Take Back the Block Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2021 by Chrystal D. Giles

  Cover art copyright © 2021 by Richie Pope

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  Random House and the colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Name: Giles, Chrystal D., author.

  Title: Take back the block / Chrystal D. Giles.

  Description: First edition. | New York: Random House, [2021]

  Summary: “Sixth-grader Wes Henderson sets out to save the Oaks, the neighborhood where he’s lived his whole life, from being sold to a real estate developer” —Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020025245 | ISBN 978-0-593-17517-0 (trade) | ISBN 978-0-593-17518-7 (lib. bdg.) | ISBN 978-0-593-17519-4 (ebook)

  Subjects: CYAC: Community life—Fiction. | Neighborhoods—Fiction. | Gentrification—Fiction. | Friendship—Fiction. | Middle schools—Fiction. | Schools—Fiction. | African Americans—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.G5529 Tak 2021 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  Ebook ISBN 9780593175194

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

  Penguin Random House LLC supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to publish books for every reader.

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  For my son, Ezra, may you always take up space, be visible, and raise your voice.

  I spent the morning of my eleventh birthday carrying a sign that read WE WERE HERE FIRST!

  There are so many other things I could have been doing on my birthday, but there I was, the only kid, as usual. I had no chance of blending in with the sea of old ladies. Mom didn’t like me calling the ladies old, but they were old.

  I walked a few steps back from everyone, ducking behind my sign as cars sped by. No way was I going to be spotted by some kids from my school. We were out for the summer, but I couldn’t be too careful.

  It was a thousand degrees outside, and my favorite Carolina Tar Heels blue T-shirt was sticky and clung to my chest. It didn’t even match my Nike Air Max anymore. My kicks were now dusty and barely blue. That was my fault, though; I never should have worn my good stuff to trample through dirt.

  “Wes, hold the sign up straight and uncover your face,” Mom said.

  “Come on, Mom, it’s hot and I’m thirsty.”

  “Don’t backtalk me!”

  I knew better than to talk back, but it was too hot for manners. I wiped the sweat from my forehead and swallowed a glob of spit to wet my throat.

  It didn’t help.

  This was the third march this month, all part of a monthlong protest. The third Saturday I was here instead of playing NBA 2K with Brent and Alyssa. This week’s protest was the largest so far. Thirty of us stepped over bricks and construction trash, chanting, “Stop tenant replacement!” Which didn’t make much sense, because there were no tenants left to replace.

  I got why we were there, but I was a little tired of fighting battles that didn’t have anything to do with me, though Mom thinks we belong in the middle of every fight.

  This month, we were fighting the development of a new condo building—twenty stories, dark gray tinted glass, space beneath for shops, and even a video game lounge.

  I wasn’t sure what the big deal was—I thought it sounded pretty cool. The apartment buildings on this street were old and beat-up. New stores would be nice. I didn’t say that out loud, though, or I would have had to suffer through at least thirty minutes of enlightenment on history and heritage. Mom always has a speech ready.

  Construction on the new building hadn’t started yet, but demolition of the old apartment complex had. The tenants had moved out a couple of weeks ago, and now single shoes, stained mattresses, and smashed furniture were the only proof anyone had ever lived here at all.

  Just as we rounded the site for the hundredth time, I saw a Channel 9 WCTV news van parked on the street in front of the construction site.

  “Oh no!” I said under my breath.

  A skinny camera operator unloaded a camera and tripod from the van—he set up to film right in the middle of the protest.

  Oh shoot! He looked straight at me.

  Mom turned and yelled to the group from her spot up front. “This is our moment!”

  Roars from the crowd got louder. The old ladies started a new chant: “Whose city? Our city!”

  There was no way I was going to be on the TV news or anywhere near that camera. I’m not exactly the best at speaking in front of people. My mind gets all blurry, and I forget how to talk. I’d be the biggest clown on the block if my friends saw me freeze up on TV again. There was this one time, last year, I was at the Don’t Wreck the Rec recreation center cleanup day (boring, I know) and a news anchor asked me why the rec center was important to me. I stood there with a microphone in my face, a cottony mouth, and a fuzzy brain, trying to come up with an answer. Those ten seconds felt like an hour, and I literally came up with zero. It was a complete fail, and since it aired on live TV, I got no do-overs. I wasn’t going to let that happen again.

  As our group marched toward the news van, I broke away and raced in the opposite direction. I needed somewhere to hide—and quick! I spotted a porta-potty, darted behind it, and dropped to the ground.

