How It Went Down (5 page)

Emmy offered to work for me today, but I said no, I can handle it. I can’t just take a day off and be sad, not when there’s bills to pay at home. My aunt works hard just to keep a roof over our heads, so I chip in as much as I can to help out with everything else. I don’t want to be a burden to her.

Noodle picks me up and drives me over to the diner, like usual. He has a real old car, one that he fixes up himself to keep it running. It has a bench seat. I slide in, all the way across so I’m sitting next to him, like usual. We don’t talk in the car, though, which is strange.

“You okay?” he says at the third stoplight, all soft. He has his arm around my shoulders, across the bench seat back. His fingertips brush my bicep and I feel like crying. When he’s not around the Kings, he can be real thoughtful.

“Sure,” is what I say. Maybe he’ll believe me. Maybe he’ll never need to know that there’s a tiny mirror in my head, like a memory screen, showing Tariq’s body beneath my hands, dying over and over again.

“They’re planning a service for him, I heard. You wanna go to that?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, so we’ll go,” Noodle says. I rest my head on his shoulder, leave it there until we pull up at the diner.

“I love you,” he says, which makes me feel warm.

“Love you too,” I respond, wishing I felt it the way he does. But it’s just what you say, isn’t it? To the guy you let kiss you and touch you all over. “You’ll pick me up tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“Can it be just us after that?” I ask.

“Okay,” he says. “I mean, once we see Brick and them for a while.”

I grit my teeth.
Of course.
I want to say, “Don’t pick me up then,” because I really want some distance from the whole mess of it. Everything to do with the Kings, and Tariq.

What I actually say is, “Okay.” And I let him kiss me.

“See you soon,” Noodle says.

I give him a tiny wave and go inside. I take over for Shelly. She hugs me, which is strange, and heads on home. The small diner is quiet. One customer right now, and old Cup working the grill. I’ll work alone from three to five, then there’ll be three of us to cover the dinner rush.

They’ve got the TV on, like usual. It’s mounted high above the counter. The one customer is the old guy who’s always in here, in counter seat number four. He gazes up at the set with reddened, watery eyes, sipping coffee that I will now and again offer to warm. He’s a good tipper, and the kind who looks in your eyes and not at your chest like most of the counter guys. Lone wolves and whatnot.

Some kind of news is on. The pretty news anchor—Tammy? Tonya? I like her hair, all pretty and almost white. It makes me touch my own hair, its thick wavy darkness, bound at the base of my neck for health code reasons. I wish I could toss it, like she does, and have it flow delicate and smooth.

The frame cuts away, just like that, to a photo of Tariq. I flinch. It’s all I can do not to drop the carafe of coffee.

“Controversy over the shooting last night,” the male anchor says. “Some witnesses say Johnson may not have been armed at all.”

“That’s right, Carl.” The cool blonde fills the screen again. “Sources say that the alleged shooter, Jack Franklin, may have mistaken a Snickers bar for a deadly weapon.”

“It’s hard to imagine,” Carl says. “Making that kind of mistake.”

I feel sick to my stomach.

“And he was just sixteen,” the blonde says. “Possibly a gang member, say police, though his family has come forward to refute that claim. It seems there are more questions than answers in this story, Carl.”

“That’s right, Tracy. It’s such a sad thing…”

I check the old guy’s coffee one more time, then go into the kitchen. I don’t want to hear any more.

BRIAN TRELLIS

Six o’clock, local news. Every station’s got a different version of the story.

Johnson had a gun. Johnson didn’t have a gun.

Johnson robbed a store. Johnson was minding his own business.

Johnson was a member of the 8-5 Kings.

Johnson was in the wrong place at the wrong time, wearing the wrong clothes.

I saw what I saw. I told the police what I saw—Johnson running from the scene of the crime. Someone shouted to me that he had a gun, like a warning, and I backed off. I believe he had one, sure enough. He had a hard look in his eye, and I’ve been around Underhill long enough to know a guy doesn’t come by that kind of coldness so casual.

Six-thirty, national news. “
… growing controversy surrounding the shooting death of seventeen-year-old Tariq Johnson…”

I had just looked away from him, from those cold eyes, when the first shot hit.

