All American Boys (26 page)

M
y mother did eventually show up with the lawyer she found Wednesday evening, but by the time she got there, I was wiped, maybe from getting up so early talking with Dad, or maybe from actually talking with Dad, or maybe from talking with Mrs. Fitzgerald, or maybe from all of it. I was beat. I tried to rally up the energy because this attorney, a young woman named Maya Whitmeyer, was definitely there to talk business, or law, or whatever, but I just couldn't. I was so sick of talking about it.

“Son, can you at least just tell her the story, beginning to end?” my mother requested. And of course, I did. Again. I rambled off every detail, just like I had done with my parents, my brother, and my friends. Ms. Whitmeyer took notes in crazy fast writing and asked if the officer ever even read me my rights (the right to
remain silent, the right to blah blah blah), which, once I thought about it, I realized he hadn't. He just skipped to the part about me not having the right to be in that store. She then explained that this should be “open-and-shut,” which was lawyer-talk for “easy.” But we all knew that it wasn't that simple. These types of cases were never easy. We had all seen cops get away with far worse, so why would this be any different? I mean, I wasn't killed. True, I hadn't even touched the cop; the video footage showed it all. I even had a witness. Still, there was no such thing as “open-and-shut” in cases like these. But I appreciated the lawyer's confidence. I guess somebody had to be hopeful.

There were so many questions I had for the lawyer, like why, exactly, she felt like this was going to be “open-and-shut.” But honestly, I was just too exhausted to even get into it. Before drifting back to sleep, I made sure to give my mother Ms. Lansing's card. I'd barely glanced at it when she gave it to me, but before I handed it to my mom, I checked it out.

KATIE LANSING

Archivist

Springfield Department of Records and Information Services

Under her name and title was her phone number and e-mail. Seemed like another office job to me. Anything that said “Department of” just meant the job came with a cubicle
and benefits. At least that's what Spoony always said. I handed the card to my mother.

“This is the lady who was in the store. She was here today,” I said.

“Here?” my mother asked, nearly leaping out of her seat. The lawyer did the exact same thing.

“Yeah. She came by to see me. She told me to tell you that she would testify.”

My mother stared at the card, a huge smile coming across her face, then handed it to the lawyer, who scanned it, then nodded and murmured, “This is good. This is good.” And that was good night for me.

Thursday morning I was awakened by Dr. Barnes. He had come by to let me know that my vitals had been stable for forty-eight hours now—Clarissa had been keeping track, and I had been keeping up with my spirometering—and the internal bleeding had finally subsided. I just needed to stay put for a few more hours and then he'd be discharging me. Well, once my parents got there.

Best news ever. I was so ready to go. I took a shower, making sure I didn't get the bandage on my nose too wet, and I had to wash my torso lightly—even the slightest pressure on my ribs still made me see white. But when I got out of the bathroom, I realized that the only clothes I had were the ones I had on when I got to the hospital. My mother hadn't brought
me anything clean to wear besides fresh underwear—she brought eight pairs! Actual clothes seemed to slip her mind. And if she hadn't thought about it, I knew my father hadn't thought about it. And Spoony—forget about it. I reached into the bottom drawer of the side table, which was also a dresser, and pulled out the plastic bag stuffed into it. I picked at the knot in the drawstring—damn, it was tight—until the mouth of the bag finally opened. I pulled my clothes out. First my jeans. I gave them a shake and laid them on one of the chairs. They were filthy and there was a small hole in the left knee, the knee that hit the ground first. Next came my shirt, swatting it out of the tight ball it had been in for the previous five days, the wrinkles deep and seemingly permanent. There was blood up by the collar. I laid it on another chair. The jacket Spoony gave me was in the closet. I opened that door, looked at the sleeve ripped a good three inches in the shoulder seam. I didn't bother taking it out—no reason to yet. I felt exhausted again, so I sat on the edge of the bed in nothing but clean boxers and looked at my clothes all ragged and torn. My blood on the shirt, concrete dust dingy-ing up the denim. Clothes that I would probably never wear again.

“Hello?” Clarissa's voice came from behind the door, just before she poked her head in like usual. I didn't flinch. It honestly didn't matter. “Whoops, I'm sorry,” she said, noticing that I wasn't dressed.

