Smoked

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Nine years had passed since a gang of laughing boys raped Lola Bell at the back of a weedy and trash strewn vacant lot. Pulling a train, they called it.

Now it was about to happen again.

Back then, 16 years old, five of them had grabbed her in the late afternoon as she cut through the lot on her way home from the dance lessons her grandmother had paid for. She knew three of them. Tall, brooding, hostile – Brothers of the Struggle, they thought of themselves, young Gangster Disciples. They’d lounge on the benches, their hoods pulled down low over their faces, drinking out of bottles covered in brown paper bags. They had hit on her before, made comments to her, appraised her as she left her building and walked to the bus stop.

“Hey shorty, where ya walkin’?”

“Honey, I’m liking that big black ass.”

“C’mere baby, wanna make some green?”

Stupid, always taking that shortcut through that back lot, never thinking of the danger. She remembered how the late sun was sharp and savage in her eyes as they held her down and took turns riding her. She remembered how the towering shadows of the Robert Taylor houses grew longer as the time passed. She remembered the sound of cars speeding by on the Dan Ryan freeway. She remembered the smell and taste of cheap wine on their breath. She remembered, after they left, lying there alone, the night coming on, rats starting to move in the bushes.

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