I gotta get back to the house to start packin’. I leave for camp in three days!” “Solly, take my brother’s lucky cleats. He only wore em’ two years. They still in good shape. He won the state championship game wearin’ ‘em.”

I take the shoes and go back to my apartment. I get out a notebook I haven’t seen in quite some time. I write.

RHETT

“Rhett! Get your football gear together!” I hear my father yellin’ at me. “We’re leavin’ in an hour for MILK football camp! If you don’t have your butt in that truck soon, I’ll leave your sorry ass at home.” This is my fourth year at MILK football camp. I made the mistake once of sayin’ the full name out loud in front of my grandfather who was visitin’; who like to come unglued. “Rhett! Don’t you say that peace-lovin’ nigger name out loud. Just call it camp MILK.” I still remember my first day at camp MILK. I’d just turned 13. I was terrified. My dad had talked my ear off all the way to camp MILK about what a privilege it was for me to go to this camp, and I’d better not let him down; I was fourth generation of Barbens to go. Accordin’ to my father; my great grandfather, my grandfather, and my father were all Baylor runnin’ back material and I had better live up to that same gold standard.

Football is a sacred word in our house. One of my earliest memories is from when I was about five years old. My mom and dad were arguin’ and my mom was cryin’ in the kitchen. “Stuart, my daddy was Catholic, his father was Catholic, I’m Catholic!” “Betsy, if our boy is goin’ to play football, we need to find a church that fits the Football Schedule. As far as I can tell, the Unitarian church is the only church ‘round that has online services and allows online attendance records. And, they have a great tax write-off program.” So, we became Unitarians by default, convenience, and the love of football…Once a month we eat crackers and drink grape juice in shot glasses in the kitchen for communion.

What I Absolutely love besides football is Ridin’ Bulls (and a senior girl from my highschool named Shania who has not yet become aware of my existence on this planet). There is nothin’ like the thrill of bull ridin’. It is the only thing in my life that my dad can’t control. My dad controls a lot of things - but he ain’t able to tame no 2000-pound bull. Lucky for me, my mother loves rodeos as much as my father loves football. I have been Ridin’ Bulls since I was 10 years old. Every weekend we pack up our trailer, Trusty, (I have a thing for namin’ things) and my annoyin’ sister, Scarlet; and we travel miles and miles to whatever rodeo is in the Tri-state area. My sister Scarlet is 14 and I am 17. If you haven’t noticed yet, my mother is a typical Southern belle and a HUGE fan of Gone With the Wind. I swear she could recite that entire movie in her sleep. I once asked my dad how he could allow my mother to name the BOTH of us after movie characters. He just smiled and said “when a woman makes up her mind….”

I hope I see my three best friends at football camp. I’m excited about this bein’ our Senior Year. There’s a group of us four guys and we do everythin’ together; we’re the Four Musketeers; Scotty, Trace, Ruger, and me.

I’ve kept this crush I have on Shania to myself. I like to hold my cards close to my vest so to speak. Plus, Ruger has a way with the ladies and a mean streak. If he knew I liked Shania, he might chase her just to see me squirm.

