<b> Murmur. Sirens. </b> Our story begins with two simultaneous sounds and, finally, silence. Buffalo, New York, had seen many frightening nights since autumn seized the free days from Shanice and Jemal Brooks. The baby is sleeping. His tiny eyes face a massive diagram of a hovercraft against the deep forest walls. Green like growth. Outside, black. Black like dried blood in the foggy darkness. Some people think poverty is the worst of all possible fates, but they are wrong; what lies at the end of 2006's 365 struggles against nature is pure exhaustion. Nature, by the way, isn't just leaves and pimples. Fear by gunshot, used syringes, plots to kill George Bush, and shattered vases from a rosier time are all too common in this ghetto. However, do not despair. Only 270 struggles have passed since pregnancy knocked on Shanice's graffiti-splattered door. There is yet a story to tell. Before the previous nine months, the virgins may or may not have known each other, even though they shared surnames. Quick-tempered Shanice had considered quitting her job at the family gas station to finish her high school diploma, at age 21. When her father threw his keys at her forehead, narrowly missing those perpetually shadowed eyes, she decided to test her wits. She would stand outside in the cold with a blue sign that said 'Free Heart.'� Around the corner, in front of an overflowing dumpster, loitered an infamous gang. 'Jemal, you n**g*r, go get that lost girl for sale over there. I've got a surprise for her.'� 'Yeah boss,'� chirped the hunched gang member. As the two troubled souls were about to swap glances for the first time, each said the same prayer: 'Oh God, please let me find what I'm here for.'� Jemal, much more impressive-looking now, nodded first. 'Go away, kid,'� he whispered, 'Hide before you get killed. There's guys out to get you over there.'� 'What are you doing here, then?'� snapped Shanice. 'Looking for something?'� '[The urban equivalent of sustenance],'� he replied smoothly. Somehow. over the course of the night, they made a zygote, the most curious gift ever, and felt at once totally screwed and excited. <br> Reverend Simpson wiped his spectacles clean and looked up at the distressed fledglings before him. 'Your child will need love. Can you provide that?'� 'Ugh. Your honour, I just don't know.'� 'Brother Brooks, I am no judge. Now, go back where you came from, and may God be with you as you make this difficult decision.'� <br> When they arrived at the abortion clinic, Shanice was in tears. The fat receptionist smiled appropriately. 'Dahling,'� she blabbed, 'life's tough sometimes. But don't you worry no more, Dr. Jenkens'll set you right again.'� Jemal was overcome with guilt, and evil thoughts. 'If I had a baby coming my way,'� I'd raise him darn right to be a genius. He'd support me, maybe offer a suite in his mansion.'� Shanice stopped crying, then, quite out of character, sang, 'hush a bye baby, in a money tree, when you're alive, your IQ will be free... He will pay for my pain.'� <br> The new couple worked and worked, and saved and saved, so as to be able to provide Marcus with all he would need to develop into tomorrow's Einstein. While Jemal drove taxis that Whites were afraid to enter, Shanice found a part-time job at Levi's. If only she could afford designer jeans, let alone genius genes. 35 weeks of sweat later, Marcus was born, and his parents, new at this job, wasted not a second in facilitating his intellectual growth. 'Look, Jem, his eyes have that creative twinkle,'� cooed Mom. 'Like Willy Wonka,'� echoed Dad mockingly. And what was the first object he touched? The edges of a Peter Rabbit book, of course. (You should have seen Jemal in Barnes and Noble!) <br> When he woke up in the morning, Marcus'not a suitable name for a Black boy who hopes to survive a walk in the park, mind you'would be greeted with Vivaldi's Four Seasons. His breakfast would consist of mashed salmon loaded with Omega-3 fatty acids'He'll need an attention span. Duh. Also, the phenomena of brahmi, ginkgo biloba, acetyl l-carnitine, DMAE, and DHA suddenly entered'no, conqured'the Brooks' Visa receipts. The 8 by 8 backyard became a makeshift garden for the boy to experiment with. And for underprivileged Buffalo, it was Eden. On to interior design, the boy's room was a utopia compared with the rest of the reality-stricken townhouse, filled with maps, musical toys, posters and puzzles stolen from the abandoned community centre. Shanice's mother even painted a beautiful mural of a playground, without her husband's knowledge. <br> The baby is still sleeping. As he grew older, each mouthful of Marcus's breakfast cereal was preceded by an American trivia question. Jemal read to him at night, slowly but surely, and watched him fall asleep. Together they discovered Narnia and Mickey Mouse, Franklin and Sherlock Holmes. One evening, while Shanice sipped Coke with the neighbours, Pete and Marshawn, before curfew, a girl stumbled outside and mumbled about her latest achievement learning to spell 'happy.'