Part One • Street Games

How did it up like this? 

Ciro hugs the basketball to his pounding chest.The boy in front pierces him with those sky hazel eyes as the night’s silence suffocates them both.

The taller boy advances, closing the distance. His lips quiver just a bit as if trying to find words.

"Ci..." 

Ciro drops the ball. It bounces and rolls away from him.

Don't say my name like that.

He feels a burning sensation in his dark eyes. He wipes his face to find involuntary tears. His flushed face stare in horror at the Irish boy.

Again, the older boy whispers out loud. "Ci." This time with more certainty.

Attempting to reach out, the other boy smacks his arm away and quickly turns. He begins yelling at the other - almost screaming with subtle hints of fear. 

If this gets out my life will get ruined, Ciro thought.

I’ll be ostracized.

Humiliated.

Left alone.

Before he can object, speak, breathe, he was smothered by the other boy’s lips. The boy who's been his number one enemy from the day he waltzed in the city of Demond.

Demond, New City

1990

6 months earlier.

"You fuckin' traveled Vargo!" Ciro spat to the ground. "That shit ain't allowed, you know it." He flapped his loose tank top, attempting to air out his body. The summer afternoon was hitting hard. 

"Whining ain't a good look, Ci." Simon Vargo, his childhood friend, grinned back.

"Cheating ain’t either." He took a swig of warm bottled water. He fastened his jacket around his waist.

"Aw c'mon! Il tuo turno! “

"Eh, va bene, qualunque cosa….”

Ciro catches the basketball. As soon as the first dribble hit, the annoying sound of screeching wheels violated his ears. 

"Comin’ through Sicily!" 

Ciro scoffed as the pale boy on the bike zoomed by. 

"CAZZO!" Ciro grabbed his water bottle and aimed for the boy’s head.

SMACK!

"Stay on your side Paddy!"

The taller boy slammed on the brakes. He ran his hand over the back of his head. "Fuck man, I warned you!"

"Don’t matter, this is our court." He extended his arms in exaggeration. "West end is right back back there Saint Pat."

He playfully grinned. "You sure got extra umpth in you today! Did you miss your afternoon nap? Hm?"

Ciro flushed red before hitting back. "You got extra balls to be comin’ over here, did your dad not come home again?" 

"You fuckin’ itching for a fight?" He stomped over, towering Ciro by a foot. "Fuckin’ say that shit again, Sicily boy.”

Vargo pushed his arm in between them. "Yo Van just go, kay? What you expect when you come to East fucking up our game?"

Van huffed but decided to back off. He situated back onto his bike. "Have fun playing with your balls, ass-munchers!"

You fucker, Ciro curses in his head.

As he biked away, Ciro yells after the pale boy. "Screw you Paddy!"!

 Vargo nudged Ci’s shoulder gently. "Man just ignore him. Cmon, we only got till the lights turn on out here dude.”

Ciro grunted irritably as he watched his enemy disappear down the corroded street.

One hour passed by,

Ciro walked casually down 97th. Family houses lined along the residential street. Kids played around before dinner was called out as fathers gathered to converse about mundane things.

The Nicolosi family resided in East End of Demond, nicknamed Little Italy for the large Sicilian Italian immigrants who resided in the late 1890s. Ciro along with all of Sicilian children were 3rd generation. 

He unlocked the front door. 

As soon as that door opened, he could hear his mom from the kitchen. "Ci! Don't track dirt again!" 

"Yeah Ma!" He locked the door behind him, promptly slipping his sneakers off in the mudroom. His room was towards the front of the house, residing partially underneath the stairs making his room’s ceiling having a downward slope. He throws the ball in it.

"Ci! Wash your hands and help!"

The robustious laughter of his younger siblings roar from the back of the house. 

He walked into the kitchen, his mother was stirring a pot while checking the oven. She took a double take at her son. 

"Look at you!" Anger subtle in her voice "forget washing your hands, take a shower real quick, then set the table. Good thing I saw you before your father."

He glanced around, "Where is dad by the way?" 

He notices his mom briefly pausing before quickly returning. This time stirring more, almost aggressively. "He's helping Father Walshe at Church."

He peaks at the clock. 7:30pm. 

"This...late?" 

Her stirring quickened. "...you know the Church is hosting their Summer event. It gets busy setting up, you know this Ciro. Maybe if you volunteered your time you could help. Instead you're getting dirty out there and doing nothing!" Her stirring suddenly stops. Perhaps she realized she was beginning to yell again.

