How It Went Down (24 page)

“Thanks for being there,” I tell her.

“I want a different kind of life, too,” she blurts. I can see it haunting her in the way her face droops. Strange, because I think someone like her could be anything.

We tip toward each other and hug and we both start crying. She knows my struggle, and I don’t know hers, but it doesn’t really matter because maybe in the end of it we’ll be friends and maybe I can erase that text from Brick and someday forget that he ever even sent it. Maybe someday there’ll be a guy sweet enough to walk me home, and too gentle to try to kiss me right away.

“I have to go to work,” Kimberly says, pulling away from me. She tugs a pocket pack of tissues out of her purse and hands me one. We blow our noses in unison. It makes us laugh.

“Oh, God,” she says. “We’re such a mess.”

“Tell me about it.”

She gives me another tissue. I dry my eyes roughly while she swipes delicately at the mascara-smear circles under her eyes. I’m not even wearing makeup. That’s how pathetic I’ve become.

“I like doing hair,” she says. “I’m not unhappy. It’s just … what if there’s more out there for me, you know?” She blows her nose again.

“I’m scared to be alone,” I admit.

“You get used to it,” she says. “It’s actually kind of great.” She nudges me. “You get to decide everything.” She hesitates. Then continues. “I get off at seven. You want to come over for dinner?”

“Really?”

“Sure. Do you like reality TV?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Who am I kidding? I love watching crazy people go at each other in some stupid game show.

“Cool. It’s like junk food, you know? Just to take our minds off of things. I have some episodes saved.”

“Okay, yeah.”

Kimberly doesn’t live with her parents, she tells me; she has a roommate, which seems so grown-up and cool.

“I’ll just pick up some pizza on the way home, if that’s okay.”

“Sure.” We smile at each other, and then she starts away.

Over her shoulder she calls, “What kind do you like?”

“Saus—” I start, but then I stop. It’s funny, sausage and peppers is what Noodle likes. Now I get to choose. “Pepperoni and mushroom?”

“Perfect. See you later.”

“Later.” My stomach rumbles. For the first time in a long time, I feel myself looking forward to a meal.

TINA

Tyrell holds my hand.

We look at the tall gray gates.

No. No. NO.

It’s okay
, Tyrell says.

Tyrell is nice

He lets me wrap my arms around him

The end of his T-shirt wads up in my hands

Skinny in the middle

He feels almost the same as my brother did

I close my eyes and pretend

No. No. NO.

It’s the safest place to put it, don’t you think?

I think a lot of things

But no one asks me

“I’m scared.”

It was okay to tell Tariq

Tyrell is okay too

Tyrell says:
I’m scared too.

“Tariq wouldn’t be scared.”

So let’s try to be brave,
Tyrell says.
Like Tariq.

Like Tariq.

VERNESHA

Leaning against the cemetery gates, I close my eyes in wonder. That baby girl of mine. No one understands her tough little heart, her courage. Rarely does she try to leave the house alone. Maybe I’m not giving her enough credit.

No. I give her credit. It’s the world I don’t trust. And with reason.

Mom was asleep—I could hear her snoring—and then the front door slammed. I went racing after Tina, but she is fleet. Moving with her head down, backpack clenched. Determination stamped all over her. I decided just to follow.

Thinking, maybe it would show me what is going in her head. Since she won’t hardly talk about any of it.

I thought at first the cameras might stop her, and startle her into returning inside, but there was no one out there. For the first time in a week, I can breathe fresh air without comment.

The vigil is done, the funeral is done, the people have all marched in protest. Now the world is moving on, and yet my own heart has barely resumed beating.

My heart, at the moment, is racing away from me, in hot-pink sneakers, looking both ways before crossing each street, like she’s supposed to. The knot in my chest eases when Tyrell catches up with her. He holds her hand, and she lets him, which is a bit of a surprise. When he talks to her, she answers. I keep my distance.

When she comes out through the gates, I’ll be here. We’ll take the pieces that are left and carry on.

SAMMY

Tom Arlen’s place is easy to find. Right down there on Peach Street. I try to steady my chest. Control my breathing. I ring the doorbell, real civilized.

A white man answers. Tom Arlen, I guess. I pull my gun, stick it under his chin. Drive him back inside the house. The door slams behind me. I lock and bolt it tight. We’re both breathing hard. He doesn’t fight me.

“Where is Franklin?” I whisper. “Don’t call out. Just tell me where to find him.”

“There’s no one here,” Arlen says. “I live alone.”

I make him sit in a kitchen chair. Tie him to it with some twine that’s loose on the counter. There’s no sound, elsewhere. I pull my knife, angle it along Arlen’s cheek. He harbored a fugitive. That deserves a cut, at least. A flick of my wrist.

He cries out, “Stop.”

“You know what you did. Last chance,” I tell him. “Where is he?”

Arlen struggles against the ties binding his limbs. I’m scared now, because this wasn’t part of the plan. I was coming after Franklin. I didn’t really think beyond that.

Arlen doesn’t speak. The TV is on, some kind of garden show. Whatever.

I walk through every room of the house. The place is clean, smells like cigarettes and beer. The guest room bed is rumpled. I open the closets.

There’s really no point. You can just tell, by the feeling: there’s no one else in the house.

If Jack Franklin was ever here, he’s gone.

TYRELL

I dig with the trowel Tina brought. Her small hands grab fistfuls of the grassy turf, lining them up beside the hole.

“Can we see Tariq?”

“We can’t dig that deep,” I tell her.

“Is he down there?” she pokes at the ground.

“Not really,” I say. “Just his body. It’s kind of hard to understand.”

“He’s gone forever?”

“Yeah. It’s pretty weird, right?”

“Pretty weird.” She traces the line of the letters on the headstone with a small finger.

I get the sheathed knife out of the backpack and give it to Tina. “You can do the honors.” She doesn’t seem to know what I mean. “Put it in the hole.”

She lays it in the shallow cradle we’ve dug. I help her tuck in the strap; it wants to bend and move and flop out of place. We pack the dirt on top of it, pushing it down as firm and flat as we can.

“Bye-bye, bad knife.”

That’s for sure. “Good riddance.”

“Is it time to cry now?” Tina says, which sure enough makes my eyes prick.

“Well, if you feel like it.”

She shakes her head and picks at the grass. “That’s what happens at home,” she says. “We talk about Tariq. Then we cry.”

“It’s sad. It’ll be sad for a long time.”

Tina pats the fresh knife grave. “Was Tariq bad?”

The million-dollar question. Coming from her small, innocent mouth it seems like even more than that. Like it’s everything.

I’m nowhere near knowing what to say. I pick up her hands one by one and brush the dirt off them. “You probably knew him better than anybody. What do you think?”

Tina looks at the sky. I follow her lead, and look up. Is Tariq watching us from someplace? If he is, I hope he’s liking what he sees. He loved Tina. He loved me.

It’s silent for so long that I’m convinced she’s not going to answer. We brush off the dirt and head toward the street. From beyond the cemetery gates her mother waves to us. I smile and wave. The sun glints off the gates like a wink.
Message received, Tariq.
We are never as alone as we think.

Tina puts one small hand in mine as we walk.

“I think Tariq was just Tariq,” she says.

It makes me smile.

“That’s what he always said,” Tina adds.

“What?” I ask, but I already know. I can hear him saying it. All the time, he used to say it. How could I forget?

I’m just being me, bro.

Tina whispers the rest. “You just be you.”