The bike gave up somewhere between the liquor store and the church.
Jeremiah felt it happen in stages—first a strange wobble in the rear wheel, then a grinding sound like gravel in a blender, then a sudden, violent jerk that nearly threw him over the handlebars. He managed to jump off before the bike went down, but his sneakers hit the pavement wrong and he stumbled into a parked car, his palm slamming against the hood to catch himself.
"Damn it," he whispered, and then, louder: "Damn it!"
He stood there for a moment, breathing hard, looking at his bike like it had personally betrayed him. The chain had come off—no, that wasn't right. The chain was still on, but the rear wheel was listing at an angle that made his stomach drop. Something was broken. Something he didn't know how to fix and couldn't afford to replace.
He knelt down, examined the damage with the hopeless optimism of someone who knew nothing about bike repairs, and confirmed what he already knew: he was walking.
Jeremiah pulled out his phone. 7:41 AM. School started at 8:00. On a good day, with the wind at his back and no traffic, the walk was twenty-five minutes. On a normal day, it was thirty. Today, with his backpack full of textbooks and his shoulder already aching from yesterday's encounter with Marcus's fists, it was going to be closer to forty.
He was going to be late.
He righted the bike, wincing at the way the rear wheel scraped against the frame, and wheeled it to the nearest light pole. He didn't have a lock for it—the cable lock was back at the apartment, useless now—but no one was going to steal a broken purple Huffy with a bent fender. At least, he hoped not. He leaned it against the pole, gave it one last look of mournful betrayal, and started walking.
The morning air was cool, the sky a pale gray that promised heat by noon. He pulled his hood up—a different hoodie today, a thin gray one with a broken zipper that he'd had to tug over his head, the fabric worn soft from years of use. The black one was still damp from washing, hanging over the shower rod in the bathroom, and he'd stood there for a long moment this morning, pressing the wet sleeve to his nose, chasing the ghost of Dre's cologne that had clung to it. It was gone now. Washed away. He told himself it didn't matter.
He was lying.
His feet carried him down Western Avenue, past the check-cashing place with the iron bars on the windows, past the pawn shop where his mom had sold her wedding ring three years ago, past the corner where the old men sat on milk crates, already deep into their morning beers. He walked with his head down, his hands in his pockets, his mind drifting back to yesterday.
Dre's arm around his shoulders. Dre's voice cutting through Marcus's cruelty like a blade. Dre's hand on his chin, gentle, asking if it hurt. The way Dre had laughed when Jeremiah said he hadn't gotten to the math problem yet.
And then lunch.
Jeremiah's stomach did a little flip just thinking about it. He'd been sitting in the classroom, expecting nothing, hoping for everything, when Dre had walked in with a Burger King bag. Not KFC this time—Burger King. Whoppers and fries and a chocolate shake that Dre had pushed across the table without a word, like it was nothing, like buying lunch for a boy who couldn't afford his own was just something he did on Tuesdays.
Jeremiah hadn't asked for it. He'd tried to refuse, tried to say he wasn't hungry, tried to push the shake back across the table. But Dre had just looked at him with those dark eyes and said, "You gonna make me eat all this by myself? The hell is wrong with you?" and somehow that had made it okay. Somehow that had made it feel less like charity and more like... something else.
He'd eaten the whole thing. Every last fry. And when he'd looked up, embarrassed by how fast he'd devoured it, Dre had been watching him with an expression Jeremiah couldn't quite read. Not pity. Not amusement. Something softer. Something that made Jeremiah's face go hot and his heart go stupid.
He was thinking about that expression—about what it might mean, about whether it meant anything at all—when he heard it.
A car engine. Slowing down. Keeping pace with him.
Jeremiah's first thought was panic. His second thought, absurd and immediate, was: No way. It can't be.
He didn't want to look. Looking would make him hopeful, and hope was dangerous, hope was a trap, hope was something that got you hurt in a place like South LA. But his feet had already stopped moving. His head was already turning. And there it was—a navy blue car, boxy and old, the kind of car that looked like it had been driven off a movie set from the 1980s. The paint was faded in spots, the chrome trim was peeling, and there was a small dent in the passenger door that someone had tried to cover with duct tape.
The window rolled down with a mechanical whir, and the music that spilled out was loud and immediate—the kind of bass that vibrated in your chest, the kind of beat that made you move before you thought about it.
Pop a Perky just to start up (Pop it, pop it)
Pop two cups of purple just to warm up (Two cups, drank)
Jeremiah knew the song. Everyone knew the song. "Slippery" by Migos had been everywhere since the summer, playing out of car speakers and phone speakers and the tinny radios in the hallways between classes. He'd heard it so many times he knew the verses by heart, even if he'd never had a reason to rap along.
The beat hit hard from inside the car, the bass rattling something loose in Jeremiah's chest, and through the haze of sound, Dre leaned across the passenger seat and looked up at him.
Hey.
