‌Tuesday

 

 

‌On Tuesday morning, everything changed—for real.

Spray painted in wide, loopy neon-blue letters like a script of stars so bright they glowed in the day, and stretched so large it covered the entire sidewalk at the foot of the front stairs, was a graffiti tag. A tag so huge every single student, teacher, administrator, staff member, parent, and visitor to Spring eld Central had to step over or around, and could not miss:

RASHAD IS ABSENT AGAIN TODAY

Everybody was staring at it, taking photos of it, posing with it, and de nitely talking about it. As soon as I saw it, I felt a ball of shredded nerves unwind and whip around my stomach. Oh shit! And my rst thought was, probably just like everyone else’s: Who’d done it?

At rst you could tell the teachers were deliberately avoiding discussing it, but it was pretty much all we (the students) talked about between classes or at lunch. I say “we,” but I was still trying to take Coach’s advice and ignore all distractions, so when it came up, I tried not to engage. But it was frigging impossible. At lunch, kids were taking food from the cafeteria and heading out to the front steps, eating and talking while sitting near the giant graffiti tag, but I avoided that and looked for some of the guys on the team in the cafeteria. We’d always sat together at lunch, only in fragments, never the whole team together, but with the impromptu gathering out front, everything had shied.

Only Guzzo, Dwyer, Hales, and Reegan sat inside—the four other white guys on the team. Guzzo looked up and saw me in line. He waved me over to their table, and although he’d ignored me all day yesterday, his interest now kind of ticked me off. See, that wasn’t Guzzo’s style. Usually, he’d let

others call the shots. But today he was too insistent, beckoning me like he was some kind of Ma a boss and I was supposed to hustle right over to him. And besides, once I had my sad, soupy Sloppy Joe on the tray and looked out over the rest of the cafeteria, I realized it wasn’t just the basketball team divided up this way today. Paul had once told me about how the city’s demographics had changed over the last thirty years, and why that mattered for his job. “It’s harder to be a cop here now than it used to be,” he’d said, and his facts had been so particular I couldn’t help but think of them now as I looked across the deserted tables in the half-empty room. irty years ago the city had been 84 percent white, Paul’d told me. Now, not counting Hispanics and Latinos who identi ed as white, Spring eld was 37 percent white. Strange how some of that stuff just sticks to you, especially the shit that suddenly feels so real. Because right now, only about half the high school who had lunch h period sat in the cafeteria that day. e white

half.

I would have stood there like an idiot, feeling those nerves in my stomach start to spin again, if I hadn’t felt a push from behind.

“Hey,” Jill said. “Hey.”

“Where you sitting?”

It was probably the rst time since I’d been in high school that I’d ever been asked that question. I’m not a total fucknut. I know for some people, especially at the beginning of high school, where to sit and who you’ll sit with is a big deal. Not everyone feels like they automatically belong. Not everyone feels like wherever they go they’ll be welcome. But I did. I’d always just walked into the cafeteria and sat wherever the hell I wanted. In fact, I did that pretty much anywhere I went unless the seats were already assigned.

“Um.” I paused. “Not sure.”

“Yeah, but you know what’s weird? I want to go sit outside.”

“Me too,” I said, only realizing when she had said it that that’s what I really did want to do. “But would that be weird?”

“I just said it was weird! But I don’t think anyone out there would mind.” Huh. I hadn’t thought of it like that. I’d been thinking of the guys inside.

“No,” I said, nodding to Guzzo’s table. “ose dudes.”

Guzzo probably realized what we were talking about, because he got up and walked over to us. “You two going to stand there all day? Come sit

down.” And once he had come over, it felt impossible not to follow him, so we did.

Dwyer, Hales, and Reegan got lost in a conversation about their fantasy basketball league teams while Guzzo pressed us. “Seriously,” he said. “You two are spending a lot of time together.”

Jill laughed. “You guys are all family to me.”

“Quinn’s not,” Guzzo said, looking at me, but in an odd way. “Not really.

Or is he?”

“I’m right here, man. No need to be all cold about it.” “I’m not the one who ran away from the barbecue.” “Jesus. Seriously? You’re crying about that?”

He opened his mouth to say something more, but Jill interrupted him. “Guys, you’ve been at it since Friday. I’ve seen it.”

is shut us both up. I bit into my hash brown, but it was so greasy, I just ended up shoving the whole thing in my mouth. While I chewed, Guzzo gave me that look again. “Quinn’s the one acting weird.”

