One morning in the summer of 2003, I lounged in the cozy family room of my parents’ house. While my mother, stepfather, and older brother were all at work, I inherited my parents’ Church Hill residence until after 4 pm. Smoking marijuana, listening to loud hip hop music, and watching BET videos on the big screen TV, I was enjoying school break the best way a 15-year-old boy knew how: irresponsibly, immaturely, and recklessly.
As I sat back in my father’s Lazyboy rolling up a J, the cordless house phone rang. I checked the caller ID, but the name and number was unfamiliar.
“Hello!” I said after I lowered the music. “Hey Teef, are you trying to make some money?” my brother Dante asked.