The Syndicate Read Online Free Page B

with Cory after I pulled a gun on an old, racist couple we were fostered with. Bastards would religiously take a broom and beat me and Cory with it until it left welts on us because we were the beasts from the wild.
    We tried to suck it up, because we needed shelter. But when Mr. Wilks broke a broom on Cory’s back then turned and whacked me with it, leaving me with a bloody face and a cut down my chest, I knew we had to run to survive. For months we took a little coin here and there, until we had enough for bus fare. We took the Greyhound to Atlanta and a taxi, ending up at Auntie Claudette’s house. Once there we had no idea what we were going to do next. She wasn’t home. We had no key, we had nothing, so we hid on the side of her house waiting.
    â€œI ain’t going back to that fucking place, Von! Where’s Auntie? I’m hungry,” Cory harshly said in between rocking back and forth on the ground with his knees pressed against his chest.
    My tiny shoulders shook in exhaustion as I stood over my brother keeping him protected. Digging in my backpack, I pulled out my last PB&J sandwich. It was just a corner piece that we both had been nibbling on during the trip here. There were three chips left and only a splash of water in a Big Gulp cup I took from the trash, cleaned in the bathroom, and filled with water.
    â€œI don’t know where she at. But I know if she comes home she’ll take care of us. She has to.” Looking at the gun I had in my backpack, I glanced back at my brother with a frown. “Ain’t no bitch putting their gotdamn hands on us again a’ight? So don’t worry ’bout it. I’ll keep us safe for now.”
    In our talking and cussing in English and Tagalog, we didn’t hear when our aunt showed up. “Who’re these foulmouthed children hiding beside my house huh?”
    Quickly turning, I moved by Cory, who stood up and dropped his sandwich. Both of us stared up at our aunt with our dirty faces, ratty, disheveled hair, and torn clothes. She stood over us in a light yellow, almost white, sleeveless dress and a big, floppy hat. In her one hand was a blue Mason glass with clear liquid in it, and in the other was a fan with a handkerchief. She stood in an odd way with it, holding it toward us and closely studying us.
    â€œI know these aren’t my little boys talking like that. Bitch what? You say that, boy?”
    Ashamed, I quickly held my hands up. “No, ma’am. Who said dat? I don’t know who would say something like dat.”
    Claudette gave us a once - over. She slowly dropped a lid on the top of the Mason jar and sealed it tight while holding the handkerchief. “Was that you, little boy?” she asked motioning toward Cory.
    â€œNah - on. No, ma’am. I wouldn’t say nothing like dat either,” Cory said. “I don’t want a whooping, so I wouldn’t say nothing like that. I know better.”
    â€œGood, because I know I taught y’all about not having a foul little mouth. My little boys don’t do that,” she said still eying us.
    Behind her was our uncle Snap. He stood, legs akimbo, with a smile on his face and his arms crossed over his broad chest. I didn’t know what day it was, but he was dressed in slacks, suspenders, and a white crisp shirt, with wingtip shoes.
    â€œY’all lucky she didn’t light your asses with a king switch,” Snap said in amusement. “Or hit you with that acid moonshine of hers in that glass.”
    Claudette turned to chuckle at Snap and hand him the glass. “I know my boys. I wouldn’t do that. But yes, they are lucky. If they were any other heathens, it would have been on. Would have taken it old school and threw it right at’cha feet.”
    I glanced at Cory, who stood watching with big eyes and his hands up. “Oh no! I don’t want a whooping now. We’ll be good.”
    â€œCan we get some of those cinnamon