“Come on,” Jill said. “It’s not only him. You are too. But why not? I would be too if I had been there and seen Paul whaling on Rashad.”

“What the fuck?” Guzzo threw his plastic fork down on his tray. “Shut up about that.” Hales glanced over skeptically, and Guzzo leaned in close to us. “Did you tell anyone else?” he asked her.

“at you were there?” she said. “No. Is it a secret?”

“Of course!” Guzzo said. His hand clenched into a st. “You told her?” he said to me. “Are you fucking demented? Nobody should know about this. Not even my brother.”

“What?” I said. “Man, we aren’t in any trouble. We didn’t do anything.” “You really are stupid,” Guzzo said, picking his fork back up and pointing

it at me. Red bits of Sloppy Joe dripped from the tines. “Don’t tell anyone else we were there. e force, they’re worried for my brother. ey’ve given him some time so he can stay off the streets. ere’s probably going to be a lawsuit because there’s always a lawsuit these days. Look, whatever, how the hell is he supposed to do what he needs to do if he gets sued for just doing his job?”

“Listen to you!” Jill exclaimed, leaning in now too, agitated. “You sound like our mothers. But tell that to Rashad’s family. Rashad’s absent today. Again. I mean, I know that guy too.”

Guzzo looked disgusted. “You don’t know him,” he said, waving her off. “You just like thinking you know him because now he’s a celebrity. A celebrity-victim, or whatever. at’s bullshit.” He gestured to the doors behind us. “You need to get outside before next period? Was that where you were headed before I called you over?”

I glanced at Jill. “Dude,” I said to Guzzo. “Come on. It doesn’t have to be like that.”

“It already is like that, asshole,” Guzzo said. He pushed his chair back and stood up. “You know. Paul was just trying to help someone inside the store.

at’s what he says. And then there’s the whole stopping people from stealing thing.” He was breathing heavy. Fighting to nd words. “And, by the way,” he nally said, pointing at me, “Paul’s staying with us, you know. If you’re curious. Remember him? My brother? e dude who fucking raised you. Feel free to drop by. I mean, you are like family. Isn’t he, Jill?”

For once in her life, Jill didn’t shoot back the last word, and Guzzo stalked off without looking back at either of us. I was about to get up too, because I was sick of it all—I hadn’t started it, why the hell did I have to be in the middle of it? But as I pushed my own chair back, Dwyer grabbed my arm.

“Listen, man,” he said. “You’ve got to x this. We got to get the team straight. We’ve got scouts coming, man. is is too big. is is our life, man. Our futures. Don’t be a dick about it. Like Coach said. Leave it at the door. All of it, you know?”

What he said stuck with me for the rest of the day. Yeah, I was thinking about the damn scouts too—of course I was! e kind of doors a scout’s praise might open. e kinds of scholarships a kid like me needed when Ma was working night shis over at Uline. I knew it was my future, and Dwyer’s, and everyone else’s, too. How could I not? It’d been on my mind in one way or another since I’d started working out with Paul—back when he was taller than me, not just bigger, icking his wrists and teaching me how to sneak a crossover right in front of my opponent. ose hands. ere was so much history slapping hands and saying yes to Paul.

As what Dwyer had said to me replayed again and again in my head, it began to say something else, too. Like maybe I was hearing what Dwyer was saying under his breath, between his words. He almost sounded scared, or not scared, but nervous. It wasn’t Dwyer. It was fear. It seemed to follow me

like my shadow these days, but I recognized now how it was trailing everyone else, too.

At practice, Coach had us running like crazy. Hales got so winded he puked in the trash can by the door to the hallway. “Boot and rally,” Reegan yelled to him. He wanted to laugh but he was too out of breath. e rest of us crouched with our hands on our knees, or folded on our heads, trying to avoid cramps, and Coach paced in between us like he was a doctor walking through the asthma ward.

