Fake It Till You Ace It

The Red Line train lurched violently to the left. Iverson Sharp slammed his shoulder against the metal door to keep his balance. The air inside the subway car was thick. It smelled like stale sweat, old urine, and the metallic dust of grinding brakes. He leaned his head back against the glass, his eyes scanning the peeling advertisements on the walls. He looked down at his feet. He was wearing a pair of brand-new, limited-edition Jordans. The pristine white leather glowed under the flickering fluorescent lights. They were a gift from his mother's new husband. They were expensive. They were clean. They did not belong here. Iverson felt a familiar tightness in his chest. A physical rejection of the wealth he was forced to wear. He lifted his right foot and brought the sole down hard on the toe box of his left shoe. He twisted his heel, grinding the street dirt deep into the white leather until a dark, ugly scuff mark ruined the shoe completely. His chest loosened. He could breathe again. His iPhone vibrated against his thigh. The sudden buzz made his muscles twitch. He pulled it out of his hoodie pocket. The screen flashed with a name: Brenda. He hit the green button and pressed the phone to his ear. Before he could speak, a harsh, wet cough blasted through the speaker. It was a deep, rattling sound that made Iverson's stomach drop. "Did you buy another pack of Marlboros?" Iverson asked. His voice was flat, but his grip on the phone tightened until his knuckles turned white. "No," Brenda wheezed. Her voice was raspy, defensive. "I just moved two boxes of winter coats from the back room. The dust got in my throat. I'm fine, Ivy." The train hit a sharp curve. The metal wheels screamed against the rusted tracks, a deafening screech that vibrated up through the soles of Iverson's ruined shoes. He let go of the door and grabbed the overhead bar with one hand to steady himself. His elbow bumped hard into the shoulder of a white commuter in a tailored suit. The man stumbled, his face twisting in disgust. He brushed off his suit jacket like Iverson had infected him. "Watch it, you little punk," the man muttered. Iverson slowly turned his head. He didn't say a word. He just dropped his chin slightly and locked eyes with the man. Iverson's gaze was dead. It was the kind of cold, hollow stare born in the darkest alleys of the Rust Belt. A look that promised immediate, unhinged violence. The commuter's breath hitched. The color drained from his face. He swallowed hard, broke eye contact, and practically sprinted to the opposite end of the train car. "Ivy?" Brenda's voice crackled through the phone. "Are you getting into trouble out there? I swear to God..." Iverson blinked, instantly dropping the heavy glare. He let out a soft, lazy breath. "No trouble, B. Train just took a bad turn." In the background of Brenda's audio, a sharp sound cut through the static. It was the wail of a police siren, followed by the muffled shouts of heavy, street-level slang. The muscles in Iverson's jaw locked. "What's going on outside the shop?" Brenda let out a long, exhausted sigh. "It's nothing. The neighborhood is just getting worse. Rocco and his boys have been circling the block all morning. Shaking down the corner stores for protection money." At the sound of Rocco's name, the blood in Iverson's veins turned to ice water. His fingers dug into the plastic of the overhead handle so hard the tendons in his forearm popped. He forced his voice to stay light. "Just lock the front door, okay? Keep it locked until I get there." "I can't afford to lock the door, Ivy," Brenda said, her voice cracking with fatigue. "The landlord just raised the rent again. Ten percent. I don't know how I'm going to make it this month." Iverson's heart hammered against his ribs. "I have my allowance. I can cover the difference. Just let me transfer it to you." "No." Brenda's tone turned sharp. Absolute. "I told you, Iverson. I am not taking a single dime of the O'Neal family's money. Never." The words felt like a physical needle sliding under his ribs. He reached up with his free hand and yanked at the collar of his hoodie. The fabric felt like it was choking him. He was torn between the world he was forced to live in and the only person who actually cared about him. The automated female voice of the train's intercom crackled to life. "Next stop, Blackwater District." The overhead lights flickered and died for a full three seconds as the train plunged into the darker tunnels. "I'm almost there," Iverson said to the dark window. "Hurry up, you brat," Brenda laughed softly. The line went dead. The screen went black, reflecting Iverson's sharp, cold features. He shoved the phone back into his pocket. The lazy teenager vanished. His eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. The train slowed, the rusted brakes groaning as it pulled into the station. The platform outside was covered in crushed beer cans and fast-food wrappers. The doors slid open. A wave of heat hit him in the face. It smelled like exhaust fumes and rotting garbage. Three guys in oversized jackets were loitering by the turnstiles. They turned their heads, their eyes scanning the exiting passengers like wolves looking for a limp. Iverson reached up and pulled his gray hoodie over his head, casting a dark shadow over the top half of his face. He shoved both hands deep into his pockets. He stepped off the train, his ruined Jordans hitting the concrete, and walked straight into the chaos.