Signed To The Streets Volume I : LOYALTY
In the shadowy alleys of Queens, Maëva Carter Simmons plays a dangerous game. A pawn in the ruthless gang Everybody Gets Murked, she claws her way from a hellish past, her loyalty to the gang her only anchor...
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AS I CLIMB THE STAIRS, irritation gnaws at me. Hitting the main floor, I spot the signs: "Administration" to the right, and "Nelly and Clarkson Ridge's Court—Prosper Pavilion" to the left.
Pushing through the door of the pavilion, distant thumps of music greet me as I step into the hallway. Arrows point every which way, but none seem to lead where I need to go.
Following the music's trail, I quicken my pace.
It's almost seven, and my curfew is at ten.
I need to be home at least an hour before hitting the streets and hack into my security system.
You never know who's watching.
Ryan fucked everything up, and my pride is screaming at me to call him out on this disrespect.
I thought he was cool, you know? When it was time to choose partners for the project, he just asked me straight up. It was weird at first, but when he said he didn't want to team up with some bougie brat and that I seemed chill, I figured why not.
As I follow the sound of bouncing basketballs, I find myself at the entrance of the court.
My blood boils at the sight of Ryan acting all nonchalant, practicing shots. But before I can confront him, a bald dude interrupts.
"This is a private practice, no fans allowed. Who let you in?" he grumbles, trying to assert his authority.
"This ain't the NBA, ain't nobody sweating your little hoop team," I retort, brushing past him with a dismissive flick. Before I can reach Ryan, the bald guy blows his whistle, freezing the practice and spotlighting me like I'm trouble.
I don't give a damn.
With a quick swipe, I slap the ball clean out of Ryan's hands, making my point loud and clear.
"The hell—oh, aye!" His Jamaican accent comes out strong, hand extended for a dap. "Weh yuh a seh?" (Wassup/How you doing?)
"Yeah, cut the crap," I shoot back, grabbing his wrist instead. "I've been standing outside Dr. Harris's class for twenty fuckin' minutes, looking like a total idiot, and you're out here playin' with a ball?"
"Fuck," he covers his mouth, looking apologetic. "Yo, my bad, I swear. It just slipped my mind! Look, I didn't have practice on Tuesday, I guess I got my shit fucked up..."
"What?" I lean in, frustration boiling over. "Tuesday, Thursday..." My jaw clenches, irritation pulsing through me. "So, English is clearly not your first lang—"
