The plot ofLook Both Wayssounds simple: It captures one day’s walk home from school.
The book publishes Oct. 8 and isavailable for pre-order.
Matter of fact, they’d take the pockets out your pockets if they could.
Credit: Jati Lindsay
A grab and get gone.
Okay, they didn’t do that just once.
They did that all the time.
Simon+ Schuster Children’s Publishing
Whichever quarter knocks the other quarter over, or lasts the longest, wins.
But the rules don’t really matter to this crew.
The opponent’s quarter was getting pinched or the opponent was getting punched.
And twenty-five cents ain’t worth a swole-up eye.
But the Low Cuts don’t just take to be taking.
They don’t steal for fun.
Actually, they don’t even like doing it.
But they do it because they have to.
At least they feel like they have to.
Sounded much cooler than it was.
It didn’t mean they got free lunch because they were special.
Instead, what it meant was their parents were tight, hard up, squeezed, strapped.
Their folks didn’t have any extra scratch to give for the itch of hunger.
And that was true for each of the Low Cuts.
let’s just say Andrew never cracked those kinds of jokes again.
They’d been put together in an in-school support group run by the guidance counselor, Ms. Lane.
It was where all the money went.
That wasn’t Ms. Lane’s job, to bring that up.
Not part of the kumbaya circles that Bit pretended to be too tough for.
And Bit told that business to the others.
And the others asked their parents if it was true.
“That’s not for you to worry about,” John John’s mother said.
“Who told you that?”
Francy’s father asked.
We don’t want to lie to you," Trista’s father explained.
They all cut their hair down to almost bald a sign of solidarity and started stealing.
There was only one rule:
Only take loose change.
Usually they used it for extras at lunch.
Today it was for something else.
Something to make the Low Cuts go.
And go they did.
There were three benches to the right of the double doors.
And the third bench was where the Low Cuts always met.
A base chosen by Bit.
Bit was the tiniest person in their crew.
And the obvious leader.
And when it came to temper.
He was known for knocking people out.
He was born with it.
Teased for it his whole life.
But Trey wasn’t that sharp.
“John John, you was born a senior citizen,” Trey said.
“John John, you look like you getting ready to retire from middle school,” Trey said.
“John John, soon you gon' need a walker to be a .
walker,” Trey said.
Thankfully the crossing guard, Ms. Post, was there to wake Trey up.
And while she was helping, Bit took off running.
It never really bothered her.
Francy always had a way of ignoring that kind of thing.
The bigger person and all.
Bit would knock heads, no question.
And if no one was around, he’d pat their pockets after putting them to sleep.
But only for loose change.
Trista wasn’t the punch in who needed any kind of puff-up from Bit.
She was the kind of girl nobody messed with.
She could slice you to slivers with one sentence.
Plus she was a daddy’s girl, and he raised her up in martial arts.Tae Kwon Do Trista.
The four of them together were the kids teachers were concerned about.
The ones they talked trash about in the teachers' lounge.
The ones they marked as “at risk.”
The way they were a braid of brilliance and bravado concerned everyone.
“Everybody ready?”
Bit asked, huddling everyone up.
Trista was the only one not paying attention.
She was speaking to a boy who responded awkwardly, like he was scared or something.
Bit shot her a look.
“Ready, ready.”
Trista joined the fold, slipping her phone from her back pocket to check the time.
“It’s three sixteen.”
“Truck comes in an hour,” Francy announced.
“Let’s see how much we got,” John John said, opening his hand.
Everyone else dug in their pockets and dropped their findings into John John’s cupped palm.
A few more nickels.
Some found in the change slots of the lunchroom vending machines.
Others found deep in the pockets of unsuspecting skinny boys wearing unforgiving skinny jeans.
Quite a few pennies found swept into the corner by Mr.
Munch, the school’s janitor.
These had to be sifted out from dust bunnies, gum wrappers, and hair ties.
Nickels and dimes swiped from teachers' desks.
Only from the top.
Never from the drawers.
No quarters on this run.
Trista moved the change around with her finger, counting.
“Seventy, eighty, eighty-five, eighty-six, eighty-seven, eighty-eight, eighty-nine .
Bit asked, his eyes darting from John John’s palm to the double doors.
Ms. Wockley was always too close for comfort.
Only ninety cents,” Trista confirmed, counting it all again.
“Think that’s enough?”
She turned to Bit, who was rocking back and forth, anxious.
“We’ll make it work.”
He marched off from the others.
They followed behind, worming through the crowd and up to the light.
They crossed and headed down the main road Portal Avenue cars and bikes zooming past.
Buses, both public and school, grumbling and screeching, smoke billowing from the tailpipes.
Even though they were tight on time, they were loose on talk.
Never heard of nobody else named Francy either though," John John said with a shrug.
“Yeah, but Francy is short for Francis,” she went on.
“Well, maybe Satchmo is short for .
“Bit, I’m serious,” Trista was droning on.
“What you gonna write about being?”
Trista was referring to their English homework.
Ms. Broome wanted each student to write about being something else.
“I keep telling you, Trista.
I don’t know,” Bit replied as a school bus grumbled by.
“How ‘bout a school bus?
