Authors: Kekla Magoon

Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #Social Issues, #Prejudice & Racism, #Death & Dying

How It Went Down (13 page)

BOOK: How It Went Down

9.92Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

ads

Vernie walks with her back tall. Straight to the microphones.

“Thank you for coming,” she says. She speaks good. My heavy heart rises; pride keeps it from falling right out my chest. The weight of all that sorrow.

Lord Jesus. My heart holds much too much today.

All the lights and the noise, a fierce sorta mess. Tina noses right against my skirts. Poor baby. I hold her close. I don’t know how it is inside her mind, and there ain’t no sense to make of this anyhow. I look up at the sky. Will the hand of God: C
ome down. Protect her
.

My daughter made it clear: my job today is Tina. Didn’t say nothing, just pushed her precious baby into my arms. There’s a job to do.

I’ve watched Vernie’s babies from the time they were new, half raised them, but when it came to looking out for Tina, that job was always Tariq’s, in a way. He took the role of big brother so serious. Tina loved that boy, something powerful. I don’t know if she’ll ever understand why he’s gone. Or if I will.

SAMMY

The coffin is closed. I’m glad about that. I had it in my head that it was gonna be open and I was going to have to see him.

Last time I saw T alive, I was showing him the ropes. I wanted him to be my bag man, holding the dope. It’s the riskiest position in the hydrant roll, but everyone starts in that job.

I had to reassure him. He looked a little uneasy, until I told him, “Look, I pull a hundred bucks a night for a couple hours’ work. Easy.”

T grinned when I said that.

I smiled too. He was starting to get hooked on the idea. I could see it in his eyes.

“That’s more than I thought,” he says.

I put my arm around his shoulder. I was wearing my Kings jacket, unzipped, and one wing of it folded around him. “It’d be just like old times,” I promised. “You wanna start tonight?”

“We’ll see,” he said. But he didn’t walk away for a couple more minutes.

BRICK

Here come Tyrell. Walking with his head down and sidestepping the crowds. I never understood what Tariq saw in that small fry. Tariq wasn’t so big himself, physically, but his voice and his personality made him seem about as big as me. Tyrell, on the other hand, manages to seem smaller than he is. Folded up, or something.

To be truthful, I’m not sure if he has what it takes. Only reason I ever tried to hook Ty was that it seemed like him and Tariq were something of a package deal.
“There’s gonna come a point when you need brothers,”
I’d tell him. T would throw his arm around Tyrell’s shoulders.
“I got brothers,”
he’d say.
“From way back.”

I knew he counted me as one of them. That’s why I let it slide when he put me off. In the long run, the Kings had him. That much was clear. But Tariq woulda busted out any trick you can imagine to protect Ty.

“My boy’s going to college,”
he’d brag, even when Ty wasn’t around and we could be real. Maybe so, I figure, but that’s two years off. Till then, Ty’s walking alone.

I’ve seen him the last couple of days, skulking around, flinching at his own farts. The Stingers razz him, my guys razz him, and he can’t handle it.

Tariq managed it all so natural, so easy, that Ty’s never had to face the real pressures of the street. He ain’t equipped. Helping him out is the least I can do. All he needs is some red around his shoulders; after that,
all
the Kings will take care of him. He’ll be one of our own.

It’s what T would have wanted.

TYRELL

It’s a hard enough day. I don’t need another layer on it. Brick looms larger than ever.

“Ty,” he says. I don’t want to be nicknamed. Not by him.

I lash out. “What?”

Brick holds up a hand, all innocent. “Chill out. I was just going to say sorry, man.”

“Oh.” But it’s hard to relax with them standing so close.

Brick puts a heavy arm across my shoulders and draws me to his side. It feels … strangely good. I don’t want it to.

“Tough day,” Noodle says. “For everyone.”

“Yeah.” I look at my shoes, polished up nice the way my grandpa used to insist for a formal occasion. But he’s gone, too. And Tariq. All the big arms on my shoulders. Now there’s only Brick.

