Chapter 2: Eyes Wide Open
Chapter 2: Eyes Wide Open
The next morning, Kevin woke to the smell of Nina's coffee and the low hum of the TV in their cramped apartment. Sunlight sliced through the blinds, catching dust motes in the air. He lay still, staring at the ceiling, the events of last night replaying like a loop in one of his games. Jake's smirk. The coding flyer. Kiesha's text. That spark from the arcade felt fragile now, like it could flicker out if he didn't move fast. He rolled out of bed, his bare feet hitting the cold floor, and grabbed his phone. No texts from Jake. One from Jemma, though—a simple Hey, you good? sent at 1 a.m. Kevin's thumb hovered over the reply button. He wasn't sure what to say yet.
Downstairs, Nina was at the kitchen table, scrolling through bills on her phone, her brow furrowed. "Morning, baby," she said without looking up. "You eat yet?" Kevin mumbled a "nah" and poured himself some cereal, the clink of the spoon loud in the quiet. He wanted to tell her about last night—about Jake, about the workshop—but Nina had enough on her plate. Ever since Coogie's death, she'd been checking on Kevin more, her eyes searching his face like she was scared he'd vanish too. He hated adding to her worry.
Kiesha burst in, her braids swinging, already dressed for her shift at the salon. "Yo, Kev, you still on that coding thing?" she asked, snatching an apple from the counter. Kevin nodded, mouth full of Frosted Flakes. "Good," she said, pointing at him. "Don't let these knuckleheads out here dim your shine. You hear me?" Kevin managed a half-smile. Kiesha had a way of making him feel seen, like his dreams weren't just kid stuff. She grabbed her bag and was out the door, leaving Kevin with a flicker of her confidence.
At school, the halls buzzed with the usual chaos—lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking, gossip flying. Kevin spotted Jake near the water fountain, laughing with Papa and a couple of other dudes from the block. Jake's eyes flicked to Kevin, but he didn't wave him over. Kevin felt a pang but kept walking, his backpack heavy with the flyer he'd printed out. He'd spent an hour last night reading about the workshop—free laptops, guest speakers from Google, a chance to pitch game ideas. It felt like a door to somewhere else, somewhere he could build something that lasted.
In history class, Jemma slid into the seat next to him, her braids tucked into a high bun, her smile soft but guarded. "You didn't text back," she said, nudging his arm. Kevin's chest tightened. He wanted to ask why she'd been texting Jake, why she was at the arcade without him, but the words felt stuck. Instead, he shrugged. "Was busy." Jemma's brow lifted, like she sensed the shift in him, but Mr. Carter started droning about the Civil War, and the moment passed.
At lunch, Kevin sat with Papa, who was mid-rant about his dad's latest sermon. "Man, he think I'ma be a preacher like him," Papa said, tearing into a chicken sandwich. "I'm tryna rap, though. What you on, Kev?" Kevin hesitated, then pulled out the flyer. "This coding thing downtown. Might mess with it." Papa's eyes lit up. "Yo, that's dope! You makin' games and shit? Lemme be a beta tester!" Kevin laughed, surprised at how good it felt to share without being shut down. Jake wasn't at the table—word was he'd skipped to "handle business" with Reg. Kevin's jaw tightened. He was starting to see the pattern.
After school, Kevin headed to the park, needing air to think. The courts were alive with pickup games, the smack of basketballs echoing off the chain-link fence. He sat on a bench, scrolling through Jemma's Instagram. There it was—a story from last night, her and Jake at the arcade, laughing, his arm slung around her shoulder. Kevin's stomach dropped. He clicked his phone off, the image burned into his mind. It wasn't just a hunch anymore. Jake was moving in, and Jemma was letting him. The betrayal stung, sharp and raw, but beneath it, something else stirred—anger, yes, but also clarity. He wasn't about to beg for loyalty.
He texted Kiesha: Jake and Jemma actin' funny. Think they messin' around. Her reply came fast: Damn, Kev. You deserve better. Wanna talk? Kevin typed back: I'm good. Just done playin' dumb. He meant it. He pulled up the workshop's website, filled out the registration, and hit submit. A confirmation email pinged back instantly. Saturday, 10 a.m., downtown. He'd be there, no matter what.
As the sun dipped low, painting the sky orange, Kevin walked home, passing the mural from last night. Coogie's name stared back, a reminder of what happened when you didn't watch your back. Kevin's phone buzzed—Jake, finally: Yo, where you at? Got somethin' to tell you. Kevin stared at the screen, his thumb still. He could go meet Jake, hear whatever excuse or half-truth was coming. Or he could keep moving forward, eyes open, no more blind spots.
He pocketed his phone and kept walking, the spark from last night now a steady glow. The block was loud as ever, but Kevin felt a quiet settle in him, like he was finally starting to hear his own voice.