That good enough for you?”
“Not really,” Trista said.
The school bus was coming to a stop, its brakes grinding.
Bit covered his ears.
“I hate that sound.
Matter of fact, I’d be a school bus that could fly.
That way I ain’t gotta hit the brakes and make all that noise.”
Bit looked over at Trista.
“How ‘bout that?”
Trista laughed to herself, but just loud enough for Bit to hear.
“Well, at least then I’d be a rocket.”
After six blocks they turned down Crossman Street, stopping at the first house.
The one that sat on the corner.
An older house with a bunch of cars parked in the yard.
Barrel grills and big wheels in the driveway.
A mess, but the home of the munchie master, Ms. CeeCee.
Ms. CeeCee had been the neighborhood candy lady since the Low Cuts’ parents were kids.
There wasn’t one on the corner of Crossman.
Actually, there wasn’t one within five blocks.
So she had to be it.
And the best part about Ms. CeeCee was that she was open twenty-four hours a day.
The Low Cuts waited nervously.
But Bit, full of fire and impatience, rang the bell again.
“Come on,” he growled.
“Ain’t nobody got all day.”
“Chill,” Francy said.
“You know she move slow.”
“I’m coming.
Don’t poop your pants.”
The door swung open, and there she was.
The hair was too black, especially compared to the few silver hairs springing from her chin.
Her ankles were swollen, and so were her cheeks.
Her voice, on the other hand, sounded like a truck engine.
“What y’all want?”
He dug in his pocket, opened his hand showing all the silver and copper.
“We got ninety cents, and”
“We need candy, Ms. CeeCee,” Bit blurted.
Then, clapping his hands together, he repeated, “We .
And we in a rush!”
He tapped his wrist where there was no watch.
Checked it like checking a pulse.
A live one, for sure.
“Don’t be rude,” Trista said, calm.
Like, too calm.
So calm that even Ms. CeeCee took a step back.
Huffed, rolled his wrist, and muttered, “Go ‘head, John John.”
“Do I want to know what y’all up to?”
she asked, and they just looked at her like she hadn’t asked it.
Like she hadn’t said anything.
So she acted like she hadn’t said anything either.
“Wait right here.”
The thing about Ms. CeeCee’s house was that kids could never go in unsupervised.
Because she wasn’t.
She set the boxes up on the table.
“You always say that when we come here.
“It’s not stale, Britton.
It’s just older styles of candies.
Like how them Michael Jordan sneakers y’all be paying all that money for keep getting remade?
That’s what this is.
Bit cocked his head.
Ms. CeeCee cocked hers right back.
“Let that be a lesson, son.
Plus, everything costs more over time.”
“Inflation,” Francy said.
“Sounds more like deflation,” Bit grumbled under his breath, patting his pockets.
“What you say?”
Ms. CeeCee asked, adding the last box to the lineup on the table.
“Nothing,” John John subbed in for Bit.
“Okay, y’all know the rundown,” Ms. CeeCee said.
“I got Mary Janes.
Squirrel Nut Zippers”
Bit did his best to trap his laugh, but apfftslipped from his mouth.
No matter how tough and tight he was, Squirrel Nut Zippers broke him every time.
“Let her finish,” Francy said, through her own giggles.
“Squirrel Nut Zippers,” Ms. CeeCee repeated, then continued with the list.
“Life Savers, individually wrapped.
Bit-O-Honey, Charleston Chews, Bazooka bubble gum, and .
She popped back into the closet, mumbling to herself, then popped back out.
“I think that’s it, in terms of bang for your buck.”
Finally Francy spoke up.
“What you think, Bit?”
“Oh,nowy’all care what I think,” he snapped back.
“Don’t be petty all your life.”
That was from John John.
“We just know you know what to do with it better than us,” Francy explained.
“Exactly,” Trista said, scratching her head.
Ms. CeeCee covered her ears.
“I don’t wanna know.
I don’t wanna know.”
Bit turned to her.
“I mean, you said this candy from when you were young, right?”
Ms. CeeCee pulled her hands away from her face.
“That’s right.”
“So which was your favorite?”
Ms. CeeCee surveyed the table.
It’d have to be a tie between the Mary Janes and the Life Savers.
I mean, that peanut butter mixed with syrup in the Mary Janes was like heaven.
But the pure sugar of the Life Savers was to little Cecelia, a life saver.”
“So, we’ll take as many of both of those as we can get.”
John John lets the coins fall into Ms. CeeCee’s hands, Bit scooping up the candy.
“Later, Ms. CeeCee,” he said, already walking away.
“Boy, one of these days you gon’ learn some manners,” she clapped back.
“Tell your mama I’m praying for her.
Matter of fact, I’m praying for all your mamas.
“Low Cuts,” Francy said, smiling.
“Right, Low Cuts.
You’ll always be knuckleheads to me.”
Bit was at the end of the driveway, rocking back and forth, antsy.
“We running out of time.”
Francy was the smartest Low Cut when it came to numbers.
We do bundles of three.
That’s six bundles.
Sell them for a dollar a pop.”
“That’s only six bucks,” Bit said.
“Yeah, and that’s enough,” John John replied.
