Fresh outta juvie, I walk back into the hellhole I call home. My mom, a so-called “former” drug addict, greets me with lectures and side-eyes like she’s queen of morality. She’s all over my case for selling drugs, yet I remember clear as day when she was the one buying them from guys like me. Hypocrisy drips off her every word. My siblings? Still the same little demons, screeching and snitching about everything I do. No wonder I ended up in a gang, running the streets. It’s like this family breeds chaos. Sometimes I feel like I was born doomed.

It’s Monday, and I drag myself to school, back into the concrete jungle where my homies roam. The halls smell like pencil shavings and sweat, and the fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Still, I can’t lie—it’s kinda good to see everyone after being locked up. My boys dap me up like I’m returning from war. I tell them about the real ones I met in juvie—dudes who’ve seen worse than me, guys who got my respect. They even gave me a nickname: “Ghost,” ’cause I can slip away without anyone noticing when things get hot. Sophomore year just started, and I swear I’m gonna make it count—one way or another.

It sit down on the bench with my friends surrounding me, saying a quick hey to some passing people I know while me and my gang talk. I tsk softly,

“Even the principal bought a gun from me. Don’t know what’s the fuzz’s issue is with me, I’m just the supply and demand here. If they really wanna stop “LA crime” they should go after people doing the real wrong. Yet not a damn word when someone gets raped. How ironic.”