Free The Dying Ground by Nichelle D. Tramble

be your enemies. I ain’t saying the police are knights in shining armor, but y’all accept criminals without question.”
    I stood to go. “I’m not in school this semester, remember. I get to skip your lectures.”
    “Okay, then, let’s talk about that! Why aren’t you in school? I looked your grades up. They’re decent. You got some other kind of trouble?”
    “Life. I’m just taking a break.”
    “Break, huh? You’ll break right to the graveyard if you don’t watch out.” He paused. “Just like your friend Billy.”
    He dissolved into a foul mood, me not far behind him as Scottie ran up the bleachers.
    I gave him a pound. “You ready to head on home?”
    I shook hands with Livingston and followed Scottie out to my car. Scottie was a stray much like Holly had been, with a harassed young mother as his only parent. I’d had more than one encounter with Miss Chantal, so I avoided her like the plague. Scottie and I had a ritual that helped me to accomplish that. I would drop him on the corner and watch him run to his house. Once he was safely inside he’d turn the bathroom light on and off three times: our signal. Then I’d hit my gas pedal before Chantal came out onto the porch.
    Once, when I first met Scottie, I pulled an overnight with Chantal that I regretted the moment it began. The one time I felt sorry for her was the one time I woke up in her bed.
    In the car Scottie shuffled through the cassettes scattered on the floor.
    “Can I play this?” He was waving an NWA tape.
    “NWA! Your mama lets you listen to them?”
    “Shoot, my mama the one bought it for me.”
    “You need to be jockin’ Kid n’ Play.” He grimaced. “Or the Fresh Prince.”
    “They ain’t saying nothing.”
    I had to agree, but I still thought NWA and a seven-year-old should stay as far away from each other as possible. “How ’bout this?” I handed him LL Cool J’s latest. “You think he’s a sucker too?”
    He grabbed the cassette. “He’s cool.” He popped in the tape, turned it up loud, looked at me, and grinned. “That’s my song right there.”
    We rode in silence for a moment, listening to the music and watching the theater of the Oakland streets.
    “Maceo, why don’t you play baseball anymore?”
    His question nearly made me miss a turn. I turned down the radio. “What made you ask that?”
    He shrugged. “I don’t know. My mama and her friend was talking about it yesterday.”
    “What your mother know about baseball?” I tried leading him off the trail.
    “I taught her a little bit of stuff, but her friend knows more than me. She said they use to call you the Watcher.”
    I corrected him. “The Watch Dog.”
    “What’s that mean?”
    “Just a nickname. I used to take a long time before each pitch so people started calling me that.”
    “Dang, you was the pitcher! Jason Stevens pitches on our team. He’s hella raw. He can throw a fastball the
coach
can’t even hit.”
    “Yeah?”
    “Yep.” He paused for a moment. “I want to throw like that. You wanna teach me?”
    “I thought you was shortstop.”
    “I can do both.”
    “Is that right?”
    “Yep, so I figured you could show me some of your tricks.”
    “You want me to give away my superpowers?”
    Scottie laughed. “My mama’s friend said you use to watch them put the white lines on the field before the game.”
    I was shocked by this tidbit I’d forgotten. Once before a game I’d arrived early enough to find the groundskeeper putting the lines on the field. I sat in the dugout alone and watched him go about his job. He was an old cat, probably years past the retirement age, but he took his job seriously. He was slow and methodical, and I found I pitched better whenever he handled the field.
    “Your mama’s friend a Fed? Why she know so much about me?”
    “She went to school wit’ you.”
    “What’s her name?”
    “Patrice Hall.”
    “Uh, nasty Patrice?” Scottie’s head whipped around so fast I knew I’d made a