Take Back the Block: Chapters 1–16

I didn’t say that out loud, though, or I would have had to suffer through at least thirty minutes of enlightenment on history and heritage.

My breaths got lighter as soon as I saw the rickety K SINGTON OAKS sign. The E and N were missing, but I was home.

Even though we’re surrounded by noise, the Oaks is calm—quiet, even. That’s mostly because of the community’s board of organizers. Mom is the board’s director. Yep, that means I’m a volunteer, by default.

“The same as always. Hot and loud.” I knew Mr. Hank would counter with an inspirational quote, but I didn’t care. I like Mr. Hank, and his speeches aren’t nearly as long as Mom’s.

“Afternoon, Maxine,” said Mr. Hank. “Wes was just telling me how great the turnout was.”

“Well, we all aren’t as privileged as you are, Mya,” said Brent, filling his mouth with another bite of pizza.

“You ready for this beatdown?” He put on a fake grimace and stood over Mya.

There was the time in fourth grade when Brent and I were paired for a project in art class. We had to make a collage of our favorite vacation memories.

The wall behind the bed is reserved for my puzzles. They’re kinda my thing. I started collecting them a few years back when Mr. Hank gave me one for my birthday. He said I needed something to stimulate my mind and video games didn’t count.

Ms. Tasha called him eclectic. “He dances to his own drumbeat,” she always said.

I’d picked out my outfit weeks ago: indigo denim shorts and a royal-blue Supreme T-shirt.

We watched the other kids strut by in their new outfits.

I had the first-day-of-school swag in the bag.

We have the same medium-brown skin and lanky build, and he tries to keep up with my shoe game.

The rumor was, a few years back there was a rat infestation in the old cafeteria, shutting it down for a whole week.

Ms. Grave let everyone pick their assignments. Jas and Brent would unload boxes from cars dropping off donations. Alyssa and Mya would sort the items, and I would escort the patrons to the correct line.

When the door swung open, Dad led us to the living room. The air was as thick as cold grits.

“It’s about more than the money. What about our neighborhood’s legacy and heritage?” That was Jas’s mom, Mrs. Silva.

“That’s something we’ll negotiate with each homeowner separately,” Ms. Glass explained.

“We’d like to build two new multifamily dwellings and a small retail center. I will be more than happy to share the renderings with you.”

Shaking the memory away, I got to the library first and dragged two lopsided chairs over to the computer desk at the back of the room.

“Read this, an article in the Observer, ‘Is Gentrification the New Segregation?’ It says when neighborhoods are renovated to appeal to richer residents, it’s called gentrification.”

“Read this, an article in the Observer, ‘Is Gentrification the New Segregation?’ It says when neighborhoods are renovated to appeal to richer residents, it’s called gentrification.”

“Read this, an article in the Observer, ‘Is Gentrification the New Segregation?’ It says when neighborhoods are renovated to appeal to richer residents, it’s called gentrification.”

The offer letter from Simmons Development Group was the kindling; the information in Mr. Baker’s article was the firewood.

Ms. Monica sighed. “I wish that were the case, but that’s not likely,” she said. “Kensington Oaks is located in a prime area for revitalization—it’s just blocks from the city center. That’s the reason Simmons made an offer.”

Ms. Hardy read questions from a podium in the front of the room, Alex Trebek—style.

Mom and Dad were sprawled out on the couch watching the news.

A twinge of guilt stabbed at my side as I thought back to the times I hadn’t invited Kari over when Mya was around.

“He took him to Montford,” I said, following behind.
“Why Montford? That’s not even our precinct.”