The Fight Read Online Free PDF Page B

“rough, tough, and dirty” bus. I have to say it ain’t that bad now. It’s still not clean like the Torrance or Gardena buses I transfer to when I go to school, but they could be a lot worse.
    I usually get to school about 7:45 A.M. , ten minutes before the warning bell rings. This gives me just enough time to get to my locker, catch my girls before class, and get the necessary info for the day like which couples broke up, who got caught doing what, any dirt on the faculty. You know, important stuff that keeps me in the loop.
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    6:30 A.M .
    The first time I took the bus from Compton to the South Bay was the longest damn bus ride ever. It was September and scorching hot, just like this morning.
    As I walk down the block toward Alondra to catch my first bus, I’m already sweating from the morning sun. Mr. Gatlin is outside trimming his already immaculate lawn. Every year he gives his house a fresh coat of sparkly green paint with silver trim to match the Buick in his driveway. He used to be a marine, so he always wears his uniform. I’ve never seen him wear anything else.
    I don’t speak to Mr. Gatlin. He’s the only neighbor who scares me. I’ll never forget when I was about six or seven years old and he called the police on me because I accidentally walked on his grass. Well, it was an accident the first time. The second and third time was just to make him mad. Luckily though, he lives on the other side of the street, and I can avoid passing directly by him.
    I have to catch the 6:35 bus to connect to the 7:15 in Gardena, which will get me to South Bay High at 7:45. Here we go again. Another bus ride. Another year of high school at South Bay High. Cute clothes, hatin’ girls. Cute boys, more hatin’ girls. But my cornrows are in full effect, no matter what Bryan says. He really can’t talk, still rocking the Jeri Curl, even though I don’t think they sell the juice for it anymore.
    I reach for my cell phone, barely remembering to text message Nellie about bringing my sweater to school with her. Since her mom takes her to school, she doesn’t have to take the bus.
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    7:45 A.M .
    By the time I get to Redondo Beach, it’s foggy and about 10 degrees cooler than it is in Compton. It’s amazing how in the various parts of Los Angeles County the weather can be so drastically different. That’s why I usually carry a sweater and scarf in my bag.
    As soon as I exit the bus, the fresh salty smell of the ocean hits me in a breeze. The bus lets me off at the top of a hill, which is directly across from the main part of the campus. There’s no crosswalk between the bus stop and the campus, so I’m forced to take the long way around.
    It’s a good ten-minute walk down the hill and back up again. I do this every day, twice a day. It keeps my legs in shape. The walk also gives me a little time to daydream about living in houses like the ones lining the street across from my school.
    This neighborhood is filled with big, beautiful modern homes with small yards. The houses vary in color, but all look pretty much the same: two stories, three-car garages, and immaculately manicured lawns with roses or some other kind of fancy flowers lining the property. The whole neighborhood looks like the projects for rich folks. All the houses on my block except for one are single-story homes. The Andersons started building a second story onto their house years ago, but never quite finished.
    The cars parked in the driveways in the South Bay are either Range Rovers, Volvos, or Mercedes Benzs. The kids that live here are balling out of control and don’t even know it. Most of the cars also have ski racks and boat hooks on the back. These are the folks who have weekday cars and weekend cars.
    As I look at these homes, I wonder about how the families living in them operate. I’m sure they all have their fair share of skeletons. It may be a different neighborhood, but