How It Went Down (19 page)

I shut off the water, and in the sudden quiet it all seems so stupid. I’m smarter than that. I know what happens to politicians’ girlfriends in Washington. I watch TV.

Girlfriend, ha. Get your head out of the clouds, girl.
Al barely so much as touches me. Just a few times. Nothing too forward. The hug just now—I did that. He was drunk and I was there … I shouldn’t count it. Anyway, he’s married. It’s so stupid to imagine there’s anything there. I just can’t help myself when I’m around him.

All the twisted, crazy scandals in the news—that’s other people. Al is Al, and I am me. It would be different.

Even if it wasn’t, I don’t think I’d mind being one of those girls.

JENNICA

When I come back to Brick’s bedroom window, the little guy, Tyrell, is sitting on the ledge, staring out, the same way I like to. His eyes stream with tears, and he’s staring straight through them like he may or may not have noticed them at all. He holds a cup in his hand that’s empty except for a drying ring of beer foam.

I lay my hand on his shoulder. “You okay?”

“Is this where I’m supposed to be?” he says. “It feels like I’m supposed to. It feels…” he cups his heart with clawed fingers.

“That’s the pot talking,” I promise him. “You’ll be okay.”

“I don’t think it’ll ever be okay.”

His expression is like a little boy, looking for guidance or advice. He’s looking in the wrong direction.

“I’m not brave,” he says. “I can’t … I don’t even like kitchen knives. How’m I gonna…”

I laugh. “You’ve never gotten high before, have you?”

“No,” he says, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “I don’t do any drugs.”

A surge of anger rises in me. I glance across the room at Brick and Noodle, holding court on the sofas, with crowds of people fawning around. Everything is how they want it. Nothing can be left alone.

“You can just leave,” I tell Tyrell. “You don’t have to do what Brick says. I know he acts all that, but he’s not a bad guy underneath.” Strangely, I actually mean it.

“I’m scared to go against him,” Tyrell says.

“So how about you walk me home?” I tell him. When I see how broken down he seems, it makes me feel stronger. It makes me think I can do anything. Walk away from Noodle, even, if only for tonight. “Then, if he asks you later, you can say you went home with a girl, and he’ll give you props.”

“You’d do that?” he says. The little-boy eyes perk up.

“Sure.”

His face falls. “I can’t take Noodle’s girl home.”

“Just tell Brick it was some girl and you didn’t catch her name.”

Tyrell shrugs. “Okay.”

“Anyway, I’m going to break up with Noodle,” I tell Tyrell, as we’re headed for the door. Just to try it out. See how it feels. “So for now I’m really just a girl.”

TINA

I know what knives do.

In the kitchen, knives are very good.

Chop

Cut

Slice

Dice

Joo-lee-enn
, says the cooking lady on TV.

Knives that are not in the kitchen are bad knives.

Stab

Slit

Wound

Fay-tal-i-tee,
says the reporter on TV.

Tariq’s knife was not in the kitchen.

It is a bad knife.

Bad boys have bad knives.

Tariq was a bad boy
, say the voices on TV.

Mommy gets upset.

Nana gets upset.

The Reverend Alabaster Sloan gets upset.

They tell everyone:

Tariq was not a bad boy.

They don’t know about the knife.

TYRELL

Grief makes people do crazy shit. I read that somewhere. I’m trying not to be too hard on myself. Plus, I’m still a little loopy from the beer and pot at Brick’s.

The piece of paper that’s taped inside my bedroom closet right now? The chart? I’m gonna blame it on grief. Grief and drunkenness. I’m not a bad person.

Filling out the chart is easy enough. The hard part is the research to make it mean something.

I’ve always been a numbers guy. It’s what I do. I can fix anyone’s math homework with a glance. I mean, I try to help them do it themselves because it’s better that way. I got a job down at the community center now, three days a week. Tutoring little kids in math. It’s good, because I need a little money and I need someplace to go after school where no 8-5s are likely to come knocking. But the point is, numbers are what I understand, and what makes me feel good.

