Page 1 of Falling Into Gravity

chapter 1

. . .

July

It was hot as hell in Crescent Park. That sticky, back-of-the-knees kind of heat that made lashes lift and Black mamas come outside in house shoes with ice water. The air was thick with baby oil, fried food, and the smell of a community that had been cracked opened and patched up too many times to count.

Kids ran through the street barefoot with no real direction. The older heads sat on milk crates under a busted awning playing cards, talking shit and swatting flies. Music bumped from a Crown Vic that creeped slowly down the block, the bass rattling so hard it made the stop sign jiggle.

But none of that phased Aku.

She was outside the Jeep, standing tall in her red Rick Owens boots like she didn’t care that her feet were already sweating. Her bob was full of body, bouncing every time she turned her head. Expensive, silver-lensed sunglasses sat perched on her nose with a sheen of sweat on her forehead like she’d been in the elements too long.

She scanned the street, one hand on her hip, the other holding a garment bag that looked like it cost more than the average Crescent Park rent.

Her lips parted. “I don’t care how hot it is, if I see one more nigga with his shirt off and them same damn Nike slides—I’mma scream.”

“Girl, shut up,” her assistant Niah muttered, dragging a case of shoes behind her. “We in his hood. Let these people be comfortable.”

“Yea I know, but being comfortable don’t mean you gotta look dusty.” She said it loud enough for two teens across the street to hear. One of them snorted.

“Hey, stylist lady,” the boy called, laughing. “You tryna get styled?” he humped the air vulgarly.

Aku turned and blew him a kiss. “Go get some socks first, baby. You look like you fight roaches barefoot.”

The block erupted.

“Damnnnn!” echoed from somewhere behind her.

But nobody took offense. She was funny, fly, and fearless—and she looked like money, but she didn’t act like it.

That’s what made Crescent Park immediately rock with her.

After laughing, she went to the trailer to get started.

The shoot was for Zaire Cooks, one of the only Black pro golfers who hadn’t let fame wash the hood off his bones. Nike was dropping a new ad campaign on community roots and hometown pride, and Zaire insisted on shooting it where it all started—on the same cracked courts where he used to practice his swings with hand-me-down clubs and dreams nobody believed in.

Aku had been hired to style him for the entire rollout. Today was the first look. Clean white polo, stacked gold chains, and crisp tailored trousers with a perfect sneaker flex.

She was adjusting his collar when he smirked at her. “You always this bossy?”

“Only when I know what I’m doing.”

“You single?”

She gave him a look. The kind that said,don’t ruin the vibe.“If I wasn’t, you’d ask for the ring size?”

“Something like that.”

She chuckled, then stepped back. “You look good, Z. Now don’t sweat through it before the

second look.”

Aku didn’t say anything else as she followed him to the first part of his shoot. The photographer looked a little on edge, but Aku could tell Cresent Park wasn’t stuntin’ her or the fear they could smell.

Aku just shook her head when the photographer jumped at the loud bang of someone’s car backfiring.

“She ready to run,” Niah snickered, standing beside Aku.

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