By February 2007, the snow that hit the state every winter had already melted into gray slush along the curbs, leaving ShawHeights damp, loud, and alive again. The neighborhood sat on the west side of Bellmere County like an afterthought the city forgot to erase. Buses rattled through streets lined with barber shops, check-cashing stores, beauty salons, Dominican restaurants, Chinese takeout spots with faded menus in the windows, and old apartment buildings painted over so many times the walls looked swollen. People from outside ShawHeights always talked about it the same way.

Too crowded. 
Too loud. 
Too dangerous.

But the people who actually lived there knew better.

ShawHeights was survival stitched together block by block. And at the center of it all sat WestHeights High School. The building looked older than it actually was. Red brick stained dark from years of rain. Metal detectors at the front entrance. Graffiti scratched into the back bleachers. Half the lockers dented in from fights or frustration.

Across town, VistaLife Academy had fresh football fields, students with SUVs, and teachers who spoke like college recruiters. WestHeights had outdated textbooks and cafeteria pizza that tasted like cardboard. But WestHeights had something VistaLife never would.

Everybody knew everybody. Or at least knew somebody related to them.

On Monday mornings, the front courtyard sounded like three different countries trying to talk over one another. Spanish from one corner. Vietnamese from another. Black kids arguing over basketball rankings near the steps. Somebody playing ringtone rap through cheap phone speakers.

The soundtrack of 2007 floated through the halls constantly. Soulja Boy.
T-Pain.
Lil Wayne mixtapes burned onto CDs.

Even the fashion carried its own language.

Tall white tees.
Southpole jeans.
Air Force 1s with fresh creases.
Baby Phat jackets.
Oversized hoop earrings. 
Fake designer belts from the flea market.

Because in ShawHeights, attention could become a problem fast. Especially if people thought you were soft. Especially if people thought you were trying to act “better.”

It wasn’t polished.

But inside those cracked hallways were kids carrying entire worlds on their backs while still showing up every morning trying to become something bigger than their circumstances.

And in 2007, in a neighborhood the rest of the state barely respected, that counted for something.