Foul Shot by A.W.Evans (prolouge)

[Allen W. Evans]

Legacy Price is a handsome black woman, not beautiful in the classic sense of African-American beauty, but pretty nonetheless. But this night her features are contorted and tears stain her high cheekbones as she rushes to her apartment window and looks out into the rainy night. She screams into the phone pressed tightly to her ear and looks around her small home in confusion. Her other hand holds the buldge in her belly. Legacy is nine months pregnant. Lightning flashes outside her window and the ensuing thunder reverberates through her tiny apartment like a warning from a hungry lion. She doesn't understand how her life could have unraveled so perfectly, so quickly. It was only a year prior that she'd had everything she'd ever wanted and more. She'd been a senior at the University of Houston studying social sciences and volunteering in the tutoring department when she had beed given a jock to teach. Everyone said he was going to be the next big thing in pro basketball, but to Legacy he was simply another staticsis. A young black man who'd beed passed from grade to grade due to his phenoninal skills on the basketball court. The man barely knew how to spell his own name. When Legacy would question him about math or science he would flash one of his megawatt grins and hunch his broad shoulders, or he would simply shut down and say he had other things to do.                                                                                                                                                                        It wasn't long before she was madely in love. Her senior year went by in a blur of sceaming fan home games and nights wrapped together in his cool satin sheets. Then had come the missed cycle and the long angry conversations. He'd told her to have and abortion, she'd told him to go to hell. They both said they'd wished the other were dead. Legacy finally slams the phone down and rushes to grab her keys. She runs out the door into the rainy night. She reaches her beatup old Ford Mustang, snatches open the door and jumps inside. She jams the key into the ignition and pats the accelerator a few times. She turns the key and the big engine rumbles to life Legacy revs the engine a time or two and throws the shifter in reverse. She backs out and mashes the gas, fishtailing out of the slick parking lot and into the street. Legacy dosen't see the Chevy that follows in her wake. She will be dead within the hour.