Patrice's Story (A "Living With The Choices We Make" Novella) ✔️

2 - My Hero

2 – My Hero

There was a time in my life I considered Marcus Forrester my hero. I was eight and my mom and I were living in Chatham. She was renting a small three bedroom house with a friend who had four children. We had to share a bedroom and describing my living situation as cramped would've been an understatement.

Tisha was the oldest of us kids, bossing us around whenever she could. The moms were working two jobs and were hardly around—both of them didn't have a clue that Tisha and I were cutting tons of classes to hang out at the park. She had recently started to be interested in boys, watching them with googly eyes, while I got a good use out of the rusty playground equipment.

The day I met Marcus was a beautiful summer's day, just a couple of weeks before my school vacation. Tisha, a few boys, and I had been playing catch when I slumped down on a bench, totally exhausted. Thirst burned in my throat as the heated air glimmered in front of my eyes.

"Hey, Patrice, let's go to the shop," Tisha called. "I'm starving."

I had no money. "Naw, I'll stay. You go."

"Shoo, girl, come on. I'll get you a pop."

Soft drinks were my weak spot. I had been struggling on and off with my weight with the result that my mother had cut all sugar from my life. Having a desperate sweet tooth, I had been suffering.

I toddled behind Tisha and a boy who had wrapped his arm around her shoulders. He was tall, but thinner than a stick. His friends called him Skinny. He must've been around Tisha's age since she knew him from middle school.

The air conditioning of the corner shop was broken and inside, it was almost as hot as outside except next to the coolers. There, we huddled, Tisha and the boy counting their money and whispering to each other under their breath. I stood around with a pretend bored face. Something was up with them. A prickling unrest was slowly spreading in the pit of my stomach as the minutes trickled by.

Tisha clutched my arm and pulled me into the next aisle. "Grab a couple of cans of beer when Skinny pays for the Cokes." Her chin jutted at the cooler with the alcoholic beverages. "They're right over there."

My head shook adamantly. "Where am I gonna put them? I don't wanna do this, Tisha."

"You can stick them into the pockets of your cargo pants. They should be big enough."

I gave the bottom part of my body a quick once over. Unfortunately, she was right. The pants were an inheritance of her brother and way too big for me, only kept in place by a pink belt with little hearts. They were so baggy that they could easily hide the contraband.

"Please Tisha, don't make me do this," I whined. "If I get caught, I'll be in a lot of trouble."

"Naw, you're still too young for the cops to do anything." She nudged my shoulder. "Besides, I got your back, girl. The clerk is gonna be busy with Skinny and won't even pay no attention to you. Don't worry, you won't get caught."

I was still not convinced but if I chickened out, they would refuse to hang with me. Tisha was my only friend. "Okay, but you make sure that guy ain't looking."

Peeking around the aisle shelf, I watched them stroll up to the counter. Skinny placed three Cokes in front of the clerk. "Yo, man, what were last night's lottery numbers?"

The clerk started to peck away at some machine. This was my opportunity. I darted over to the cooler. My hand reached out for a can of Coors. It was ice cold, my fingers almost numb when the metal container glided into my pocket. Quickly, I went for can number two.