  As soon as I did, I smelled the funky stench flowing from the p
oop closet. I inched from behind the potty to find somewhere else to hide—nope, nothing. I was stuck breathing in somebody else’s stink juice until the news crew left.

  From my hiding spot, I snuck a look at the ladies taking turns speaking into the microphone—they had no problem saying exactly what they meant. This was going to take a while. I passed the time by counting how long I could hold my breath before my lungs started to burn and I had to exhale and inhale again.

  After six times, I got up to forty-five seconds before I was gasping for air. When I stuck my head out to get a peek at the news crew again, I saw a second group of protesters starting to arrive across the lot. They were here to trade places with the morning group, which meant Mom and I could leave. Finally! I crawled from behind the porta-potty and rushed past the new group, not even looking back to say goodbye.

  A pile of broken concrete blocks was the last thing between our car and me. I leapt on top of it to shorten my path to freedom. I miscalculated my step and stumbled forward into a jagged edge of rock. A strip of blood leaked out of my scratched shin. I kept going.

  I turned to see Mom trading hugs with a few of the ladies. “Stay strong!” she called out, her fist raised in the air.

  I slumped into the passenger seat and cranked the AC to high as soon as Mom started the car. I hoped she hadn’t noticed I’d been MIA when the news crew arrived. Instead, I tried to distract her by using the time on the short drive home to ask about my birthday presents.

  “So, Mom, I have to have at least one more pair of shoes. I can’t start school with last year’s shoes.”

  “Shoes are the last thing you need to be asking for, Wes. There are many more important things in life,” Mom said, her eyebrows scrunched and uneven.

  That shut me up real quick. Mom always has a way of making me feel guilty about having things other people don’t have. I’d rather eat dirt than listen to another lecture on counting blessings. Plus, if we’re going to compare, lots of people have way more than I have—I’ve seen sneakerheads on YouTube with a whole room of shoes. I took a deep breath and tried to forget about the protest.

  My breaths got lighter as soon as I saw the rickety K SINGTON OAKS sign. The E and N were missing, but I was home. Entering Kensington Oaks is like being hugged by a grove of oak trees and sunshine. I’ve lived in the Oaks my whole life, and I’ve known all my neighbors since the days of tricycle races. The houses and yards are small, but that just means I can hop from one yard to the next quick enough to make it home before the streetlights come on.

  The Oaks is an inner-city neighborhood—well, that’s what they call it on the evening news. I guess that means it’s a neighborhood full of poor Black people. To us it’s a cocoon in the middle of a crowded city, just eight blocks from the center of town.

  Even though we’re surrounded by noise, the Oaks is calm—quiet, even. That’s mostly because of the community’s board of organizers. Mom is the board’s director. Yep, that means I’m a volunteer, by default.

  When Mom pulled into our driveway, I spotted Mr. Hank waving from his porch across the street.

  I hopped out of the car and headed his way.

  “Wassup, Mr. Hank?” I said.

  “How was the protest this morning? I hate I missed it,” Mr. Hank said.

  “The same as always. Hot and loud.” I knew Mr. Hank would counter with an inspirational quote, but I didn’t care. I like Mr. Hank, and his speeches aren’t nearly as long as Mom’s.

  “Wes, you have to look past the physical and see the positive impact,” Mr. Hank said.

  “Marching in a circle won’t stop that building from being built.” I shrugged.

  Mom walked up before Mr. Hank could give me a piece of his mind.

  “Afternoon, Maxine,” said Mr. Hank. “Wes was just telling me how great the turnout was.”

  Mom shot me an evil eye. “Did Wesley tell you he snuck off when Channel 9 showed up?”

  I cringed when she called me Wesley. It is my name, but Wes sounds way cooler—it matches my fly.

  “He was saying something about that when you walked up,” Mr. Hank said. He reached over to give my arm a light pinch.

  I smiled to myself. Mr. Hank always finds a way to make me look good in front of my parents, even when I don’t deserve it. There was the time I found an old subwoofer in Mr. Hank’s trash pile. Me and my friends set it up in the neighborhood park and blasted J. Cole to crazy levels. When the neighbors complained, Mr. Hank defended me, telling Mom and Dad he’d given me the old speaker to test.

  “Let’s go, Wes, we have a party to set up for,” Mom said.

  After all, it was my birthday.

  I hate having a summer birthday, mostly because I never get to invite all my friends from school to my parties. I am lucky to have my crew to hang with all summer long, though: Mya, Brent, Jas, and Alyssa.