Dre's mouth moved, but Jeremiah couldn't hear him over the music. He saw it more than heard it—the shape of the word, the small smile that accompanied it, the way Dre's eyes crinkled at the corners like this was some kind of joke only he understood.
"Hello," Jeremiah said, and his voice came out smaller than he wanted, swallowed by the bass.
Dre reached over and turned the volume down a few notches. The music dropped to a background thrum, still present but no longer overwhelming, and the sudden quiet felt almost intimate.
"Need a lift?" Dre asked.
Jeremiah stared at him. At the car. At the steering wheel in Dre's hands, at the way he was sitting there like driving was something he'd been doing his whole life. A thousand questions crowded his throat, but the one that came out was: "How did you know where I am?"
Dre's eyebrows rose. "I didn't." He shrugged, easy and unbothered. "I was over at Small F's place. Just came from there."
Jeremiah didn't know who Small F was. He didn't know if that was a name or a nickname or something he wasn't supposed to ask about. He just nodded, his brain still trying to catch up with the fact that Dre was here, in a car, on Western Avenue, at seven-fifty in the morning, offering him a ride like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Well?" Dre leaned his forearm on the steering wheel, his gold chain swinging forward. "You need a lift or not?"
Jeremiah's face went hot. He could feel it—the stupid, uncontrollable blush that crept up his neck and flooded his cheeks, the one that happened every time Dre looked at him too long, every time Dre said his name, every time Dre did anything that suggested he might, possibly, maybe, care about Jeremiah's existence. He was so tired of it. Tired of blushing like a girl in a romance novel, tired of his body betraying him, tired of being so visible when all he wanted was to disappear.
But he nodded. He couldn't help it. "Yeah."
Dre's smile widened. "Well, hop in."
Jeremiah walked around the front of the car, his hand brushing against the warm hood, and pulled open the passenger door. The interior was worn—cloth seats faded from navy to something closer to gray, a crack running across the dashboard, a rosary hanging from the rearview mirror next to a small air freshener shaped like a tree. The smell was a mix of Dre's cologne and something else, something older, like cigarettes and leather and the ghosts of whoever had owned this car before.
He slid into the seat and pulled the door closed. It took two tries to get it to latch.
Dre pulled back into traffic, one hand on the wheel, the other draped over the center console like he'd been driving for years. He moved through the morning traffic with a kind of lazy confidence, never rushing, never hesitating, letting the car find its own rhythm.
"You lucky I was around," Dre said, glancing over at him. "You would've been late for sure."
"Thanks," Jeremiah said quietly. He meant it. He meant it more than Dre probably knew.
"No problem. Ain't like it was on purpose. It was a coincidence." Dre's voice was casual, dismissive, but there was something underneath it—something that made Jeremiah wonder if coincidence was really the right word.
He didn't ask. He didn't want to know. Or maybe he did, and he was just too scared to find out.
The music filled the space between them, the beat steady and hypnotic, and Jeremiah found himself listening to the lyrics in a way he never had before. They were everywhere—in the hallways, at the corner store, blasting from cars at stoplights—but he'd never really listened. Not like this. Not sitting next to Dre in an old Ford Taurus, watching the streets of South LA scroll past the window.
Slippery (Slip), she numbin' me, that tongue on me (Eghhh)
Honestly (Honest), she fuck with me, your wife to be (Wife)
In Italy, bought her a fur, look like the wildebeest (Wrarr)
Just chill with me (Chill)
She does not worry, it is a bill to me (It ain't nothin')
Dre started rapping along, his voice low and easy, riding the beat like he'd done it a hundred times before. His fingers tapped against the steering wheel, keeping time, and there was something almost unconscious about the way he moved with the music—like it was part of him, like he didn't have to think about it.
"I pull up Diablo, I pull up with models
I gave her her first Philippe (Philippe)
We goin' full throttle, she swallowed the bottle
I'm all in her ovaries (Eghhh)"
The last word came out with a little vocal flip, a sound that was almost silly, and Dre's mouth curved into a smirk as he said it. He looked over at Jeremiah, and for a moment, he wasn't the boy with the bandana and the reputation. He was just a seventeen-year-old kid, rapping along to a song he liked, driving a beat-up car that probably cost less than his sneakers.
Then his eyes dropped to Jeremiah's hoodie, and his expression shifted. Not much—just a flicker of something, there and gone.
"New hoodie?" Dre asked.
Jeremiah looked down at himself, at the thin gray fabric stretched over his chest, the broken zipper that wouldn't stay closed, the frayed cuffs that hung past his knuckles. "W-well, new is a strong word." He tugged at the sleeve, suddenly self-conscious. "The other one is being put up to dry. I washed it."
Dre nodded slowly, his eyes back on the road. His hand came up and tapped his own forehead, a quick, self-deprecating gesture. "Oh, right."
Jeremiah didn't know what that meant. He didn't know if Dre was remembering something specific—the way the black hoodie had smelled, maybe, or the way it had swallowed Jeremiah's small frame. He didn't ask. He just sat there, his hands in his lap, watching the streets roll by.