I run out to the truck to go to camp and see my three buddies sittin’ in the King Cab. My dad is standin’ in the driveway holdin’ the keys and grinnin’. What an Awesome surprise! “Well, Rhett. Seein’ how it is your senior year and all, I figger you boys can find MILK camp without my help. Don’t get in too much trouble, now.” I hop in the King Cab and tear out of the driveway before my dad changes his mind. It’s a long 420 miles to MILK camp from Cleveland. We usually stop about halfway in Tuscaloosa at Taco Mama. My dad may not care much for Mexicans but he sure likes their food. We are almost outta Cleveland and Ruger starts ribbin’ me. “Hey Rhett. What’re we gonna do to make this a memorable trip? We gotta do somethin’ to make it EPIC. Let’s think of somethin’ to do in a town where no one knows us.” I’m searchin’ my mind trying to think of something that is crazy but not illegal. “We could go through a Drive-Thru and order a bunch of food and drive off” I say. “Yeah, maybe. I’ll keep thinkin’, I can usually think of somethin’,..” says Ruger. “We could graffitti somethin’ but if we get caught then its vandalism -- and I’m still doin’ community service for my last act of stupidity” says Trace, who is too easily talked into lots of things by his crazy cousin from Waco, TX. I had almost forgotten that Trace and his cousin Trigg had gotten caught shop-liftin’ 30 pounds of pork chops from the local grocery store. “I know! I got it! We could hop on a movin’ train! I’ve always wanted to catch a movin’ train! I just want to know if I can catch one” says Scotty. “Seriously, Scotty? If you get on the train where you gonna get off? We gotta be in Atlanta, GA, by registration time tomorrow and we don’t have a lotta extra time in between” I say. Scotty knocks himself in the head. “Oh, yeah. Sorry guys.”

“I got it! Once we’re in the next county, let’s go skinny dippin’! We can find a pond on the highway and pull off the road and get buck nekkid!” This comes from Ruger who has no qualms about showin’ people his naked body. I decide I can live with this and it will be a thrill that technically is not breakin’ any laws. “Alright! Skinny Dippin’ it is”. We’re all excited now, we’ve got a plan. We cruise along, listenin’ to the radio. An hour goes by and we have the radio cranked as loud as we can stand it. All of a sudden Ruger yells, “Pond! There’s a pond!” I pull the truck over in a small grass driveway by a barbwire fence. We find a spot to squeeze under. We take off, sprintin’ for the pond, strippin’ as we go. We’re all hollerin’ and laughin’. This is the best senior year moment yet. We race to the lukewarm water. We feel the muddy pond bottom squish between our toes. We run around, splashin’ and hollerin’. We do this for about 20 minutes. Then we hear what sounds like thunder. We stop and start lookin’ around. It’s a deep thunderin’ sound that gets louder as it gets closer. The ground starts to feel like it is shakin’. We look past the pond up the little hill and see a bunch of buffalo racin’ over the hill. “Stampede! Stampede! Get outta the pond!” I yell. We all start headin’ for the shore, jumpin’ out and onto the land, gatherin’ our clothes as we run towards the fence. Suddenly the fence seems a lot farther away as the sound gets louder and louder. I am in full panic mode. We race to the same spot in the fence and squeeze under, our skin scratchin’ and tearin’ against the fence and the ground. We all get to the other side. We pull on our jeans and run towards the truck. We turn and look. The buffalo are now lined up along the far side of the pond. “Shiiiitttt. All that for nothin” says Ruger but he’s still grinnin’. We all look at each other, turnin’ each other around and admirin’ each other’s new battle scars. Then we all bust up laughin’. We hop in the truck and head for Tuscaloosa.

CHAPTER 2

SOLOMON

It’s the night before football camp and I should be in bed asleep. Instead, I’m out running. I’ve been running for about 20 minutes now and I realize I am on AJ’s street. I can’t really explain why I hang out with AJ sometimes; knowing what he sells and that he is a highschool drop out, knowing that he’s probably friends with some of the gang members who shot my father. And yet, I find myself coming over to his place anyway. I’m standing in the street, thinking about these things when I look over and see a pair of keys gleaming in the moonlight. The keys belong to AJ’s brand-new black Honda, which is just begging to be driven. I know that this is a stupid thing to do. I know getting caught lifting a car will be the end of my scholarship to football camp. I know that if AJ catches me driving his car, he will probably shoot me. I know these things; but I find myself getting in his car anyway. I put the car in reverse and back out quietly with the lights off.