� 'H-A-P-P-I.'� Shanice smirked. 'Honey, that's wonderful, gloated Marshawn. 'We're so proud of you for who you are.'� 'See, dyslexia ain't so bad,'� said Pete. Meanwhile, just down the hall in the kitchen, the tricky parents often conversed in low voices, Shanice exasperated. 'Just shut up, Jem. You failed second grade math and I can barely read English, yet somehow we've managed to keep our genes from affecting him. We have to send him to preppy school.'� 'Girl, watch it,'� Jem piped up, 'you know I could've just left you and your baby like the other guys would've. I've been a good man, but we ain't got the money.'� <br> On his first day of Nixon Burrows Academy, the confident father made sure to find him a black jacket to hide his uniform from the violent losers. Entering the White world for the first time felt strange and scary for Marcus, the scholarship kid, but the teachers who were not prejudiced marveled at the boy's profound brilliance. His equations were solvable, his haiku were contemplative, and he could squash an opponent's weak arguments on the debate ring in seconds flat. By the time he reached 15 years of age, and had eavesdropped on his parents' anxious chatter long enough, it became clear to Marcus that Shanice and Jemal expected a great deal from his bulging brain. All they ever talked about was university: how 'important'� it was'because education sure runs in the family'and also how financially murderous it would be to the welfare threesome. Suddenly, the acronym of the year became AP, which stands for 'if-you-can-get-university-crap-done-with-for-free-then-do-it.'� Really, it was Advanced Placement. <br> Marcus made a few friends at Burrows, including Ethaniel, a ruddy, chubby Republican, and Amelia, who was famous for letting loose a boa constrictor in fourth grade. By senior year, their primary activity consisted of sharing both a joint Marcus had swiped from Jemal, and their astronomical SAT scores. However, Mommy was not satisfied. 'Marky,'� she wailed, 'my future billionaire...my genius, Marky. You will never experience the agony I went through to bring you to this world.'�To everyone's relief, the boy received a Harvard fellowship, and boarded the earliest flight to Cambridge, Massachusetts. Having grown up intelligent in such a plagued neighbourhood, Marcus was a compassionate and frustrated young man, determined to help his fellow Christians straighten up and fly right. Naturally, the study of medicine suited his ambitions, but it also led to his breakdown. 'Are you coming to Amelia's party?'� inquired his roommate. 'The guys and I are planning a little sneak for her birthday, if you know what I mean.'� 'No dice. I simply must finish developing my cure for thyroid cancer. I'll catch up with you later, man.'� <br> Two years of being trapped in an information swamp passed, and Marcus Brooks was not the sensitive, innocent child he once was. Burnout was on the horizon, and Shanice's weekly 'pressure calls'� were of no comfort, to say the least. The sheltered boy wanted to see the world, travel to Zimbabwe, meet his grandparents. He wanted to break the time-honoured code of 'waspy'� second, third, and fourth-generation Ivy-Leaguers students and walk right up to his Brothers. Marcus would snatch the cigarette from their hands, the hopelessness in their hearts. Moreover, he craved love. <br> Tired as a genius could possibly be, Marcus climbed the steps of the Harvard Admissions office, heaved a great sigh, and signed his 'prized future'� down the toilet. He withdrew from potential Doctordom and waved goodbye to greying professors. Nearly a man now, Marcus had had enough and was ready to begin the next chapter of his life. There was a girl inside, with long auburn hair and freckles. 'Where will you go?'� she said. 'Shut up,'� barked the grumpy man-in-training. 'No more big questions to answer. Leave me alone.'� 'My name's Marie,'� said Marie. 'I'm Marcus.'� They shook hands. Suddenly, he became conscious of the mole on his neck, the scruffiness of his eyebrows. The tenderness of Marie's skin was warming. Pleasant. 'I'm also from Buffalo, you know,'� she said, half to herself. 'We could go home together.'� <br> Marie and Marcus were married in June at a Baptist church, tying the knot before a sweaty, boisterous and plum-gown-wearing choir. When the clean shaven groom laid eyes on his new father-in-law, they cried and embraced. It was like gazing at Yin and Yang. Apple pie. The smell of unconditional love. Dessert. The smell of 'hey, why not just enjoy'� life. Then, a cellphone rang, and Shanice appeared to be quite livid. After all, she had slaved away for this chance at prosperity and 24-karat gold walls. 'Do not speak, boy. We created you, and you've ruined us forever. It's payback time.'� Jemal prayed silently for his son.

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