Next thing I saw was Jack Franklin. He looked at me too. Looked me square in the eye. I can’t shake it. Can’t help wondering if he saved my life, or made a huge mistake.

TYRELL

The realness starts to sink in, slow and still kind of unbelievable. My skin tingles like it’s on fire. I sit on the rug in front of the couch, staring at the television. I know I’m going to have to turn it off before Dad gets home, which is any minute.

The news is on. I usually watch at this time, but today it makes me feel sick to my stomach, and I don’t want to get that way in front of Dad. He’ll go for the throat if he senses any kind of weakness.

“Tyrell?” Dad calls. I didn’t even hear the door open. My fingers fumble for the remote, somewhere near me. On the screen, Tariq’s face appears. I’ve been waiting for them to cycle back to the story.

Dad comes in from the kitchen. “Tyrell, did you hear me?” His tone says he’s already called after me more than once. But it doesn’t matter. I can’t turn it off. Not now.

His work boots approach me. I don’t need to look at his face to know why he’s mad. I forgot about the vegetables Mom left out for me to chop. They’re supposed to be done and ready by the time she gets home to cook dinner. He’s going to grab me, rip into me, but I don’t even care. I don’t look away from the news report.

“Tyrell!”

“Shut up!” It’s a bad thing to say to Dad, but it just blurts out. His step falters. I never talk back to him. Not ever. I duck my head against my knees.

Dad comes around the TV to see what I’m watching.

“That’s your friend, isn’t it?” He stands by the arm of the couch, knees at the level of my head.

I look up at him. Tariq has been in this apartment a thousand times. Probably a hundred times in the past year alone. Two or three times a week means a hundred and four times minimum, up to a hundred and fifty six. And I’m only really counting weekdays there, which means tack on another fifty or so for the times he stopped by on the weekends.

Dad’s looking back at me, expecting me to say something. The numbers just whirl in my head.

“Yeah,” I say. “That’s Tariq. You know him.”

“Tariq,” he says, like he needs to be reminded. “Right—that gang member who got killed last night?”

“He wasn’t a—”

Dad’s voice rises over mine. “He’s a friend of yours? What the hell are you doing hanging around people like that?”

My throat clenches and I can’t even answer him.

“God damn it, Tyrell.” Dad stomps into the kitchen.

In my peripheral vision flashes the same still image of Tariq that they keep showing, over and over.

5.
THE VIGIL

MS. ROSALITA

You can hear the women wailing all up and down the block. Mournful and high, cries like soaring birds.

I’m too old for tears. Old enough to see we’re all caught up in a great big circle. Birth, life, death. I see the beauty in it all.

It’s supposed to be natural, though. You wear yourself down until your heart stops beating. Until your chest no longer sees fit to rise. These kids, though. These guns. Their bullets, their little tubes of metal that fly up and down the block … that’s nothing natural.

I can’t blame the women for crying like gulls. Any young boy’s death is a slice across the pristine circle. It is a tragedy.

When I hear them start up wailing, I go on down to the street, to walk with them. I take their supple young hands in mine, the backs of which wave like the ocean. Veins, beneath a whisper skin. I tuck their tear-streaked cheeks to my breast, to comfort. I am nothing, if not a picture of the truth that life goes on. And on. And on.

They tell me they were his friends. Beautiful young women, their faces lined with the first of many sorrows. It is a thing I cannot erase from them, nor would I try. We are caught in the circle.

Come with us, they say. To the vigil.

I stroke their hair. They are so young. To keep vigil means to wait. To keep watch. But these babies, these beauties have no idea what it means to wait. I walk with them.

There’s a brick wall up, right over near where the shooting happened. It was all taped off for an hour or two, maybe through the night, but by the morning all the yellow tape had come down, and people started leaving flowers and candles and so on lined up along the sidewalk like a tribute. Someone came along and hosed down the bloodstain, but you can still see it. Real faint. I’m ninety-four, but my eyes are still good enough to see that. It is the first time in my life I ever wished my body would act its age. I have come to the point, at long last, where I have seen too much.