“Game ready,” he lectured. “e team that makes its free throws when everyone is tired and strung out is the team that wins its games.” en he broke us into groups at the six baskets around the gym and told us to keep score. Ten free throws each, switching shooters every two shots. e score mattered. He didn’t say it, but this was part of the evaluation to see who would be a starter. Who could get points on the board at the beginning of the game, and at the end of the game, when his legs were jelly and his lungs a re collapsing. A scout might be the key to your future, but you had to be on the court, in a pressure situation, sticking it to the other team, in order for the scout to even see you. en you had to make the shot. I missed my

rst shot, but it was the only one I missed. ere were plenty of seven out of tens, some lower. Only English scored a perfect ten.

We spent another hour practicing some plays, putting them into action in little scrimmages, and then Coach sent us to the weight room in pairs. We didn’t have to keep score here. Not for his sake, at least. Of course we kept score among ourselves.

Nobody could press or li or squat nearly as much as Guzzo and Tooms and Martinez, so they always had their own competition, and the rest of us had ours. I paired up with English, and we started on the leg machines while the big guys hit the bench. He and I didn’t say much at rst, but as we moved around the room to different machines, we got into what was really on both our minds.

“Hey, man,” I asked. “You know who wrote that graffiti?” “Why are you asking me?” he said.

“He’s your friend, man.” “He has a lot of friends.”

“Come on, man. I’m just curious. I’m just asking.” “Nah. It can’t be ‘just asking.’ It never is.”

“Fine.” I put another ve pounds on either side of the bar for him, and then kept my voice low as I continued. “Guzzo’s pissed. He thinks someone did it to make a statement.”

English cocked half a grin as he lay down beneath the bar and began his set. “Of course. at’s the point.”

“No, but like, it’s saying that Rashad is innocent, so that makes his brother guilty.”

English put the bar back up on the rack and sat up. He looked at me like I was nuts. “Man, Rashad didn’t do shit.”

“Yeah, but what if Paul was just doing his job? en no one’s guilty.” But even as I said it, I felt like I was Guzzo suddenly, or someone in the family, his family, and I wished I wasn’t. “Ah, never mind. Let’s just forget it.”

“Forget it? Forget my friend is in the hospital?” English stared at me, pissed. “Since when is beating the shit out of somebody who hasn’t done a damn thing just doing your job? Man, there’s no way I’m going to pretend it didn’t happen.” He leaned back, looked at the ceiling, and pressed the weight back up. “I can’t.” He brought the weight down, and then up again. “I won’t.”

He lied the bar again quickly, but on the eighth rep, he struggled. “Look,” I said, reaching out, ready to help him with the next rep. “I just

wish this wasn’t happening. I mean, for everyone’s sake.” He fought to get the ninth rep more than halfway up.

“You need a hand?” I said, putting my ngers beneath the bar, helping him li it slightly.

“Fuck no,” he spat. I pulled my ngers back but kept them close. He pushed the bar up slowly, then lowered it and began the last rep. He grunted and got the last one up and onto the rack.

“Maybe he got out of hand?” I just had to say. “Maybe he was on drugs.” “On drugs? What are you? Seventy- ve? Since when have you ever gotten

off your ass, let alone thrown a punch, when you were stoned, man?” “Meth?”

“Only white people do that shit.” “Fuck you, man.”

“No, fuck you, Quinn.” He stood and pointed at me. “Why does it automatically gotta be Rashad’s fault? Why do people think he was on drugs? at dude doesn’t do drugs. He’s ROTC, man. His dad would kick his ass. You do drugs, asshole.”

“Just a puff here and there, man, come on. I don’t do drugs.”

“I’ve seen you smoking a blunt. Metcalf sold you that shit. Metcalf—a white dude, by the way. Man, that shit could have been laced with crack, or fucking Drano. You don’t know what you talkin’ ’bout.”

“Look, man, I’m not trying to say anything bad about Rashad. I’m just saying that spray painting ‘Rashad is absent again today’ on the concrete in front of school is like, I don’t know, extreme. He’s not dead.”

“But he could be. You have no idea. You have no idea, Quinn. e point is, he could be. en what? Is that what it would take to look at this thing differently? You need him to be dead? Shame on you, man. I had no idea you were such a dick. You want to forget all this. Maybe you can. But I won’t.” He stood and caught his breath. “What do you know, anyway? White boy like you can just walk away whenever you want. Everyone just sees you as Mr. All-American boy, and you can just keep on walking, thinking about other things. Just keep on living, like this shit don’t even exist.” He waved his hand in my face and blew a breath out the side of his mouth. “Man, I’m done with you.” en he sauntered off slowly, making sure I knew he was dismissing me, leaving me looking like the idiot I was.