I head for the highway. Driving someone else’s car without their permission is a thrill; you feel like you could get caught at any moment and it’s indescribable; you have this horrible feeling of dread mixed with a feeling of complete satisfaction of getting away with something. It’s addictive and it’s delicious. I race AJ’s car down the highway, windows down, radio blasting. I drive around for a good half hour before I come to my senses. Now I don’t know what to do; do I drive the car back to AJ’s? Do I drop it off a block from his house, so he won’t see me? The problem with being impulsive is you don’t think things through. I am thinking about these things sitting at the stoplight and I hear my name being called. I look over and it’s Leticia, AJ’s girlfriend, and she’s hanging all over some guy; but he ain’t AJ. She’s also kind of drunk. She’s yelling at me but when I look over and see her, she then realizes she’s been caught with someone else. She gets out of the car and stumbles over to AJ’s car. She comes around and gets in. “HEYYYYY Solly!!! HOW YA DOIN’ BABY?!” She leans in to kiss me and I turn my head. Then she immediately starts pouting. “HOW COME YOU DON’T LIKE ME? ALL THE GUYS LIKE ME, BUT NOT YOU.” She starts to climb over the seat towards me.

“Hey, easy there Tiger.” I say, trying to make light of the situation. “I like you just fine. But you’re AJ’s girl. You know that.” She looks at me and giggles. “Yeah, well, AJ ain’t here. And he don’t own me. What I do is what I wanna do. Ain’t nobody gonna own me.” “Well, just the same. AJ’s my friend and I don’t hook up with my friend’s girl.” She looks at me hard through her drunken haze and scoots away from me. “Yeah. Sure. Whatever. Like I’d get it on with you. You just a skinny young brotha’ anyway. Ain’t much to ya. I like a brotha’ who feels like a man; know what I”m sayin’”. I know she’s just trying to get to me but it’s still annoying. I head back to AJ’s house. I creep up and park the car back where it was. I leave Leticia sitting in the front seat with the windows a little down; by this time, she’s passed out cold. I’m walking away from the car. I can’t believe no one saw me when I see AJ standing in the street. The guy is such a creeper. He makes no sound, just staring me down.

I decide to play it cool. “You gotta real nice ride, there, A-J.” He just keeps looking at me silently. I hate this about AJ. He has a way of getting under your skin and he knows it. He enjoys making people uncomfortable. Usually I have the patience to wait him out but tonight I’m up for a fight even though I know I’m completely in the wrong. “So, what? You got something to say to me?” He steps up. “Yeah. I got something to say to you. What you doin’ riding around in MY car with MY girl?” I snap a little inside. “Anybody STUPID enough to leave their keys in their brand new ride deserves to have it jacked. And, YOUR girl was at the stoplight hangin’ all over some other brother. NOT ME. I don’t want nothing that’s yours; ESPECIALLY not your girl.” I stand here feeling like a fool and hoping against hope AJ ain’t packing heat right now. He’s so hot headed; I don’t know why I am goading him like this. AJ laughs. “Yeah. I’m sure you’re right. You couldn’t handle Leticia or anything else that’s mine. You ain’t man enough; Baby Boy.” I’m so relieved that this is all he said that I don’t answer. I start walking home. I hear AJ calling after me. “Better watch your back, Baby Boy. All your grandma’s prayin’ can only protect you for so long. Better watch your back.”

RHETT

By the time we get to Tuscaloosa, we’re all hungry and ready for a break from drivin’.