“It's cool,” I replied, grabbing the gown. “Come in.”

Clarissa came in as I snapped the gown shut. “So, I hear you're leaving us,” she said, pushing in the breakfast tray for the last time.

“That's what Dr. Barnes said.”

“Good,” Clarissa said. She twisted her hair up in a bun and checked my vitals, I guess just as a final precautionary measure. It would've sucked if she heard something weird in my heart, or if my temperature or blood pressure was high, and then I couldn't go home. Luckily, everything was fine. “So what's the first thing you're going to do when you get out of here?”

Funny, I hadn't really thought about it. I just wanted to go home. “I don't really know. I guess try to see my boys. Put on some clean clothes,” I said, smirking awkwardly. Clarissa glanced to the chairs where I had my dirty T-shirt and jeans spread out like some kind of strange art exhibit.

“Oh my . . .” She put her hand over her mouth. “You want me to put those back in the bag?”

“No,” I said. “I got it.” I grabbed the shirt and jeans as Clarissa held the bag open for me to dump them in. I didn't want her to have to touch that stuff. Then I tied the drawstring back in a knot and made the decision right then and there to put the bag in the trash.

“Well, I'm probably not going to see you, so you make sure you take care of yourself.”

“Thanks for everything. Really.” I sat back on the bed as Clarissa gathered up her equipment.

“But before I go, I wanted to ask . . . did you ever finish that drawing you were working on?”

“Yeah, I finished it yesterday.” I slid my sketch pad off the dresser and handed it to her.

“Wow,” Clarissa said, gazing at the paper, then glancing back at me. “Rashad, this is incredible. You should be proud.” Then she looked a little closer. “Hey . . . this one has a face.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because, well, whoever is looking at this scene, you, me, I don't know, that lady Claudia James, my friends, my family, Mrs. Fitzgerald—”

“Who?”

“This lady I met,” I said. “Anyway, all of us looking at the scene see the person who has the hand put through his chest. The dude with his heart torn out. It's impossible to ignore him. He has a face. He deserves a face.”

Clarissa looked from the drawing, to me, then back to the drawing. “Yeah, he does.”

My mom and dad showed up a few hours later. I had texted my mother, reminding her to bring me clean clothes, which she did. I also texted English, Shannon, and Carlos to let them know that I was finally on my way home.

#RashadIsAbsentAgainToday is what they all texted back, along with,

THURSDAY 5:33 p.m. from Los

ABOUT TIME. I ALMOST HAD TO REALLY STEAL TIFF. GIVE HER A SHOULDER TO CRY ON.

THURSDAY 5:34 p.m. from Shannon

DUDE IM SO GLAD UR OUT. SHIT IS CRAZY. GUZZO GOT INTO IT WITH QUINN AT PRACTICE. YOU KNO QUINN?

THURSDAY 5:35 p.m. to Shannon

WHO IS QUINN?

THURSDAY 5:36 p.m. from Shannon

HE'S ON THE TEAM. MEAN JUMPSHOT. U MIGHT NOT KNO HIM. BUT GUZZO HIS BOY, AND THEY WENT AT IT OVER THIS WHOLE THING.

THURSDAY 5:38 p.m. from Los

IM COMIN OVER 2NITE AROUND 8 SOLDIER-BOY. NO CRYING. I KNO HOW MUCH UVE MISSED ME LOL

THURSDAY 5:39 p.m. from English

DUDE WE GOTTA TALK. SCHOOL IS INTENSE. EVERYBDY'S PICKED A SIDE.

THURSDAY 5:41 p.m. to English

I KNO. COME THRU 2NITE. LOS IS COMING. BRING SHAN.

And before I knew it, I was leaving the hospital, wearing a sweat suit, carrying nothing but my notepad. But before we left, I tore out the piece I'd drawn and set it on the food tray for Clarissa. Just to thank her again. I wish I could've seen Mrs. Fitzgerald one more time, but the truth is, when it was finally time to go, I was ready to get the hell out of there. I didn't want to make any extra stops.

