Page 11 of As You Walk On

“That’s what I like to hear, Wright! Always making your dadproud.” Absently, she fixes her dreads, smiling at the wall behind me. “By the way, how is Miles? Still... happily unattached?”

I wish I could say the shy glint in her eyes was at all shocking. That this was the first time an adulthintedat my pops’s romantic status. But it’s not.

Dad and Coach—and everyone else who hasn’t moved past their glory days in this part of Old Louisville—attended Brook-Oak together. They might’ve dated? I can’t keep up with the multitude of folks Dad still acknowledges with an authentic smile everywhere we go.

I swallow my annoyance.

“He’s... good.”

“I’ll have to text him sometime.” Even with her dark skin, Coach looks flushed. “Maybe I’ll Facebook him.”

“Uh, sure,” I say, desperate to get away from the conversation. “I’m gonna head to Mr.London’s class now.”

“Smart. We can’t have Miles Wright’s son missing finals!”

Of course not.

The privilege of being the son of the great Miles Wright never, ever ends.

3

IS THIS A PEP TALK?

Darren and Ihave a tradition.

Every other Friday, we hop in his car after school and head to the Highlands for haircuts. Jay wore the same buzzcut all the way up until high school. These days, he settles for a touch-up every now and again. I refuse to go that long without a fresh cut. While Darren and I are at the barbershop, Jay has mandatory family time with his parents and younger brother, Jasper.

Jess Scott, Jay’s mom, and my pops were tight in high school. Shared classes. Had the same friend group. According to Dad, she even helped him write his college admissions essay. When he found out Mrs.Scott was moving back to Louisville after attending college in Boston and marrying a lawyer, they immediately reconnected.

Jay was my first real friend. More like a sibling since I’m an only child. Darren came into the fold around middle school. Something about his chill attitude created the perfect buffer between Jay’sintensity and my stubbornness. It was weird at first, a duo turning into a trio, but I won’t lie—I’ve stopped feeling guilty about enjoying moments with just Darren around.

We vibe on another wavelength.

After haircuts, we grab our favorite corner table at a cozy, family-owned ramen bar off Baxter Avenue. Once we’ve ordered, Darren hangs on to the menu, scanning the back page.

“You’re thinking about getting the mochi ice cream, aren’t you?” I tease.

“No!” The corners of his mouth tick upward. “You don’t know me, bro.”

Oh, but I do.

In sixth grade, Darren and I found ourselves hanging at the same end of a lunch table, ignoring the other kids. Me because of the nicknames. Him because of the ignorant “WHERE ARE YOUR PARENTSFROM?” questions. Tweens can be cruel. Our interactions started casually: trading chocolate milks and juice pouches over square pizzas, eventually falling into loud, obnoxious conversations about our favorite cartoons or foods.

So, yeah, Darren wants the mochi ice cream. He’ll convince me to share. And I won’t hesitate to grab that second spoon.

“Noticed you gave DeAndre some special instructions while getting your cut,” Darren comments when our food arrives. “Looking mighty clean!”

Thank goodness for that extra melanin in my system. Otherwise, Darren would be witness to the deplorable amounts of blush kissing my cheeks.

“It’s nothing,” I lie.

I most certainly asked Dre to put some additional craftsmanship into today’s look. It took him another thirty minutes, but... worth it. Sides tight, temples faded. My twists are conditioned, springy from the curl sponge. My wannabe mustache is darker, well defined.

“Is this for anyone in particular?” Darren smirks as he slurps a spoonful of broth. “Perhaps the little drummer boy?”

“I don’t know whom you speak of.”

I dive into my chicken ramen. Jay was right—the soft pretzels and energy bars weren’t enough to sustain me through my last two classes. My eyes water at a whiff of the red chili oil in Darren’s tonkotsu ramen. Spicy foods are a hard no for me.