When Coach called us back out to the court, I was now not just physically wiped, but mentally wiped too. I was getting a drink of water at the fountain and Guzzo came up behind me. He jabbed me in the back and I coughed up the water. He laughed. “anks,” he said, grinning. “I mean it. I heard all that with English. anks for having Paul’s back.”

An unexpected wave of anger surged through me. at hadn’t been my intention at all. I’d seen what Paul had done. I didn’t think it was right. But I hadn’t thought the spray paint was right either.

“Maybe somebody should spray paint something else tomorrow,” Guzzo said. “Whaddya think it should say?”

“Don’t,” I said. “What?”

“Don’t be an asshole.”

Guzzo slapped the wall with his open palm. “I don’t fucking get you, man. One minute you’re in there defending my brother and the next you are basically telling me to fuck off. You’re demented.” He stomped off to join the huddle at half-court.

ank God Coach didn’t try to get us all together in a rallying cry, because I sure as hell wasn’t up for it, but neither was anyone else, probably. Instead he broke us into two teams of ve and put the others on the bench, ready to sub in. I was on the same team as English, and before we began I pulled him aside.

“Look,” I said. “I’m sorry, man. I sounded like an idiot.” He didn’t say anything back. “No, seriously. I’m sorry. I don’t want to be a dick. I’m just trying to gure this all out. Rashad’s your friend. But I get what else you’re saying too. So—I’m sorry.”

“Man, you have no idea how many times you’ve sounded like a dick. You think it was just today? Look,” he said, passing me the ball hard. “Just don’t miss when I give you the ball.”

But I did. When we got into the scrimmage, I popped free and missed the

rst open shot. I got another chance on a fast break, and I could have passed, but I forced a difficult shot because I’d missed the last one. I missed that one too. Coach called me over. “Where’s your head?”

“Up my ass,” I blurted.

“What?” He grabbed my arm. “What did you say?”

“My head,” I said. “It’s up my ass. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.” “Maybe a couple suicides will wipe the shit off your face. Do them. Two.

Along the sideline. Now. Go.”

I didn’t have to look at Guzzo to know he was smiling all smug, watching me out of the corner of his eye while he continued playing. I think English was maybe smiling too.

And for the rst time since I could remember, as I sprinted up and down the court, I didn’t have my father’s voice in my head. I heard my own. I wasn’t telling myself to PUSH, or to go FASTER. Instead I thought about the guy who’d just said all those things to English. e guy who hadn’t meant to sound hurtful. e guy who was just trying to walk down the middle and not disturb anybody, basically give some meaning to what I’d seen in the street outside Jerry’s. And here’s what I realized I was saying beneath it all: I didn’t want my life to change from the way it was before I’d seen that.

When I nished the suicides, I had to hold my hand against the wall to catch my breath. English was frigging right. e problem was that my life didn’t have to change. If I wanted to, I could just keep my head down and

focus on the team, like Coach wanted, and that could be that. Isn’t that what I wanted?

en why did it feel so shitty?

I had to squat down and touch the oor, feeling suddenly nauseous, nauseous at the idea that I could just walk away from everything that was happening to Rashad, everything that was happening to Paul, everything that was happening to everyone at school, everything that was happening to me, too. I could just walk away from it all like a ghost. What kind of a person did that make me, if I did?

ose were Ma’s words, and when I got home, I found myself, for the rst time in a long time, also admitting that I wished she was home and not working. Of course, that made me feel like a goddamn kid, so I made myself feel like I was worth something by helping Willy with his homework. He was glad for it, but probably not as much as I was that he needed me and I could actually help him gure out his fractions.

Later, though, my mind dried back to Rashad, and I totally blew dinner. It should have been simple. I’d made mac and cheese with tuna, peas, and hot sauce more times than I could count, but I overcooked the pasta and there was way too much hot sauce. Willy fanned his mouth aer the rst bite.

“Ahhh,” he said. “Are you trying to kill me?”