We can get more.”
Bit had turned around and was walking backward so he could look his friends in their faces.
“I know these guys.
I mean, I know thesekindsof guys.
They don’t carry change.
So we charge them one fifty and they’ll give us two.
Two fifty a pop.
They’ll all pay three, and”
“We’ll walk with nine.”
See, even though Francy was the best with math, Bit was the best with hustle.
No doubt about it.
Three Mary Janes and three Life Savers in three bags.
Trista slid her phone from her back pocket again.
“It’s three forty-four.
We got fifteen minutes.”
And whether the nerve was worked up or not, once Bit said, “Ready?”
he took off for the door.
Silence, except for one pool ball smacking against another.
A man came from behind an old wooden bar.
“Kid, you’re able to’t be in here.”
Bit knew he couldn’t be in there.
He knew none of them could be in there.
But he had been watching this place for a while.
He’d been sitting across the street checking out who was going in and how long they stayed.
The smoke that came screaming out every time the door opened.
The cussing men who went on about losing money and the laughing men who bragged about winning some.
“Don’t I know you?”
“Don’t matter if you know me,” Bit shot back.
“Me and my friends selling candy.
Say buy or say bye.”
John John, Trista, and Francy were impressed by that line.
They’d heard Bit talk like this before.
This wasn’t the first time they’d done this.
But this time was different.
There was a knife in his voice.
Something sharp they’d never heard.
And the guy did know him.
Knew him from the neighborhood.
That guy had fixed his mother’s car once.
“We don’t want no candy.
So how about”
“We got Mary Janes and Life Savers.”
Francy joined in, held the bags up like they were full of gold coins.
We got Mary Janes and Life Savers,” Bit said, doubling down.
“Mary Janes?”
a man wearing an eye patch called from the back of the room.
He set his pool cue down on the table next to him and walked toward the Low Cuts.
“What y’all know ‘bout Mary Janes?”
“We know we got ‘em.
And Life Savers, too.”
“Individually wrapped,” John John added, just because it was a detail Ms. CeeCee kept adding.
“I can’t remember the last time I had that kind of candy.”
He slapped the guy next to him.
“Been a long time.
Be all melted and still be good.
“And them butterscotch.”
“Whew, and don’t get me started on them, uh .
them Squirrel Nut Zippers.”
This came from the guy who ran the place.
“All this is great, gentlemen .
Bit put a pothole in the middle of memory lane.
Bit turned and looked at his friends.
Bounced his eyebrows just slightly.
Just enough for them to see.
“Bundles of six.
Three of each candy.
That’s penny candy!
At least it was when I was coming up.”
Eye Patch couldn’t believe it.
“My mother said gas was a dollar when she was a kid,” Bit shot back.
“Guess everything costs more over time.”
The Low Cuts, in what seemed like one fluid motion, all shrugged.
“I’ll tell you what ain’t never been cheap kids,” Eye Patch said.
He clearly had no idea that there was a woman who sold them right around the corner.
“You said two fifty?”
“Yeah,” Bit said, bouncing on his toes, anxious.
“You got change?”
Bit looked at his friends again.
Bounced his eyebrows again.
The man pulled three bucks from his pocket.
Handed it to Bit.
Francy handed over the first bag.
“Thank you.”
“Hey, I took them dollars off him.”
He pointed to a red-haired man, who just laughed and muttered something they couldn’t hear.
“Eight ball, corner pocket.Cha-ching!”
The buyer pumped his fist.
And that was it.
For John John, Francy, and Trista, it was like looking at a roomful of bigger Bits.
Nine dollars later, the Low Cuts were out the door and almost out of time.
Trista didn’t bother checking her phone.
Halfway down the block, it finally did.
The Low Cuts ran up to the truck, slapping their hands on the side of it.
The driver yanked the window open.
“Almost missed me,” the ice cream man said.
He looked more like somebody’s big brother than an ice cream man.
“What can I get for y’all?”
“Four vanilla soft serves,” Bit ordered.
“Cup or cone?”
Francy, John John, and Trista looked to Bit.
“Hmmm, sure,” Bit said.
“On all four?”
Bit didn’t ask anyone else.
And no one contested.
The ice cream man handed cup after cup through the window, rainbow sprinkles all over them.
“It’s only eight,” the ice cream man said.
“A dollar for you,” Bit replied.
“Thanks for stopping.”
That Trista and Francy always called cute, John John never called nothing, and Bit called home.
Bit pulled his key out of his pocket, unlocked the door.
“You dressed?”
Not one swirl licked.
Not one spoonful missing.
Bit’s mom had relapsed.
The cancer had come back, but the doctors were optimistic she could beat it again.
What’s going on?
How was school?”
Bit’s mother asked, kissing him on the forehead.
But he shrugged off the question.
“How was your first day back on chemo?”
“Oh, it was .
I’m okay.”
But she sounded exhausted and rubbed her stomach.
“A little queasy.”
“I figured you would be.
So, we got you a bunch of ice cream.”
Bit waved his arm like a game show host showing off the four cups.
“Vanilla,” he said.
A son who was scared.
A son who loved his mom.
“With sprinkles.”