“You know we’re here for you,” Brick says. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“Thanks.” I straighten my shoulders, shrugging him off.

“We’ll be by to check up on you,” Noodle says. He says it real kind. Not even looking at me, just rubbing a smudge off the back of his hand. “You hear me?”

“I’m fine,” I answer. Try to sound brave. Bigger than I felt underneath Brick’s arm. “You don’t have to do that.”

“What are brothers for?” Brick says. My stomach goes down like an elevator. What would Tariq say? Something quippy. Something quick. Something to let them know they can’t just claim me like that.

I can’t think of a damn thing. I just stand there. Down the aisle, in front of the altar, is the casket, gleaming white. Little spikes of terror pierce me. Barbs of sadness right behind. Tariq will never say a thing again. I’m on my own now.

“You know where you’re sitting?” Noodle asks.

“Up front,” I say quickly. Before they invite me to the back rows, all red and black and full of 8-5 Kings.

Brick clamps a hand on my shoulder. His jacket fans open and I can see the huge knife sheathed at his waist. “Catch you later, Ty.”

They saunter away. I wipe at the little patches of skin in front of my ears. I’m sweating, from under my hair.

I’m really good with problems. I can solve a differential equation in my head. I chew through trig angles like candy. I know this, and it just makes it worse. Because I don’t know how to solve this one.

JENNICA

Noodle looks like the others, black jeans hanging low, covered by the tail of a white button-up shirt. Red jacket. Black tie, all funky and crooked.

I put my hands on his chest. “Oh, come on,” I tell him. My fingers fumble to straighten his tie. He stands still over me, lifting his chin.

He won’t apologize for last night, and I won’t ask him to. We’ll just go back to business as usual, and pretend there isn’t anything wrong. I guess we’ve done it before. I guess we’ve done it a lot, now I think about it.

We sit with the Kings contingent in the second-to-last row. Noodle rests his hand on my thigh but he might as well be covering all of me. I’m protected, possessed. Untouchable.

It’s not that I don’t get it. The strength in numbers. How easy it is to sit and be surrounded by them. But I know enough to realize that the sick feeling in me is only going to grow, like a seed in the right soil.

I want out of this. I want out of what Noodle calls “the life.” I want my own life. Away.

I don’t want it to be this way forever, watching the guys I know die at one another’s hands, the rest shrugging it off like it’s just another Wednesday, just another shooting, just another death to swallow.

Reporters and cameras crowd the steps of the church. It was hard enough to get in; I can’t imagine how it’ll be to get out.

BRIAN TRELLIS

I have to cover my face just to get inside the church. Some of the TV people want to hail me as a local hero, for standing up to Tariq Johnson; the rest want to throw questions at me, like they’re trying to catch me in a lie.

I’m no hero. I can’t think of a heroic thing I ever done in my life before that day. And obviously, now, that doesn’t count either.

Tariq Johnson was clearly up to no good, one way or another. Rocky says he wasn’t a thief, but he was … something.. He was definitely one of the gang, the way they were ragging on him. So familiar. Like brothers.

He had a gun in his hand. I’m sure of it. I laid eyes on it. I mean, I must have. The deep-stabbing kind of fear I felt; that doesn’t come from nowhere. Certainly not from a Snickers bar. I know I stared into the deep black hole in that glinting barrel.

My hand on his shoulder. He flinches. I relive the moment over and over.

The shots.
Pop.
Pause.
Pop.

Here’s where it all goes wrong, though.

Tariq falls, I turn. Jack Franklin’s standing there. He lowers the gun, meets my eye for one split second. Nods. Then he takes off running.

I’ve seen that look often enough. It took me years to understand it. It’s a white man to white man glance: “We’re in this together.” Franklin thought he was saving a fellow white man from the clutches of an 8-5 thug.

People make mistakes. They look at the surface of things and see what they want to. Jack Franklin looking at me. Both of us, looking at Tariq.

