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C C H ARL E S A. B U S HH ARL E S A. B U S H

that bought the Super Mart. People don’t buy businesses in the
hood, especially in Hargrove Projects, and go unnoticed. The girl’s
restocking the milk, while the guy behind the register (probably
her father) is breaking his neck to keep an eye on us. In his defense,
we do look suspicious as fuck. There has to be a joke in there: Two
Black girls walk into a corner store . . .

Anyway, I used to think stealing things we can’t afford was cool
(yes, Kit Kats are on that list). We were Robin Hoods balancing the
injustice of poverty-stricken households everywhere. Now we’re
more like shitty martyrs, just playing into the stereotype that every
Black kid in the hood is constantly banging Kendrick Lamar and
on the prowl to jack someone’s shit.
“Fuck you. You steal it,” I whisper back. “I’m not trying to get
kicked off the team because you need a new weave to impress
Jordan. He’s corny, anyways. And his jump shot’s all kinds of broke.

Dude’s got no range.”
“I can’t,” she retorts, moving in closer to hide from Muslim
Girl who’s moved on to stocking ramen. “I already got three tubes
of lip gloss, a bag of Hot Cheetos, and a frozen pizza under here.”
Ah, a frozen pizza. I was wondering how her stomach sud-
denly became so flat. Britt’s never done a sit-up in her life. Shit,
she spends every gym class eye-banging the boys.

“Now do you want to eat tonight or not?”
I shrug. “I mean, yeah.”
“A’ight then. So stop bitching and take it.”
She tries to shove it up my hoodie.
“Chill,” I say, swatting the weave away like I’m Joel Embiid.
We start slap fighting in the aisle because, you know, that’s not
making things worse. I do want to eat, though. Especially since
Mom doesn’t actually buy food with our food stamps.

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