By Nana K. Adjei-Brenyah
We are those dudes. The muscle and the gavel, the Friday night lights. Together we run shit, because we can, because we have to. We brothers bound irrevocably by two parts popularity, two parts personality, and three parts fear, are the power at Eliot Becker High. If you haven’t spotted us already we wear cardigans.
Cardigans of every color, from heavy earth tones to summery pastels. We do wool cardigans over mock turtlenecks and cable-knit cardigans over button-ups, basic cotton cardigans over graphic tees or V-necks, cashmere cardigans to be fancy and, of course, for girls to feel on. Cashmere is made from the wool of goats raised way up in the mountains, it’s expensive, expensive and classy. We have class, so, on occasion, we wear cashmere. When we wear cashmere we let them know we’re wearing cashmere. We do not wear cardigans every day, but on any day, within the group, there are one or two cardigans. Trust.
By Jeanie Keogh
I belly-flop onto the king-size hotel bed. Tomorrow we are on the road at eight. Tonight is still in its package.
Rich is next door talking incoherently to himself. His words are sounds trying to stand on new legs. He gets into the shower and falls. I expect to hear expletives but there is only silence.
The door to his room is wide open. A Hansel-and-Gretel trail of clothes leads from the bed to the bathroom. Today’s music festival pass is hung over the bathroom mirror. He is lying naked in the tub, dead drunk. An umbilical feeling of concern curdles to accusation in my voice.