They drove in silence for a few blocks, the music filling the space between them. Jeremiah's eyes moved around the car—the worn steering wheel, the cracked dashboard, the rosary swaying gently with the movement of the vehicle. It was old, this car. Older than both of them, probably. But there was something about it that felt solid. Something that felt real.
"Where did you get this car?" Jeremiah asked, the question slipping out before he could stop it.
Dre glanced at him. "Bought it. Yesterday, actually."
"Oh." Jeremiah thought about the black sedan with tinted windows, the one that always picked Dre up after school. The one with the spinning rims and the bass that rattled windows. "So... you were always being picked up by your... friend?"
"My cousin." Dre's voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "He got tired of driving me around. Said I needed my own whip."
Jeremiah nodded slowly. He didn't know what to say to that. He didn't know much about cars, didn't know what it meant to have a "whip" or to buy one yourself at seventeen. His mom had never owned a car. They took the bus or they walked or they stayed home.
"The car's cool," Dre said after a moment, and there was something in his voice—something that might have been pride, or might have been the echo of someone else's words. "Though I wanted a better one."
Jeremiah looked at the faded paint, the dent in the door, the crack in the dashboard. He thought about the black sedan, the one that probably cost more than his mom made in a year. He thought about the way Dre had said "better" like it was something he deserved, something he was reaching for.
"W-well," Jeremiah said quietly, "the nicer ones are expensive."
Dre laughed—a short, surprised sound that seemed to catch him off guard. "Ain't that the truth."
He reached out and turned the volume up a few notches, and the music swelled again, filling the car with bass and beats and the familiar sound of voices talking about things Jeremiah didn't understand. But he didn't need to understand. He just needed to sit here, in this old car, next to this boy who bought him lunch and defended him in hallways and called him Vanilla like it was a secret between them.
They drove the rest of the way in a comfortable silence, the kind of silence that didn't need to be filled. Dre navigated the streets with an ease that came from growing up here, from knowing which corners to slow down at and which lights to coast through. His hand stayed on the wheel, his eyes on the road, and every so often his fingers would tap out a rhythm against the leather.
When they pulled into the school parking lot, the first bell was already ringing. Jeremiah could see students hurrying through the gates, backpacks bouncing, voices raised in the familiar chaos of a morning rush. He should have felt panicked—he was late, he was always on time—but instead he just sat there for a moment, letting the last notes of the song fade out.
Dre killed the engine and turned to look at him. "You good?"
Jeremiah nodded. "Yeah. I'm... yeah."
They got out of the car at the same time, and Jeremiah found himself walking beside Dre across the parking lot, their steps falling into a rhythm that felt almost natural. Students moved aside as they passed—some because they recognized Dre, some because they recognized the bandana, some because there was something about the way he walked that made people want to get out of his way.
Jeremiah noticed them looking. He noticed the way their eyes lingered on Dre, then moved to him, then lingered again. He pulled his hood lower and focused on the ground.
"Don't worry about them," Dre said quietly, and Jeremiah wasn't sure if he was talking about the students staring or the bigger things—Marcus, the bullying, all of it.
They walked into the building together, past the security guard who nodded at Dre like they had an understanding, past the cluster of freshmen who scattered like birds, past the bulletin board with the faded posters about staying in school. The hallway was emptying now, students streaming into classrooms, the last stragglers rushing to beat the second bell.
Dre stopped outside their math classroom and held the door open. The gesture was casual, automatic, but it made Jeremiah's chest tighten anyway.
"After you," Dre said.
Jeremiah ducked his head and walked through, his heart doing that stupid thing again, the one where it forgot how to beat in a normal rhythm. He slid into his usual desk—third row, near the window—and watched as Dre took the seat beside him, the one that had been Terrance's until Dre had claimed it.
Ms. Rivera was at the whiteboard, writing out equations in her careful, looping handwriting. She glanced back at them as they settled in, her eyes lingering on Dre for a moment, then moving to Jeremiah. She didn't say anything about them being late. She didn't say anything about Dre sitting next to him, about the way Dre had claimed that desk like it was his now. She just turned back to the board and kept writing.
Dre pulled out his notebook, the same one with the bent cover and dog-eared pages, and Jeremiah watched him flip to a blank sheet. His handwriting was the same—small, neat, precise. The numbers marched across the page in orderly rows, and Jeremiah found himself staring again, watching the way Dre's fingers moved, the way his brow furrowed when he was concentrating.
"You gonna do your work or just watch me do mine?" Dre asked without looking up.
Jeremiah's face went red. He grabbed his own notebook, flipped to a fresh page, and bent over the first problem with an intensity that was mostly for show. His pen scratched against the paper, and he could feel Dre's presence beside him like a warm weight, solid and real.
The second bell rang. The door closed. And Jeremiah sat there, in a math classroom at Crenshaw High, with a boy who bought him lunch and defended him in hallways and called him Vanilla, and for the first time in as long as he could remember, he didn't feel invisible.
He felt seen.