Losing Hope by Leslie J. Sherrod Page B

but your little prince ain’t perfect. All I know is you better come round here right now and get him. Punching and kicking my son? Oh no. I’m not having this.”
    The line went dead.
    I snatched my headset off and threw it onto the passenger seat.
    â€œWhat is going on now?” I made a U-turn to head back toward I-83. Yvette lived in Park Heights, near the Pimlico racetrack—the lower end of Park Heights, to be exact. The part the tourists never see.
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    I pulled onto Yvette’s street at about a quarter to four, suddenly aware that I had not eaten all day. The permeating scent of jerk chicken coming from a corner store a few blocks away did not help my cause. My stomach growled as I got out of my car and stepped over empty sandwich wrappers, soda bottles, and other free-floating trash that littered the sidewalks like flower petals down a bride’s aisle.
    My sister lived in the sole occupied house in a row of abandoned homes with her five children and one of their fathers. Tim, Thomas, T-Man? I forgot his name. He and I really did not get along. She lived here and like this not because she had to, but because she wanted to make a statement. She’d been saying since she was fifteen that she would never be the type of woman our mother wanted and groomed us both to be, and on that point she had succeeded. Yvette and I were polar opposites of the same shoelace—she was the chewed-up, raggedy end, and I the end that had been repaired with transparent tape.
    For better or worse, we were tied together.
    â€œIt’s about time you got here!” Yvette was standing on the porch. Two years my junior, she looked twice my age. I would never say that out loud. She’d had a rough go of it.
    Mostly by her own choosing.
    I bounded up to where she stood, careful not to trip on the crumbling cement steps. She stood with one hand on her wide hip. Her hair, some of which was hers, all of which was dyed bright blond, fell out of a hurried ponytail at the crown of her head.
    â€œWhere’s Roman?” I demanded, not recognizing my own voice for the fear and anger that were mixed in it.
    â€œThe heck if I know,” Yvette snarled. “I fussed him out after what he did to Skee-Gee, and he stormed out of here ’bout fifteen minutes ago. When you can’t take the heat, you gotta get out the kitchen.” She swatted at a fly and crossed her arms.
    I looked up and down the desolate street and saw no sign of my son. My heart started beating a little faster. Roman was not a child of the streets. God, keep my baby safe till I find him!
    â€œWhat did he do to Skee-Gee?” I had to stay calm. My sister was riled up enough, and I needed more details before she really let loose.
    â€œSylvester Tyese Grantley the third, come here!” Yvette did not bother to turn her head or move as she yelled for her son. After a few seconds, my fifteen-year-old nephew plodded out the front door, the screen door slamming shut behind him. He had a black eye, a bloodied nose, and a half-inch scrape above one of his eyebrows.
    Despite all that, he had his usual idiotic half grin on his face. “Hi, Aunt See.” He leaned against a porch post as he greeted me with his personal nickname for me. I hated when he called me that, and he knew it.
    â€œWhat happened? Where’s Roman? He didn’t go to school today? What’s going on?” I had too many questions to stick to only one. Skee-Gee’s smile only widened.
    â€œRoman called me last night, talking ’bout he had to show me something. Talking ’bout some dumb ring his dad gave him from Africa. I told him it wasn’t real, and so we were going to meet up today ’cause he was gonna show me it. That’s all.”
    The ring! Why is Roman walking around with that?
    â€œThat’s all?” I looked from him to Yvette.
    â€œTell her the rest, Sylvester.” Yvette glared at me.
    â€œWell, he came