The following story takes place in the 1990s. There will be be moderate insensitive dialogue. These scenes are purely written for the character and NOT my own views. 

All locations and names are fictional. Any resemblance to any place and/or name is purely coincidental.

STREET HEARTS 

PROLOGUE

I remember my childhood as two things:

Fear of God and Saturday confessions.

My father was and still is a stubborn, unreasonable man. He was always obsessed with all of us appearing picture perfect. By us, I mean my two younger sisters, mom, and I. However, behind our closed doors we were more of a burnt picture left behind in an empty house. 

I thought I did a good job at that, being his only son out of three, his favoritism showed. That and I bared an strong resemblance to his looks of thick coal hair and earthy eyes combined with mom’s olive toned skin. In the end, I inherited his godawful attitude. I think a part of him took pride in that. Yeah, I know a sin for him - if he were to go by his own standards set for us kids.

I think it all changed when I was barely thirteen. An age when I was becoming a man.

I woke up, everything was normal. It being the last week before school starts, I wanted to get to squeeze in a game of ball. I lazily put together dark green baggy pants and a black tank top. I wrapped my favorite jacket around my waist and shouted some goodbyes, I made haste out the noisy house.

Like I said, everything was normal.

Until some new Irish kid appeared out of nowhere. A fourteen year old who could pull off sixteen easily. He was taller, a bit more built than the others. That day he wore denim jeans and a white-t shirt - ‘So God damn plain’ I’d thought.

My friend, Vargo, was at some end summer camp but I was content with just dribbling and shooting the hoops solo.

I was content until the familiar voices from West End came blaring by with that new boy. 

Before I go any further there are things you need to understand. 

First, Demond mostly was populated by Irish Settlers. By the 1890s, a flux of us Sicilian Italians immigrated there as well. Cultures shifted and before anyone knew it, East End was occupied by Italians and the Irish got West End. 

Any kid resembling one of the groups instantly was accepted into that group. You were fair skinned? You got yourself the West End friends. Darker? Well, you were with us Sicilians. By the late 1940s, two street groups took to some power on each end. By the time it was late 70s… well, each side has up and coming teenagers thinking they were hot 'gangster' shit. 

All they were though were movie screen wanna-be-mafiaso-bullies.

And that new kid instantly fell right into their fantasy land. He walked in the middle of the group. I scoffed inside as I tried to ignore the entourage. But as soon as I heard his voice, I made the mistake of glancing just a bit back at him. 

I didn't realize I was clenching the ball instead of dribbling or my eyes coyly fixated on him and him only as they made their way past me. Something in my chest felt off. I wanted to hold my breath as my heart beat wildly as if adrenaline violated my veins.

I must of looked so cringe, I find myself still embarrassed in my adult life knowing what was happening at that moment. 

And all those boys witnessed it. 

In the flash.

In broad daylight.

"What the fuck your problem Nicolosi?” One of the boys shouted. The main “boss” of their group. Chester Clarke. The worst of them all with his ‘rich boy’ attitude. 

I snapped out of it immediately knowing my eyes were glued on the boy’s body. In the midst of adrenaline, confusion, and embarrassment, I tried my hardest to find an excuse. 

"T-Trying to see if I'm seeing a mirage or you got another Paddy Mick to join the three stooges!" 

The new boy raises an eyebrow. He steps a bit forward, "What the hell kid?"

"Tch kid? Don't act like you're all grown up ‘cause you smokin’ ‘n drinkin’. We all been doing that shit since ten!" I tried faking a laugh. This angered the new boy. 

He marched right up to me. 

At the moment I could only think how tall he was and how...handsome-

I think my mind played tricks on me but I think he stared as well while glancing over me. To this day he still won't tell me, or admit what was going through his head.

One thing I was sure of is that it was hard for him to look away. I was the same. 

Still in my mucked up state, I wanted to break the tension and get back home. 

So… what did I do?

I took my damn water bottle and I splashed him over the face. 

"Cool down man!" The water trickled down his light skin and brown hair. His hazel eyes shot wide at the unexpected move. The strands of his hair now stuck to his face.

He made an audible gasp. 

As soon as I realized what I did, you bet your ass I ran. 

I came back with bruises and a busted lip. Luckily, I was able to grab my ball back at the court. My mom was worried sick, demanding who done it. My father lectured me about a few sins I've committed. He wanted me to be a better role model for my sisters. ‘Yak…yak… be good…yak…yak’ was all I precisely remembered.

All of it flew over my head. I nodded robotically, apologized, showered, and helped with mom’s dinner. I forced myself to eat that night and when I was able to lie down, I was relieved to be alone with my thoughts.

However….

The new boy’s image didn't leave my head. By the next morning when I glanced down at my lap, I realized my normal life was forever gone-

-and a new, confusing one was birthed.