We pull in to Taco Mama, ready for some food. We find a table and start lookin’ through the menu. Ruger wants a Fat Boy, I want the Yo Mama, Trace wants The Judge and Scotty wants the Big Client. Our waitress, a sassy young Mexican lady, walks over, her hips swingin’ side to side. She gets out her notepad to take our orders. Ruger starts runnin’ his mouth; “Si. Senorita…..Yo querro el Fat-o Boy-o” The waitress gives him a dirty look and a glare and says “MAY….I….HELP….YOUS. OR DO YOUS NEED…A….LEETTLE….MORE….TIME…..I guess this menu can be a little difficult to read for you Southern boys.” She then flits her eyelashes and flips her hair and walks off. “Way to go, Ruger. I’m starvin’ and now it might be an hour before we even get our food and she’ll probably spit on it” Scotty says. The waitress returns 15 minutes later. Ruger looks all sheepish and gives her a little grin. “Yes. I would like a Fat Boy please. And if it’s not too much trouble, a sweet tea. We Southerners do like our sweet tea.” She smiles politely and takes our orders. It ain’t too long and we get our food. It’s delicious. Ruger is wolfin’ his down as usual; the boy inhales his food. Suddenly he starts sweatin’ and coughin’. “Shit! My throat is on FIRE!. I need more tea; no… I need some milk. Anyone got milk here?” The waitress swings by our table again. She leans her hip against our table, looking right at Ruger. She bats her long eyelashes. “May I help you mijo?” She’s got long black hair and an hour glass figure and big brown eyes. Ruger is sweatin’ and coughin’ too much to appreciate the view. “Yes. I’d like some milk please. And I was wonderin’… are there peppers in that Fat Boy?”

She puts her hands on the table and leans in til her face is close enough to almost kiss Ruger. She lowers her voice “I thought someone as HOT as YOU think you are could handle a little habanero.” Then she stands up straight and saunters off. The rest of us are crackin’ up by now. Ruger looks like he is gonna start blowin’ steam out his ears. “Guys get the check. I’m goin’ on a milk run.” Ruger takes off out the door. We divide up the total and pay the bill and head out to find Ruger. We pull up to the gas station and he is sittin’ on the curb, garglin’ milk and spittin’ it out. He has a tub of sour cream that he is eatin’ with his fingers. Trace pipes up. “Look at ‘em just sittin’ there. Idiot. HEY! We should pull a “Don Drop’n-ditch!” “What?”, I say. “You Know, we’ve already driven him far away somewhere, now we ditch him!” I look at Trace in his excitement. “Um, Trace. Where we got to be in the mornin’?” “Um, football camp?” “Yep. And do you really think NOW would be the time to be doin’ a Don drop’n-ditch?” “Dang it. I guess not. I just been wantin’ to do one ever since I heard the hilarious story about the kid droppin’ off his sister’s boyfriend a few miles from home and makin’ him walk back to the house.” “I know; but we are too far from home and on the way to football camp. We’ll save that for another day.” Ruger moseys over and hops in the truck. “I swear. If I never eat another hot pepper, it’d be fine by me.” I get outta the truck and run in the station and buy some Red Bull and we head off down the highway again.

It’s almost dark and I’ve just about given up on any more prank ideas when we pass a kennel. “Danielle’s Darlings.” Trace and Scotty look at each other and they are both laughin’ creepily and it’s a little scary. “What?” I say although I’m afraid to ask. I speak up again; “I ain’t stealin’ nothin’ from anyone, especially not a dog.” “Oookkaayyy.” Scotty says, “But how bout we just rearrange things a little.” “How do you mean?” I answer. “Well, we can move thangs ‘nough to make Danielle think she’s crazy but not ‘nough to damage anythin’. Like we could take all of one breed and put it in the other breed’s kennel place and just switch them around.” “Weird.” I say, “But I guess there’s no harm in that.” Ruger takes over. “Scotty, you and Trace are the movers. Rhett, you be the lookout man. If anyone comes out, you be ready to create a distraction.” “But what will you do, Ruger?” I say. He answers. “I run the show. I’m the orchestrator.” I think about this. I guess it’s only fair that Scotty and Trace do the dirty work since they want to mess with someone’s kennel. “Thirty minutes. You get 30 minutes to create chaos” I say. We turn off the truck lights and sneak up the drive. We walk quietly up to the kennel. I am silently prayin’ this lady don’t own a guard dog.

