Free August and Then Some by David Prete Page A

up. “Why you putting your business where it’s not wanted?”
    Now Stephanie stands up.
    â€œI put it where I want to,” I say.
    â€œKeep it the fuck outta my face.”
    â€œNelson, shut up.”
    â€œOh, now you got his back,” boyfriend says.
    â€œI got nobody’s back, I just don’t want you fighting about stupid shit that ain’t nothin.”
    â€œThat’s what we’re doing?” I ask him. “We’re fighting?”
    â€œWe ain’t doing shit yet, but we can change that.”
    â€œWhenever you’re ready.”
    He flies down the stairs to the street, spreads his arms out and shrugs his shoulders. “Ah-ight. Get off them stairs and we see.”
    â€œNelson, stop that shit,” Stephanie says. She jumps off the stairs to the street and on her way over to him does something weird. She pulls on her own ponytail. Pulls it so hard that she snaps her head back. It takes all of a half second, but it makes her face turn to something madder and older than it was before. She stands in front of him and puts her hands on his chest. “Nelson, forget it, forget it. This shit ain’t worth it. He’s just some guy lives in the building, knows my uncle, that’s it. That’s the whole story. You makin up the rest. Leave it the fuck alone or I’m history tonight.”
    â€œYou wrong. I’m history tonight.” He backs off like he’s leaving. To me: “Watch your ass.”
    â€œWatch it for me.”
    Stephanie turns around pissed at me now. “Damn, just let him go. You stupid?”
    Nelson says, “I am watching it.” My final warning before he walks away.
    â€œWhy the fuck all you guys want to do is start throwingdown? Somebody look at you and you wanna throw. Fuck’s wrong with you?”
    â€œHe started.”
    â€œNo, you didn’t just say that. You didn’t just say ‘he started it’.”
    â€œI meant he started with you.”
    â€œOh, like I can’t take care myself.”
    â€œNo you can, I just—”
    â€œGuys are stupid, yo.”
    â€œOnly when a girl is involved,” I say with little to no thought.
    â€œAin’t no girl involved.”
    From above us we hear, “Estephanie, cómo estás?”
    She and I both look up and see Ralphie standing on the fire escape. From three floors below I can see the face and hear the voice of the guy who has lived in this building way before this neighborhood was hip—when people were nodding out in his stairwells on a Tuesday, and when cops wrote it off as a wasteland. Standing on the fire escape is the guy who has kicked his share of derelicts off the stoop.
    â€œNada, tío Ralphie. We just talking. It’s OK,” Stephanie says. In her voice I can hear the shrewd innocence of a girl who has talked herself out of many kinds of trouble more than once—like she’s got an arsenal of escape tones in the back of her throat. But this is light work so she only has to bring the innocent tone up to about a level two.
    Me, I probably look guilty. I wave. “Hi, Ralphie.” He gives us a nod that says he knows there was more going on besides talking. He looks down the block to see if boyfriend is still around. Nope. Ralphie shapes his face into a disapproving expression and makes sure Stephanie sees it before he ducks back in the window.
    â€œI take it he doesn’t like your boyfriend.”
    â€œNot really.”
    â€œBecause he hits you?”
    â€œHe doesn’t hit me.” And that, from her arsenal, is a defensive and very convincing tone along the lines of, you-didn’t-understand-what-you-saw-and-you-need-to-start-thinking-much-more-of-me-you-idiot.
    â€œOK.”
    Stephanie feels the band at the back of her head that holds her ponytail. It’s loose, so she separates and pulls a couple handfuls of hair to tighten it to her head.
    â€œWhat you lookin