If I don’t step in Tariq’s way, Jack Franklin never gets out of the car. Guaranteed. However right, however wrong, Tariq Johnson got shot because of me. He’s dead because of me.

KIMBERLY

The pastor’s anteroom, behind the nave of the sanctuary, is both cool and stuffy. A strange mix of fresh-blown air and dusty old tapestry. Pastor Birch has been kind enough to allow Reverend Sloan to join him here, waiting for the service to begin.

“Excuse me.” They glance up as I enter.

“Yes, Kimbee?” says Pastor Birch.

My face flushes, but hopefully they can’t see it in the dim light. A childhood nickname doesn’t exactly fit the image of me I want Al to see.

“Pastor, may I?” I wave my giant makeup pouch. Al surely needs a touch-up before going on camera again.

“Of course,” he answers, motioning me inside.

“I’ll just be a minute.”

Al’s attention goes to my figure, the way it does sometimes. It’s flattering, and not at all creepy, the way it can be from other men when they check me out. I chose this dress especially for him, after trying on everything funeral-appropriate in my closet. The gray jersey hugs my hips. The fabric forms an X over my chest and my cleavage. His eye follows the line of my breasts. A simple stone pendant rests on the ledge of that slender valley. For the first time in a long time, I feel genuinely sexy.

I look at him through my lashes, unzipping the pouch. “Is there anything else you need, Reverend?” I feel like I shouldn’t call him by his first name in this room, or in front of Pastor Birch.

“Thank you. I’m fine for now, Kimberly.”

“Just a tiny bit,” I decide, sweeping a sponge over his cheeks. “It’s looking pretty good.”

“Great.”

His knee nudges between my thighs. Accident, I’m sure. I part my legs a bit, though. Move closer.

When I’m done, I lean back. Al raises his eyes from my chest. “Thanks.”

“No problem. I’ll be right in front, if there’s anything else I can get for you.”

Pastor Birch glances at me over half glasses as I slide toward the door.

TYRELL

I escape through the church halls toward the Sunday school classrooms, heading for the men’s room farthest from the entrance. The door pushes open with a familiar groan.

“Hi, Tyrell,” someone says. I flinch away from the sound of my own name. The conversation with Brick left me skittish.

It’s Tariq’s father. Of course he would be at the funeral.

He runs a paper towel over his face. “I didn’t think anyone else would come back here.”

Me either, to be honest. “Hi,” I say. “Long time, no see.”

I don’t know how Tariq himself would feel about his dad being here. The guy hasn’t been around since maybe sometime in middle school. We don’t talk about our dads that much.

“I’ve been away,” he says. All the way across town, probably.

“Yeah.” What else is there to say?

“Well, I’m sorry,” I say, shaking his hand.

“Yeah.” He coughs some stuff out of his throat. “You guys still tight like you used to be?”

I nod.

He sits on the random folding chair that’s set up behind the door. It wobbles under his weight. He’s not that big a guy, it’s just a crappy chair. It’s probably been here a hundred years. I’ve never seen anyone actually use it.

It’s weird, seeing him in a suit. It’s doubly weird because I never realized how much Tariq looks exactly like him. It’s like looking at a future person that I’m never going to know.“I remember one time, we all went to the zoo,” he says. “You remember that? I took you boys. Some other kid too.”

“Junior, I think.” It seems right to hedge, even though I remember exactly. “Junior Collins.”

Tariq’s dad snaps his fingers. “Right. Junior. Yeah. I remember now. You guys still tight?”

“Junior’s locked up.”

“That’s too bad,” Tariq’s dad says. “You were always such good kids.”

He says it as if he knows. As if he was there.

“You were such good kids,” he murmurs. “Where did it go wrong?”

A thousand answers come to mind.

How about the day you showed Tariq your back?

It’s Underhill. That’s just how it goes.

We were good. It wasn’t us that went wrong.

I have to bite the words back, and I barely manage. I came up here to be alone, not to be nice.

But Tariq’s dad is crying. Tears slipping out. I’m not sure he even notices. And I
am
nice.