It's something he's became accustomed to, her sudden outbursts. 

"Um yeah...um I’ll get cleaned up real quick and help...don't worry I'll help ya mom." 

"...." her silence is all that was returned.

The metal soup handle clinks around the pot. His mom remained silent, almost in her own world now. 

With a deep sigh, he pecked the side of her head before backtracking to the stairs, creaking up to the second floor. 

He shook off the weird feeling as he twisted the tub’s faucet. He stripped himself of his clothes and submerges under the water. The warm stream doesn’t calm his racing thoughts.

...

Van clapped his hand quickly with an older male. He was scrawny, pulled back brown hair.

"You know the drill, walk with me man." The other male said.

"Yeah yeah, two blocks, switch, two blocks, separate. You know you're always so paranoid Jo?"  Van chuckled.

Jo was the neighborhood ‘Jack of all Trades’ as they called him. Not for different work one was able to do as it would normally be defined as, but rather what he can trade for money. He was the man who you go to get your stuff, any stuff, no questions asked. No judgement placed. Well, some things he did refuse to get himself involved with…

They casually strolled. Jo lit up a cigarette. "You lucky I even extend my business to you considering your dad bein’ a Narc Squealer." 

"Uncle, man, ain’t my dad.” 

They passed the first block. 

"So watcha wantin’?"

"Just a dime. Rolled."

"You know that gonna cost-"

"Yeah two more, I know."

"Three for cuttin’ me off." 

They pass the second block. Van casually slipped his hand in his pocket, pulling a crumbled five, a one and two dollar bill. "You know I'm gonna go broke by this rate?"

"Sell a kidney or something’" Jo slipped a rolled joint in a clear plastic sandwich bag. "I got expenses."

"I don't think street girls count tho’?" 

They trade off.  

"Gotta distress. Once your little ass grows up, you'll know."

"Shiiiiit, you're only nineteen!"

"Still got three years on you."

Jo laid his elbow on his shoulder. "For extra 5, I'll tell ya my secrets!"

He can't help but laugh. "I get plenty on my own. See you later man."

Van disappeared down the quiet street, bike in hand. 

The humid night air blew past as he navigated through the city's decaying roads. He knew each pothole, crack by heart -swerving to avoid any unwelcoming crashes.

Turning on SW Alder and 107th, he brakes on his bike, swooshing off the seat. He tracked to a metal stairwell of a familiar abandoned warehouse. No other souls around.

Perfect.

He lit up his joint. 

Jo just had to confuse my uncle with my dad again....

Filling his lungs, he stared up at the ending summer day through the broken windows.

Not just yet wanting to go home.

Ciro gathered up the plates as his mother sat, staring at the wall smoking a cigarette. He looked at the clock. It's already 9pm...dad’s still not home.

"I’ll help get the girls’ in bed." 

She nonchalantly bobbled her head.

He left his mom without uttering another word. He helped his younger sisters complete bedtime routine and settle for bed. Finally done, he retreated to his downstairs bedroom. He peaked in the dinning room and saw that his mom most likely resided back into her room.

Ciro plopped onto his bed, too tired to change. He turned on his radio and made sure it was loud enough for him to hear but not too low as well.

After such a long day, his eyelids felt heavy. Sleep soon came to him.

CRASH!!!

A loud noise awoken him. It was a broken porcelain plate. 

Ciro shot up and quietly opened his door to peer out. He saw his mom yelling at his dad, his dad’s untouched dinner plate on the floor. 

They were yelling. 

Again? Ugh!

He softly clacked the door shut and slipped his jacket on - grabbing his basketball. Opening the window, he climbed out. 

Why do they always fight?

Why can't dad just get home on fucking time for mom's God damn dinner!?

Ciro halted, apologizing for using God's name in vein. Ugh... he closed his bedroom window and walked down 97th. Knowing the police patrolled his usual court heavily, he decided to cut down one of the city's parks. There was a court on on the borderline of West and East that lied unattended and overgrown. 

He immediately whipped out a cigarette and lit it. He bounced the ball a couple times before aggressively lying down hoops.

After a few minutes, sweat poured down his face. He wrapped his jacket around his waist before hastily shooting more... soon his anger overtook his skill and he began missing. 

"Argth! Fuck!' 

Unbeknownst to him, a bike skirted close by.

A familiar voice echoed from the bushes.

"What're you doing?"