I improvised by shredding some extra cheddar cheese into our bowls, and guiltily, I felt glad that he had his headphones on—though Ma would have killed him for that stunt at the dinner table—because my thoughts would not let up. Now I was thinking about how, if I wanted to, I could walk away and not think about Rashad, in a way that English or Shannon or Tooms or any of the guys at school who were not white could not. Even if they didn’t know Rashad, even if, for some reason, they hated Rashad, they couldn’t just ignore what happened to him; they couldn’t walk away. ey were probably afraid, too. Afraid of people like Paul. Afraid of cops in general. Hell, they were probably afraid of people like me. I didn’t blame them. I’d be afraid too, even if I was a frigging house like Tooms. But I didn’t have to be because my shield was that I was white. It didn’t matter that I knew Paul. I could be all the way across the country in California and I’d still be white, cops and everyone else would still see me as just a “regular kid,” an “All-American” boy. “Regular.” “All American.” White. Fuck.

But then, aer dinner, as I was helping Willy with the last of his math homework, I realized something worse: It wasn’t only that I could walk away

—I already had walked away. Well, I was sick of it. I was sick of being a dick. Not watching the damn video was walking away too, and I needed to watch it.

I borrowed Willy’s headphones, plugged them into my phone, loaded up YouTube, and I watched it right there at the kitchen table. It was the shaky video taken from across the street at Jerry’s and I was immediately back at Friday night, watching it happen all over again. ere were two other videos too. I watched Rashad’s body twisting on the concrete sidewalk. e video was taken from too far away. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, I couldn’t hear Paul. I heard the noise of the street just as I’d heard it that night, and I felt a zip line of fear rip right into the pit of my stomach. On Friday I’d been down the street, watching. But there, at the Formica table, I had a front-row seat. Close to Rashad and Paul. I could almost see myself hovering just beyond the frame of the shot. I texted Jill and told her how bizarre it was to see it.

TUESDAY 9:43 p.m. from Jill FINALLY. NOW EVRYBDYS SEEN IT

We went back and forth a few times, and then I just got fed up.

TUESDAY 9:55 p.m. to Jill HEY. CAN YOU TALK?

TUESDAY 9:56 p.m. from Jill WHA?

TUESDAY 9:56 p.m. to Jill

NO. I MEAN IT. ON THE PHONE. TALK?

TUESDAY 9:57 p.m. from Jill WHATEVER

TUESDAY 9:57 p.m. to Jill

LIKE, I NEED TO TALK.

She buzzed a second later, and I got up, slid the headphones across the table to Willy, and le the kitchen. We said our hellos and all that as I walked into the living room.

“I feel so gross,” I said. “I keep telling myself it isn’t my problem. But it is.

It is my problem. I just don’t know what to do.”

“Yeah, but it isn’t only your problem. It’s everyone’s problem.” “But I still don’t know what to do. Like, tell the police?”

She paused, and I heard her breathe. “Maybe.”

“Jesus.” Telling the police meant telling Paul’s friends. Meant Paul’s friends telling him what I was doing.

“But everyone’s seen it, Quinn. It’s all our problem. But what is that problem?” en it was my turn to be quiet, and I shuffled over to the couch and sat down. “What is it?” Her voice rose. “Excessive violence?”

“I don’t know. Unnecessary beating. Uh . . . shit, police brutality?” “Yeah.”

“And, you know. e way it’s all working out. It’s more.” “Like who was sitting where at lunch?”

I looked at the carpet between my feet. “Yeah.”

“And whose lockers they looked in rst for spray paint cans?” “Yeah. Shit, really? at happened?”

“at’s what I saw. ree black students, boys, in a row. en Martinez.

ey skipped me!”

“Fuck!” I let the air in my cheeks ll and then slowly blow out. “So yeah.

Like all that.”

“Like Paul’s white and Rashad’s black.”

I just sat there staring at the door to the kitchen like a dumbass zombie trying to nd some words.

“Paul says he did what he did because he was protecting some white lady in the store,” Jill added.

“What?”

“Yeah. at’s what my mom says. But, uh, really?” “Seriously.”

“You think it would have been the same if the lady wasn’t white, or if Rashad wasn’t black?”

“Seriously.” “Seriously, what?”

“Why is it taking me ve minutes to say the word racism?” “Maybe you’re racist?”

“Don’t joke. is is serious.” “I’m not.”

“I’m not racist!”

She hesitated, and I sat there, stinking in my own sweat, needing her to say something. Eventually she did.