Apparently, the lawyer my folks hired asked the media to give us some privacy, which was a good thing because we didn't have to dash from the hospital to the car through a mob of cameras and microphones. That would have been too
much for me. Instead, it was just a few short, peaceful steps from the door to the car. I sat in the backseat as my dad drove through the city. Neither of my parents said much, which was weird. I had this strange feeling like they were uncomfortable around me, or around each other. Something was different, but I couldn't put my finger on it.

I cracked the window, the fall crisp seeping in, the familiar static of air pushing through a tight space. Through neighborhoods, down the crowded streets, First Street, Second Street, Third Street. Red light. My father put his blinker on, but there was no reason for him to turn. We lived straight ahead. But he made a left at Third and went around the block, coming back out to Main Street at Fifth, the whole time glancing at me weird through the rearview. But I knew what he was doing. He was dodging Fourth Street. He wanted to skip Jerry's, as if him not driving by it made it no longer exist. As if that's all it would take to help me forget. Maybe he was doing it for himself, but the way my parents were acting made it clear that this was something they had discussed.

I decided not to bring it up, and instead just sat quietly until we got to the house, where I went straight in my room, to be around all my things. All my faceless sketches taped to the wall above my tiny twin bed. But more importantly, I needed my computer, so that I could scour the Internet to try to catch up on my own life. You know how weird it is to
hashtag yourself, to read posts and updates other people—most of whom you don't even know—make about you? It's strange. But I did it anyway.

#RashadIsAbsentAgainToday brought up hundreds, maybe a thousand posts. Some were just pictures of all these random places with that tag, just like Spoony showed me. I knew where the first one started. At least I thought I knew. But I had no idea where all the other ones came from. Other links connected to the hashtag were of the news clips. Turns out, I was only watching the local news channel (the hospital could only get five or six channels anyway), but I was being covered in all the newspapers, and even on cable news channels. What the . . . this was insane! There were clips of panel discussions, where preachers and community leaders sat around arguing for me. Defending me. I mean, not just me, but, y'know. And then there were some clips of people defending Galluzzo, everyone saying the same things:
He was just doing his job
, and
He's a good guy
, and
We don't know if that boy was stealing or not
. And there were pictures of people holding up pieces of paper with the hashtag written on it. Some of them just said
ABSENT AGAIN
. There was even one of somebody in a T-shirt, I couldn't see the face, but written on the front of the shirt was
I'M MARCHING
, and then the back said
ARE YOU?

Besides all this, the wildest part was seeing all the pictures of me snatched from websites and social media pages. Some
of them were of me dressed in my usual, everyday wear. Jeans sagged just below the waist, T-shirt, sneakers. Pictures of me throwing up the peace sign, some—the ones Spoony feared—of me flipping off the camera. Carlos and the fellas had been cropped out. These images would have nasty comments under them from people saying stuff like,
Looks like he'd rob a store
, and
If he'd pull his pants up, maybe he would've gotten away with the crime! Lol
, and
Is that a gang sign?
Other pictures were of me in my ROTC uniform. Of course, those had loads of comments like,
Does this look like a thug?
and
If he were white with this uniform on, would you still question him?

Everything was a mess. The real world. The cyberworld. All of it. I wanted to turn the computer off, but it was like seeing a car wreck—you keep looking. And I kept digging. Deeper and deeper into the rabbit hole, finding pictures and comments about my family. People saying that my father was a dirty cop and asking why everybody cared so much about me when my dad shot a kid for the same reason years ago.
Oh, so just because Officer Galluzzo's white, everybody's mad now? What about Officer Butler! This kid is the son of a bad cop. Karma is a bitch!
I have to admit, that one stung the most. Rage started to surge through me, but instead of shutting my computer down, I decided to try to look up Darnell Shackleford. I hated knowing what I now knew about my father. That he had done this to someone, and even if he didn't mean to, he ruined an
innocent kid's life forever. All because of fear and assumption. And even though my father lived with the guilt, I now had to live with it too. So as I clicked on the first image link to pop up, as I stared at Darnell's high school senior picture, the arms of his wheelchair peeking into the camera too, I made it clear to myself that this protest, this whole thing, was also for him.