MELODY

Miss Rosalita tucks me against her and we walk.
Shh
, she whispers. I can’t help crying, though. T was something special. I can’t help but remember that my first kiss came from him. Back when we were thirteen. It wasn’t ever gonna be serious, though. I mean, it wasn’t ever gonna be me and T, sitting in a tree or nothing, but we got some of the k-i-s-s-i-n-g done all the same.

Someone’s got to be your first, and T was a good choice. Not scary or nothing. Not the type to try and get his freak on if you just even act a tiny bit like you might like him. So it was good practice. Maybe for him too. I wonder that from time to time. If he thought I was a good choice too. I mean, we knew each other forever. It happened easy.

How it happened was, we was walking home from school together one day. We weren’t alone or nothing. There was other people with us, but we ended up kinda hanging back. No real reason. No plan. Least, I didn’t have a plan, and if T had one he was being real bad about bringing it to happen. So, anyway, we was walking. Not saying nothing. I figured he looked good, so I said something dumb, like, “You look good.” I just blurted it out, right in the middle of trying to think of something better to say.

Tariq was all like, “What?”

So I said, “Never mind.”

A minute or two passed, while I was feeling like a dumbass.

Then T says, “You look good, too.”

Then we was walking even slower, until the people we was with disappeared around the next corner. Then we wasn’t walking anymore, and T goes, “So…”

And I say, “Yeah…”

And then it just kinda happened. He kissed me, or I kissed him, or something in the middle of that, where we just kinda came together and it was perfect for a few moments. We kissed on the lips, and then we kissed with tongue. I never did it before. I don’t know if he had, but it seemed to go okay. He put his arms all up around me, real gentle. It was nice. I woulda done it again with him later, but the time just never seemed right. We would look at each other, kinda secret-like, from time to time, and I would think maybe … but there was always people around. It just never happened. I always thought, someday, it would again. But not now …

So that was it. A couple minutes, maybe. Then we kept on walking.

We was on Peach Street that day, down past the shops a little. It happened kinda close to where he died, I figure. That’s a little bit weird to think about. We was down in front of that old brick wall, so maybe it was even on the very same spot. You don’t stop to measure when you’re too busy worrying about how your breath smells. It coulda been the same exact spot. Now I got that to wonder about too.

Hard to stop wondering it. ’Cause T’s gone now, and I kissed him on the mouth one time, and his lips felt warm.

WILL (AKA EMZEE)

I slap hands with my homies. “Gotta jet.” If I’m not home in time for dinner, Mom will have it out for me.

“Jet? Bet you keep it in your garage,” one of them says. I roll my eyes. They’re forever razzing me about Steve being so rich.

“Naw, that’s where we keep the chopper,” I answer, slugging him in the arm.

We all laugh. “Catch you later, dog,” they chorus as I make my way away.

I don’t know what it means when they tease me. We’re supposed to be tight, but I’ve never had any of them over to Steve’s place. They ain’t asked, either. I don’t know if they would want to come, or if it’d be like showing off. I mean, you push a button and ice cubes jump out of the door on the fridge. You can get crushed ice or shaved ice, even, if you have that kind of preference when it comes to ice. What the heck is that about? And six TVs? It’s embarrassing.

I guess I’m not quite one of the guys anymore, which isn’t fair. It’s not like I chose Steve for my mom. It wasn’t my idea to move across town. I don’t disapprove, when it comes right down to it. Steve’s nice enough. He’s going to pay for me to go to college, which is a pretty good deal. We get along. Which is to say, I keep my head down most of the time, and he doesn’t bother me. But I didn’t choose a life like his, with him. Mom did.

The singing surrounds me before I can come up from my thoughts. I’m on Peach Street. There’s a crowd gathering. A small old woman presses a flower into my hand. Everyone has them—they’re throwing them forward, against the wall, a great mound of petaled beauty in honor of Tariq. I hold mine. The singing is soft and close and tearful. Everyone on the street gently sways. The people fold me in and before I can breathe, I feel like a part of something. It’s a feeling I don’t want to let go of.

KIMBERLY

Peach Street is all crammed with people, hugging and crying. I have to walk through it to get home but I try not to look.