Trace and Scotty walk right up to the kennel. It is surprisin’ly easy to get into and it’s quiet. They use their cell phone flashlights. I can hear them walkin’ back and forth, openin’ cages and the dogs are whimperin’ a little. This goes on for about 15 minutes. Then one of the dogs starts howlin’. There’s a blood hound in the corner which no one noticed until it started bayin’. It scared the bejesus out of me. I’m just about to bolt when I hear the house door open and I hear a voice. “Atticus. Shut your big ole jowly mouth! You’re gonna have the coyotes howlin’ next.” But Atticus keeps it up. He howls and he howls. The door opens again. An angel walks out in her spanx and tee shirt and long curly hair. As she gets nearer and steps into the light, I see she’s got a turned-up nose, freckles, and big eyes. She starts stompin’ towards the kennel, wavin’ a flashlight around, but then she sees me. She takes in a deep breath to scream but then stops herself. “What the hell you doin’ in my yard?” I’m thinkin’ to myself, create a diversion, create a diversion. I lean against the little shed and try to look all Luke Bryan. “Yeah. Well, I was wonderin’ which way Las Vegas is from here.” She gives me a hard look. “You don’t look 21 to me.” “I’m not. But I’m like a card shark prodigy kind of like Rainman, except I’m not autistic. I’m just really good at cards. Like I can count cards. I can…” “HEY!” She stops me and gets near my face. I go to speak. “I’m Rhe..” The look she gives me shuts me up. Then she puts her hands on her hips. “Ok. Ok. I’ll PRETEND I believe you….RAINMAN…..” There is an awkward pause. She looks me up and down - a minute longer this time. Then she says “Yeah, you’ll do.”

I’m wonderin’ what that statement means and then she’s leanin’ in and kissin’ me. For a moment I’m frozen. This is just too surreal. But then instinct takes over and I am kissin’ her back and I pull her closer to me. There is not much too her, but she feels just right. I’m gettin’ a little fired up and then she stops. She steps back, pushin’ against my chest, and giggles a little. Now I’m embarrassed. “What? Was it that bad? Are you laughin’ at me?” “No. You’re a great kisser” she says. I take a step towards her. She steps back. “Whoa. I’m not done talkin’. I’ve always wanted to kiss a total stranger and now I have. Y’all gotta get outta here in about five minutes, or I call the cops. Sheriff ‘round here’s my uncle.” “Okay.” I say, “but my name is Rhe…” She grabs my shirt and pulls me to her and kisses me again! She puts her finger to my lips. “Nope. Don’t wanna know your name.” I consider callin’ her bluff about the sheriff; but what if she ain’t bluffin’. I run back to the kennel. “Guys. Guys.” I whisper. No one answers. I run around the kennel. I see no one. I don’t want to, but I run back towards the truck. They’re all sittin’ in the truck, their faces glued to the window. I know by their faces that they saw us. I open the door and jump in. “Dang, Rhett. I gotta hand it to ya. That even beats my record.” Ruger says. I could tell him the truth. Nope. It’s my secret now. “Yep, what can I say? The ladies love me.” Then I turn on the truck and back out of the driveway.

CHAPTER 3

Atlanta, GA - Football camp

SOLOMON

The first day of football camp is Hell. To start with, I barely get to the first practice in time – I don’t even have time to check in to my room. The bus pulls up and I run to the restroom and change and head straight for the field and suit up in some pads. Everyone else is already running warm-ups. I hurry to catch up, trying not to miss anything. I realize right away that I am WAY out of shape. We run drill after drill after drill. I’ve always been a fast runner and so I’m able to keep up and save face – but inside I feel like I’m dying. Only my stubborn pride keeps me going and stops the vomit that I can taste in the back of my throat at the end of practice. I know the worst pain is yet to come. I won’t feel the full toll on my lazy muscles until a few days from now.