  The five of us have been best friends since first grade. We all live in the Oaks, except Mya. She and her family moved a couple years ago when her dad got a new job. Now she lives on the Southside—the rich side of town where all the houses are brick and have at least three-car garages. We don’t even have one garage, not to mention three. Mya’s new house has a pool and a little house near the pool she gets to use for sleepovers. This summer we’ve taken over Mya’s pool at least once a week when we aren’t in the Oaks. I think we all secretly wish we had Mya’s new life—I know I do.

  The whole crew would be coming over for my party later.

  When we reached our house, I escaped from Mom and headed straight to the shower. I scrubbed the sweat, dirt, and blood off me and watched it disappear into the drain. I let the water pour over my face until it turned cold. I had to be fresh for my party.

  I laid out my favorite Air Max 95s and T-shirt. It had I CONTROL MY ENERGY printed in block letters across the front. I got dressed and headed to the front room.

  “Dad, they’ll be here soon,” I said. “Is the pizza on its way?”

  “Chill, son, we have to pick it up. The fancy pizza place you picked doesn’t deliver.”

  “Well, Mya says they have the best pizza in the city.”

  “Of course she does,” Dad said with a smirk.

  I waited until we were alone in the car on the way to the pizza shop to ask about skipping the protest next Saturday. If I could get Dad on my side, Mom just might give in.

  “Dad, it’s important to spend time with your friends, right?” I asked.

  “What is it, Wes? No need to sugarcoat it.” Dad isn’t one for sugarcoating—he’d rather you just spit it out.

  “I want to hang out with Brent and Jas next weekend, before school starts. Brent has a new video game we haven’t played yet. You know Brent never gets new stuff. Plus, it’ll be…you know…guy time.”

  Which was only partly true—I had played the new game with Brent, but not with Jas.

  “Son, you agreed to participate in the march this month. I’d be there too if I didn’t have to work. It’s the least you can do to help the families that were displaced, like Takari and his family. These are our neighbors.” Dad’s face was stern—not mad, but serious enough. “Next Saturday will be the last week.”

  “I know, but it’s been three weekends in a row!” I whined. “I’m allowed to have some fun this summer, right?”

  Dad gave me a side eye, but after he didn’t say anything right away, I could tell he was thinking about it.

  “Okay…I’ll talk to your mom.”

  “Thanks, Dad. I knew you’d understand,” I said, trying to hide a grin.

  “Don’t push it. And I better not have to utter one word about taking out the trash this week,” Dad said, swatting me playfully on the back of the head.

  When Dad and I got home, Mom had the house set up for my party. No balloons or anything kiddie this year. We’d start with pizza and wings, watch Bla
ck Panther, then an NBA 2K tournament. Brent and Jas would sleep over.

  “Party people!” Brent yelled when he bounced through the front door.

  “Happy birthday, Wes!” Alyssa said with a huge smile, following Brent inside.

  Jas walked in next.

  “Wassup, Jas! You ready for this tournament?” I asked.

  “The question is, are you ready?” Jas said, pointing at me.

  I laughed. I knew I would crush Jas in NBA 2K. My real competition was Brent and Alyssa. We were the gamers of the crew.

  Mya showed up last, as usual. “Let the party begin,” she announced as she walked into the kitchen.

  When my whole crew was there, Mom and Dad disappeared to their room, leaving us to celebrate.

  “What’d you get for your birthday?” Jas asked.

  “Nothing yet. My mom always makes me wait until the last minute,” I said.

  “That’s torture. On my birthday, I woke up to pink roses and three new dresses. And that was all the morning of my party,” Mya said, pulling out her phone to show us pictures. She was the only one of us with her own cell phone, and every time I saw it, I got a little more jealous.

  “Well, we all aren’t as privileged as you are, Mya,” said Brent, filling his mouth with another bite of pizza. Mya rolled her eyes, but she knew he was right. Even before her dad got his new job, her parents always treated her like a princess.

  “I’m sure your parents will get you something awesome, Wes. No worries,” Alyssa said.

  * * *

  • • •

  Halfway into Black Panther, I had that feeling of being unstoppable. That must be what Mom calls black pride. I’ve seen the movie like fifty times, but it gets better every time. I imagined myself as powerful and mighty as T’Challa. Jas was Killmonger (a wavy-haired, light brown version), Brent was M’Baku, and Alyssa was definitely Shuri. Mya had named herself designer of the costumes. She wasn’t into comics too much, but she loved all the elaborate costumes, and she was always playing around with this design app on her phone. Some of her looks were really good.