“Not like KKK racist,” she said. “I don’t think most people think they’re racist. But every time something like this happens, you could, like you said, say, ‘Not my problem.’ You could say, ‘It’s a one-time thing.’ Every time it happened.”

I wanted to say something, but it was like my head just pounded and every word that came to mind just shook and fell back into my throat.

“I think it’s all racism,” Jill said for me.

“And if I don’t do something,” I nally mustered, “if I just stay silent, it’s just like saying it’s not my problem.”

“Mr. Fisher spent our whole history class talking about it. If anybody wanted to talk about it more aer school, he would. Me and Tiffany talked about it all day, so we went. ere were a bunch of us there, and Fisher’s helping us gure out what to do.”

“I wish I could have gone. But I had basketball. But I have to do something!”

“Let’s see what other people are doing tomorrow.”

We said our good-byes, and I sat there on the couch, staring into the kitchen looking at Willy. His head bent down so close to the paper he was scribbling his answers on, the red headphones like beacons on either side of his head—it was like he was buried deep within his own little world. I felt like I’d been doing the same damn thing the last couple days—trying to stare so hard at my own two feet so I wouldn’t have to look up and see what was really going on. And while I’d been doing that, I’d been walking in the wrong direction.

I didn’t want to walk away anymore.

 

 

‌As the story of sixteen-year-old West Springfield native Rashad Butler develops, the city seems to be split in terms of which side of the argument they fall on in this case. Was it about race? e abuse of power? Or was it just another case of a teenage criminal, caught red-handed? For those who are just joining us, we’ve been covering this story for a few days now. Last Friday, Butler was accused of shopliing, public nuisance, and resisting arrest. e officer involved, Paul Galluzzo, is shown here forcibly removing Butler from Jerry’s Corner Mart. Butler seems to be cooperating with the officer, but as you can see, he is taken to the ground. Warning: e rest of the scene is a bit graphic. We were able to catch up with Claudia James, the person who actually shot this footage from her phone.”

“It was just like y’all saw it. at boy was being manhandled, and he kept

saying that he didn’t do nothing. He kept trying to explain. But the officer was just yelling, ‘Shut up! Shut up!’ And then slammed him. en once he had him on the ground he started, like, punching and kneeing him in the back. He shoved his forearm on the back of the boy’s neck. It was crazy.”

“But had he been handcuffed?”

“Once he was on the ground, he was. I mean, how could he have been resisting?”

“But not everyone shares Ms. James’s view. Some people feel that whatever it takes to clean up the community, so be it. Like Roger Stuckey.”

“We don’t know what happened in that store, so I’m not gonna sit here and just say this kid is innocent. He might not be. I’m a cabdriver, and I work nights, and the truth is, if that kid was trying to hail me down, and it was dark outside, I would keep on going.”

“And why is that? Because of the way he looks?”

“I mean, listen, I’ve been robbed before. Right around here. And I just . . . I don’t ever want to be robbed again. And he looks like the guy who robbed me. He was dressed just like him. ese kids are crazy these days, and whatever it’s gonna take to make the people who live around here feel safe, I’m all for it.”

 

 

When I woke up, I followed the same routine as the day before. Well, not exactly the same. First I plugged the TV back in. en I tried to turn it on, but the remote was still on the fritz. Sometimes when the batteries are getting weak, and smacking it against your palm doesn’t work, you have to slide the back off and run your thumb over the batteries to turn them, and that makes them work. Sometimes. is time.

e TV came on and I watched for a minute. Everyone had opinions. e lady who caught the incident on tape seemed to side with me and thought the cop was wrong. But not everybody felt that way. ere was a cabbie who straight up said he wouldn’t pick me up if he saw me at night. at really pissed me off. I mean, I had heard Spoony talk about that for years. I never took cabs (the bus was cheaper), but he was always going on and on about how he could never catch a cab because of the way he looked. But I didn’t look nothing like Spoony. Nothing. I mean, I wear jeans and T-shirts, and he wears jeans and T-shirts, so we look alike in that way, but who doesn’t wear jeans and T-shirts? Every kid in my school does. And sneakers. And sweatshirts. And jackets. So what exactly does a kid who “looks like me” look like? Seriously, what the hell?

You would think I would cut the TV off, but I didn’t. Maybe because there was something about having this moment in my life, literally hovering above my head, that served as some kind of weird inspiration for the picture I was making. So, as usual, I muted it, then dove into my art. Oatmeal for breakfast. Chicken burrito for lunch. Ginger ale. Art in between it all.

