Play the Game


 
 
 Dedication
 For my grandparents, Margie and Clauzell McCombs and Ancella Allen, and my parents, Hazel and Charles Allen. Thanks for the most amazing family ever.
 
 Contents
 
 Cover
 Title Page
 Dedication
 The Girl and the Game
 You Gonna Be Next?
 In Other Worlds
 Double Dad Madness
 The Burner
 Boardwalk Karaoke
 That Night in SirBugUs’s Castle
 Half-Truths, Secrets, and Lies
 Jahvaris
 The Chase
 On the Stoop
 Cheesy Revenge
 Solid Evidence
 Hot Apple
 Apology Weed
 Gotta Go
 Brienne
 Ripples
 Yo! Sweetums!
 The Devil’s Daughter
 Diamond Roller Coaster
 The Mom Card
 Side Hustle
 The Spot
 In the Blue Room
 Sweet Gordy
 Means
 What Happened
 Countdown
 Finally
 Be the Gamer and the Game
 JersiGame
 Jack and June
 The Game Maker
 Fisk
 Who Makes the Call?
 Don’t Tell Ronnah
 Red Norma
 Shortcake Shrink
 How It Went Down
 The Plan
 Dear Ed
 Acknowledgments
 About the Author
 Books by Charlene Allen
 Back Ad
 Copyright
 About the Publisher
 
 Nydailytimes.com
 
 LIGHTNING STRIKES TWICE IN BROOKLYN PARKING LOT
 Phillip Singer, the Brooklyn civilian who killed Black teenager Ed Hennessey last year, was found dead early this morning. Singer’s body was found in the parking lot of Yard restaurant, the same Brooklyn location where he shot Hennessey. Investigators stated that Singer died of head trauma inflicted by a blunt instrument.
 Singer, who was white, was not prosecuted for killing Hennessey, a decision that caused an uproar from the Black community and other activists. Black leaders are now demanding an independent investigation into Singer’s death, raising concerns that the local police will unduly target members of the Black community as suspects. The NYPD has issued a statement that the investigation will be thorough, and justice will be served.
 
 
 The Girl and the Game
 “I got a plan,” Jack says, falling in step beside me as I come up out of the subway. “For tonight. You understand what’s going down tonight, right?” He drops a lanky arm across my shoulder. Classic. Ambushes me at the subway, and now I’m supposed to ask what’s going on, so he can go off on one of his Jack-rants. I shove his arm off me. The sidewalk’s crowded with people sorting through racks that’ve been pulled outside stores now it’s April and the weather’s decent. Any other time, I’d be pumped, going to work on a nice day like this. The way it is, I’m jumpy as hell about walking into Yard for the first time since Singer got killed. And I don’t need Jack making it worse.
 “What do you know, Jackson?” I ask, sidestepping a dog walker who’s got half a dozen yappy dogs on too-long leashes. “Or think you know?”
 “More than you, buddy,” he says, flashing a grin at a bunch of girls coming out of a diner. He’s turned up, got himself in a state. “Listen. The cops told Ms. Fox she shouldn’t reopen the restaurant yet. Some shit about an active police investigation, which means they’re gonna be up in our business when we reopen tonight. Well, I say whatever they want, we don’t do it. Teach them to settle the hell down.”
 “Right,” I say. Roll my eyes at the thought of Jack telling somebody else to settle down. “Ms. Fox knows what she’s doing,” I say. Which is true. Ms. Fox’s been running her restaurant forever without help from him.
 We turn a corner. There’re no stores here, less people. Jack slows down ’cause he gets his juice from an audience. Has since we were kids. Jack, the outgoing one. Ed, the goofy geek. And me, the guy in the middle. With good sense. The thing is, though, now I’m seeing Jack, there’s something I want to tell him. So I try to shake off being irritated. But, of course, Jack doesn’t stop.
 “Just roll with it, all right?” he says. “If the cops start asking questions, we tell ’em we already gave our statements, we don’t have anything else to say.”
 When I don’t answer, he shoots me a side-eye, accusing, ugly. “Still going with Easy VZ, huh? Still can’t get up off your ass and do what people ask you?”
 Just like that, four months of irritation walks between us. Because the whole time since Ed died, Jack’s been dogging me to be like him and go at the cops, join the protests, make noise in the streets to get Singer up on charges for what he did to Ed. I don’t say what’s obvious, that you can’t bring a dead guy up on charges, so give it a rest. I don’t need another Jack-rant about how it’s the principle of the thing. What I do is, quit walking. “Know what?” I say. “Go on ahead. I gotta make a call.”
 “No problem.” He strides off down the block.
 It’s not like I don’t get it. Not rocket science, why Jack wants to take on the cops. But he should’ve believed me when I told him I couldn’t go out there and yell about Ed. In December, when it first happened, it was hard even getting that it was real. Some random white man actually killed Ed. I stayed in my room all day, stuck as fuck, doom scrolling online and especially in my head. But Jack acted like I was just blowing him off—and Ed, too.
 Stepping back into the closest doorway, I watch his back, thinking of what happened this morning, before I left home. The way Jack’s been acting, he mighta given me shit, anyhow, if I’d told him. Even though I didn’t ask for what happened. Was just trying to get out of the house on time when Ed’s ma showed up at the door, with her little intense self. And the next thing I knew, she was shoving Ed’s red laptop at me, telling me she had to give his stuff away since the cops were back in their business, now Singer’d got killed.
 “Have it,” she said. “You knew this part of him