The first practice is finally over and we head to the main building. I keep glancing around hoping to see someone I recognize but so far, no such luck; I don’t know anyone here. I go down the hallways, searching for my name on the papers listed by each room doorway. A slow panic is starting to build. I feel like the guys in the reality shows where they pick people off one by one. My self doubt is creeping up on me. Maybe I’m not supposed to be here. What was I thinking? That they would really let a poor ghetto boy into their elite camp for rich white kids? That I’m really good enough to stand next to these all-star players from the private schools that probably recruit; even though it’s against the rules. I’m to the last two rooms at the end of the hall and I see my name. Solomon Jones. There’s three other guys names on the list. I open the door and step into the room. Fortunately, there’s another brother in the room with me and I’m not the only black guy.

Right across the hall there’s a room with four cowboys in it. You can tell right away they’re all best friends and know each other really well. They’re loud and obnoxious and they walk around all cocky like they own the place. One of my roommates sees the four guys and he’s like “Oooh. There’s Rhett Barben, 4-year MILK camper, going to be this year’s all-star running back.” I look over to see what a “Star” looks like. Rhett is standing in the middle of his group of friends and even from across the hall, I hear him bragging about how many yards he’s going to get this year on the football field and how he’s going to win the MVP at football camp. He’s a little shorter than me, but broader and stockier built. As he’s going on and on with his friends, he turns and he sees me. He stops talking. His eyes immediately narrow and then his expression turns cold as ice. I don’t know him - but I don’t like him. Sometimes, I let things like this go at home; cause it ain’t worth the trouble, but this is football camp, and this is a white privileged cracker giving me the eye. I feel like he’s trying to look through me like I’m not here and this makes me want to make him see me even more. I can’t explain it. I stare right back at him. IT IS ON. He’s standing in his room with his arms crossed and his feet apart. He calls over; “Hey. you got a problem?” I look right back at him. “No. I don’t have a problem. I’m just HERE to play ball” I say and start walking toward him, stepping through my doorway, and then stopping in his room doorway. I continue to look him in the eye as I walk forward and stop right in front of him in his room. “Do YOU have a problem?” I say and continue my stare. “I will if you don’t quit staring at me” he says. I keep on staring. My roommate Tyrell sticks his head in the doorway; “Hey. Man. It’s supper time. Let’s head down to the mess hall.” I walk towards Tyrell but I walk backward, staring Rhett down. He stares right back. Tyrell and I round the corner and follow the smell of food.

Tyrell starts in on me. “Man, you got a lot of nerve, starin’ at Rhett like that. Trust me, you don’t want to mess with him. His family is legendary around here. He follows three generations of Baylor running backs, at least that’s what everyone says.” I scoff. “Yeah well. Where I come from everyone earns their own Respect. Ain’t no one ever handed me anything and I don’t intend to hand anything to anyone else; especially no white cracker with a huge Chip on his shoulder.” Tyrell looks at me and then he laughs. “Ok. Ok. Simmer down. Just thought you would like to know who you are tangling with.” I look at him. “Trust me. I know who I am tangling with. I have tangled with people like that my whole life. I learned one thing early on, I don’t back down from any fight.” Tyrell just shakes his head. “I guess. But, there are some things that just aren’t worth the trouble, you know? Anyway, I’m Tyrell. I’m from Georgia, kind of. I moved down South two years ago; used to live in Chicago. My parents decided it was too violent after I lost my cousin in a shooting and they moved to Georgia where my great grandparents were from. I tell you, the South is a whole new world. They all talk different; people act different. I heard some places in the South still have separate schools, like segregation is still a real thing. That’s some crazy shit.” I look down at the table. I go to an all-black high school. That’s the way we like it. “Yeah, crazy” I say.

We head back to the dorm room. We meet the other two guys who are rooming with us. They are white guys from a town near Cleveland and they might as well name themselves the Rhett Barben fan club. It’s pathetic how well they know his stats and his dad’s stats and grandfather’s stats, etc. I can’t take listenin’ to this anymore. “Hey. You guys going to take a Rhett Barben quiz or what? If you ain’t gonna be graded on anything shut the hell up or find something else to talk about. Seriously.” Their faces turn red and Tyrell is laughing. “Hey.” Tyrell says. “Anyone know how to play poker? So Tyrell gets out the cards and we teach these white boys how to play Texas Hold Em’.

