Picasso's Promise

Episode 2| Reality Check

I read an article the other night, while looking up information about inner-city high schools in Los Angeles, that went over the dropout rate at the school I was attending. From what I read, it said 5 out of 10 students at Booker High did not reach graduation. The racial division at the school was another think I checked on.

At my former school, the population was fifty percent White, thirty percent Asian, and around ten percent Hispanic and African-American students. For the first time in my life, I would be going to a school where my race wasn't in the minority population, taking up sixty percent. This didn't shock me, but the stories my cousin told me over breakfast did.

"It's not so bad," Isaiah said, munching on a slice of jam and butter toast. "Mama said it was more dangerous when she went there."

"It was," his mother nodded. "My freshman year there was a gang of girls who we were warned about, threatenin' to slash girls faces with razors on the path to school."

"Why would they do that?" I gasped.

"To be initiated into the gang," she explained. "Last I heard of them girls, one was serving a life sentence in a different state, two got kicked out the country, and the rest cleaned up they act-started going to church and making families of they own. Some still live in this neighba'hood."

"That all happened when my mama was in high school, which was like a million years ago," Isaiah commented, "so I think it might've changed."

Swiftly from behind him, his mother slapped the back of his neck. He winched. "If ya'keep yappin' this much, you won't finish ya'breakfast. Hurry. You're gonna miss ya'bus."

He muttered an apology to his mother, scarfing down the bread.

Martin strolled in last to the table. Nia, Isaiah, and I were already starting on our breakfast when he walked in with his blue backpack low on his shoulder. He let out a loud yawn, crashing into the empty chair next to me. His mom was at the counter, sipping a cup of coffee while skimming something off her phone.

Martin rubbed the inner corner of his eye hard, almost as though he thought he could wipe off the sleepiness from his face. He reached for the cereal box, dropping the hand from his face, and began pouring Cheerios into the empty yellow bowl on his placemat.

He ducked down, going for his backpack that was set on the floor by my feet, but froze, slowly rising to a sitting position. "You're not about to wear Balenciaga sneakers to school."

"What? Why not?"

"Are you stupid?"

"N-no, I'm not," I stammered, puzzlement making way on my face. "I don't see how that would make me stupid. Neither do I know why I can't."

"There is a reason I don't wear any of my nice Jordons to school. I only wear worn-out Vans. You will get jacked."

"But Aunt Tina said there's cops and campus security there."

"That barely stops students from getting robbed." He scoffed with a laugh. "Go wear something else, something cheap."

"Cheap," I laughed. "I don't have anything cheap."

"Mom," he sighed, "You think you got something she can wear?"

"There's no need. I don't want to. This goes so well with my jacket."

"Well it isn't going to match your fit once you're barefoot."

"I'll be fine," I said, smoothing over the material of my black Adidas windbreaker. Some of the things I owned were cheap, but met my standards. There were double white stripes going along the side of my arm and up to my shoulder where the hood was.