So I make the chart. I pull statistical analyses from online. I know how to identify reputable sources, but it takes some time. In the first column, I write down every name I can think of. Tariq. Sammy. Junior. Brick. Noodle. Guys from school. Guys from church. Guys from the block. The larger the sample size, the better.

The next four columns are topped like this: Joined a gang. Got locked up. Dropped out. Got killed. Then I fill in all the Xs. My own statistical analysis. Low level, and not very scientific, but that’s what makes it crazy.

I’m not rooting for bad things to happen to people I know. Those things already happened. But the numbers prove … the numbers let me believe, at least, that it’s all less likely to happen to me.

DAY
SEVEN

15.
HELPFUL PEOPLE

REVEREND ALABASTER SLOAN

I’m exhausted, hungover, and ready to be done with Tariq Johnson. The first is inevitable. The second, my fault entirely. The third grinds guilt deep into my gut. I’m the one who brought Tariq into the national spotlight. I have to see it through.

I put on a semi-neutral, semi-angry expression as I’m introduced to the country by the grinning host of yet another eponymous news hour. I nod as he offers a slightly inaccurate characterization of the police department’s accusation of biased press coverage.

He asks me: “Franklin was released by the police department; is it right that he’s now being tried and convicted by the media?”

“Jack Franklin is not being tried by the media. He can’t be. That’s a job for a court, and a jury. The media is simply asking questions that law enforcement should be asking.”

“Are you saying the police mis-handled the investigation?” He grins at me from a monitor mounted beside the camera. Viewers are probably seeing us side-by-side, while I’m in Underhill and he’s someplace like Atlanta or New York.

“The police accepted Franklin’s narrative,” I explain. “By what logic do you accept the shooter’s narrative without investigation, especially when there are so many contradictory reports? Why can they take Jack Franklin’s word, but not the word of anyone else present?”

“Are you suggesting race bias?”

I fight the urge to sigh, trying instead to channel the fire for which I’m known, beloved and criticized. “I’m suggesting there be a real investigation. If this case went into a court of law tomorrow, there’s absolutely no evidence to back up the story Jack Franklin is telling. And where is Jack Franklin? Law abiding citizens don’t go into hiding.”

The host consults his notes. “A spokesman for Franklin says he’s keeping a low profile due to press harassment and unfounded accusations.”

“Accusations are being leveled both ways,” I answer. “Tariq’s family isn’t hiding. But accusations aren’t evidence. Where are the courts in all this?”

That’s all we have time for. The host thanks me for coming, and as the lights dim I wonder, yet again, what good all these sound bites actually do. They’ll be quoted, parsed, fact-checked, eviscerated by those who disagree, and then forgotten in the wake of new blurbs that come out tomorrow.

Tariq will still be dead.

Franklin will still be armed.

Maybe my whole life has been spent pissing into the ocean, trying to turn it yellow.

TYRELL

The school nurse has a flyer taped up on the back of her door about some hoodie march they’re planning for Tariq. There’s no escaping this thing.

I lie on the black rubber cot and close my eyes, trying to stave off the nausea. Smoking and drinking don’t agree with me, apparently. I had already figured as much, but now I know for sure. I roll toward the plastic-lined waste bin and heave.

Last time I got sick at school, two years ago, it was some kind of flu bug going around. I caught it in the middle of Spanish class, fourth period. Right after lunch. It was pretty epically disgusting. I felt it coming on, a kind of low volcanic rumbling in my stomach, and I tried to make a run for it, but only made it as far as the classroom doorway before I blew chunks of Salisbury steak and broccoli all over the tile.

The whole class went “Awww, man!”’cause it was so nasty. It was too embarrassing to even look back, so I just kept on running till I got to the nurse’s office. She took one glance at the mess on my shirt and said, “You can go home.”

You’re supposed to have a parent come pick you up when something like that happens, but I only live ten blocks from school, and I told the nurse my mom was out of town and my dad was at work. She knew I was a good student, so she gave me a clean T-shirt and just let me walk home, sparing me the humiliation of going back to class and having to stare at a pile of sawdust soaking up my stomach contents.

I trudged home feeling pretty lousy, only to discover something worse.

Four feet in the bed, and Mom out of town.

“God damn it, Tyrell,” Dad bellowed. “What are you doing home?”