RHETT

I don’t know who that black kid thinks he is, but he’s got a lot of nerve. Tryin’ to stare me down. He’s goin’ to find out who I am real quick. People round here don’t call me out and they don’t look at me like I’m nothin’ to worry about neither. I can’t wait to find his black ass on the field. I’m gonna run him over and he’s gonna know he’s been hit. We are back in the room. “Anyone know who the guy across the hall is? Ruger?” Ruger’s the most social guy in the room and he talks to everyone. “Nope. Sure don’t. Let it go, man. Just some guy hasslin’ you. He’ll find someone else to bother tomorrow.” “Let’s talk about the little hottie at Darlene’s Darlings” and he winks at me. “It was Danielle’s Darlings” and I’ve forgotten about her already. Told her I wasn’t going to wait around for her like some lovesick puppy. You know, I’m a love em’ and leave em’ kind of guy.” We pick out our bunks and get some sleep. Next thing I know it’s mornin’.

I’m walkin’ out of my room half asleep. I bump into some guy in the hallway. “Hey! Watch where you’re going, cracker.” I think about apologizin’ but then I see him. No friggin’ way. It’s the same guy. I can’t help it, my temper gets the better of me. “I’ll walk where I damn well please. You best stay out of MY way.” He’s right back at me. “Yeah. Well, this AIN’T your hallway. I don’t see YOUR name on it. YOU ran into me.” And on he goes down the hallway. I really, really can’t stand that guy. And I still don’t know his name.

We go to the practice field. Coach Bartlett is on the field. He’s been friends with my family for a very long time. He smiles and slaps me on the back. “Rhett. How you doin’? How’s your dad?” We make small talk. I see the guy across the hall across the field. He’s got the number 42, and he’s starin’ at me again. I let it go. I hear coach givin’ instructions: “All runnin’ backs gather over here. All wide receivers over here. We all separate into our individual positions. I look down the line of runnin’ backs lined up and there’s 42. Unbelievable. Of all the luck. He’s gunnin’ for my position. I ain’t worried. Not really. I’ve been here all four years and I am pretty sure this is his first year. And, I go to Bayou Christian; our team has gone undefeated against all other teams in our league.

Last year we got second in the state. I think I heard someone say he’s from Cleveland, but I’m sure I’ve never played against him. Maybe he transferred. We start our drills. He’s playin’ down the line so I can’t see him. Then we start the receivin’ pass drill from the quarterback. I hate to admit it, but he’s a natural on the field. I watch him catch all the passes. He’s quick. He’s hard for the defense to keep up with. I see his footwork and all of a sudden, it clicks. I’ve seen him play before. We played against him in junior high once and no one could catch him. I might be in serious trouble.

I know I’m thinkin’ about 42 too much. I’ve gotta get him outta my head. But I can’t seem to do it. We start another passin’ drill where two players run down the field and the ball is thrown and whoever catches it, the other is out. We do this for a while and sure enough, it comes down to me and 42. We are on the line – I glance over at him and he is starin’ straight ahead. The coach yells “go” and we both start runnin’. The ball is thrown. The pass was an overthrow – too far ahead. I am pushin’ myself as hard as I can but there’s no way either of us will get that pass. I see the ball spiralin’, it’s too far out. But then 42 takes off like a shot and he dives with his arms stretched out and he makes an unbelievable catch. He comes up grinnin’, his chest heavin’. I don’t want to admit it, but he has bested me and he’s probably the only player in this camp who could pull off a catch like that.

Then 42 jogs past me “That’s how it’s done – Son..” and gives me a wink. I really hate that guy.

FAMILY TRAITS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHANCES

CHAPTER 2

BORROWED RIDE

CHAPTER 3

Who I Am