I opened my mouth to say “I’m sick,” but it came out as another burst of vomit. Dad might have misinterpreted it.

“Clean that up,” Dad snapped. “And keep your mouth shut.” He slammed the bedroom door in my face.

So I got rags and a spray bottle from the cupboard, got down on my knees and scrubbed away all sign of my sickness, to the soundtrack of Dad and his … friend huffing and puffing on the other side of the door.

Mom always took care of me when I got sick. Dad wouldn’t know the thing to do for a fever and flu was to hold a cool washcloth on my forehead, and rub my hands real soft, and give me crackers, and let me watch DVDs of vintage Star Trek on the sofa. So I stayed in my room.

I kept waiting for Dad to come in and say, “It wasn’t what you think,” or “I can explain.”

But he never even knocked. After a while, everything went quiet. Later I heard the TV go on in the living room. But he never even knocked. He didn’t want anything to do with me.

Still doesn’t.

“You can probably get anything you want now,” T said, when I told him what had happened with my dad. It was a long time after, almost a year. At the point when things had gotten so bad I could barely stand to be in the house with Dad just hating me all over the place. Mom knew something was going on, but what was I going to say?

“What do you mean?”

“From your dad. You have this information that he doesn’t want out there. You can use that to your advantage.”

“No, I can’t.” I can’t do anything but feel shame when Dad looks at me. Maybe if I was more manly, like he wants me to be, I would have reacted differently. Maybe I wouldn’t feel like crap every time Mom says, “What’s troubling you?” and I say “Nothing.” Maybe I could just roll with it. If I was the right kind of son.

I don’t fit in at home. I don’t fit in out on the street. Only place I ever fit was with T. Thinking about it only makes me miss him more.

The nurse sends me back to class, but I find myself walking right out of the building. I can’t stay at school. I can’t go home, either. My head pounds, and I feel kinda full and kinda hungry at the same time. My guts are churning.

Tariq’s been gone seven days. That’s a whole week. Last thing we did together was make our can-collection rounds. That means it’s time again. It’s a scheme we came up with to help earn some spending money. Although, I mostly saved mine. Brick was right about that much—applying to college isn’t cheap, let alone actually going. But I can’t afford to put aside my schoolwork to get a normal job. Tutoring pays peanuts, but it’s easy. I can do my homework during it, and it’ll look real good for my transcripts.

The city comes by and collects cans. Some homeless guys go through trash cans on the street, and sort through people’s recycling from the curb to get bottles to turn in. Five cents each. It’s a real commitment if you’re trying to make serious dough. Tariq had the genius idea that if we talked to some neighbors and got them to hold their cans and bottles for us, we wouldn’t have to rummage and it’d be guaranteed cash.

We’d hit one block at a time, me going down one side and T going down the other. I’ll have to do both sides of the street myself now, I guess. And get double the money, too. I try to let that make me happy.

I go down the block on my regular side, knocking. Someone usually opens the door. Soon I’m dragging a few plastic sacks down Peach Street. Past the place where it happened, and the brick wall that now bears Tariq’s face.
Miss you, buddy.

I knock. The door opens. “Hi, Mr. Arlen. You got any cans for me?”

“Hi, Tyrell.” He leaves the door half open and walks out of sight to wherever he keeps his recycling. He’s a white guy, and he likes his beer. He usually gives us a decent haul. “Yeah, I got a big load for you this week.” He reappears with a bulging sack of cans and bottles.

From the background comes the rubber sucking, jar-rattling sound of a fridge door opening.

“Oh, sorry,” I tell him. I didn’t mean to bother you while you had company.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, his voice growing tense.

A shadow moves across the hallway behind him. My eye goes to it, automatically. I see a face that I’ve seen every day on television. A face that now looms in my nightmares.

ROCKY

Tyrell brings in cans to recycle. He has a troubled look in his eye. On account of how he used to bring in cans with Tariq, I figure. They made decent money at it.

“How are you holding up?” I ask him.

“I’m okay,” he says, real clipped. He’s here to do business, not chitchat. I can respect that.

“Do you want cash, or do you want to buy anything?”