Clarissa had been in and out of the room, checking my vitals. Checking to make sure I was eating and using my spirometer. Checking to see how the piece was coming along.

“It’s gonna be so good when it’s done,” she said, jotting down my blood pressure. She looked exhausted.

“You work every day?” I asked, shrugging off her compliment. It’s not that I was trying to be rude. I just didn’t really know if “good” was how this piece was actually going to end up.

“I have been. I usually work every other day, twelve-hour shis. But I took on some extra work this week. Covering for a friend.”

It wasn’t hard to tell that that’s just how Clarissa was. A for-real, for-real nice person. So when she brought the lunch in, I told her how thankful I was that she had been looking aer me, and how happy I was that she had taken those extra shis. My mother always raised me to be thankful. She always said, nobody owes you anything, so when you get something, be appreciative. And I was.

“I mean, I know it’s your job, but you’re really good at it. So, thanks.”

Clarissa ashed a smile that slipped into an unexpected yawn. “It’s my pleasure. Just trying to add a little sunshine,” she said, liing a hand to her mouth. She was so sweet, but man was she corny!

“I hear ya. Well, you’re doing that. Every time you come in here, you brighten the whole room up. Maybe it’s the hair.”

e red hair up against her pale skin, like re burning at the end of a match.

“Ah, yes. Ginger magic,” she joked. “You know, I’m the last of a dying breed.”

“What you mean?”

“I mean, gingers. Redheads. We’re going extinct.” “Seriously? Like something is killing y’all?”

“Not exactly. It’s like, not enough redheads are having babies with other redheads. So we’re just not being born anymore.” Clarissa laughed, then glanced up at the muted TV. Her eyes narrowed. “Check it out.”

I looked up, reluctantly, and there on the screen was the police chief. So I unmuted. We listened. He didn’t really say much except that they were investigating everything and that he had “the utmost faith in Officer Galluzzo’s judgment” and that the officer was “a veteran with an immaculate record.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Clarissa said. en, noticing me taking it all in, she added, “Hey, don’t let the bastards get you down.”

“Yeah.”

“You know that song?”

“What song?”

“Don’t let the bastards—” She stopped, grinned. “Never mind.”

 

 

When Ma showed up, the TV was still unmuted. And the story was still developing. And I was still drawing.

“Knock, knock,” Ma said, tapping the door frame. Clarissa had asked me if I wanted the door open or closed, and I told her open. It just seemed like a good idea to let some air in. Or maybe let some of the suffocating feeling of the room out.

“Hey,” I said, now a bed remote expert, adjusting it so that I was sitting more upright.

“How you feeling?” Ma asked, coming in. She was alone.

“I’m ne. Just doing some drawing,” I told her. “Where’s Dad?”

She kissed me on the forehead, then sat on the side of the bed. “He couldn’t make it. Something upset his stomach, and he was throwing up all night.”

“Is he okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, he’s ne,” she said. She dug in her purse, pulled out an envelope, and set it on the side table. “is came to the house for you.”

“Who’s it from?”

“It’s from Chief Killabrew.” I nodded but didn’t say anything. I gured it was a get-well-soon card, or something like that. Couldn’t even read it because my mother was way more concerned with more pressing issues. “Have you eaten?”

“Yes, Ma, I ate. Breakfast and lunch,” I said with a groan. I knew this was only the beginning of the mother questions. It’s like all moms have a checklist that they read through to make sure their kids are okay.

1. Have you eaten? e most important one.

2. Are you hungry? Not to be confused with #1. And asked even if you say you’ve eaten.

3. Have you pooped? Just to make sure you’re eating the right stuff.

4. Have you bathed? And if you’re my mom,

5. What are you drawing?

I handed her the notebook. She looked at it and instantly started to get emotional, her eyes tearing up. She was blinking them back when a clip of Claudia James, the lady who taped the whole thing, came back on the screen.

My mother watched, still holding the sketch pad.

“You know, some people think the cop was justi ed. ey say he was just doing his job,” I said, darting my eyes from the TV to my mother.

She looked at me. Her face looked like it was made of clay. Like it could crack at any second.

“His job?” she said, the tears nally dropping. “You are not a criminal, Rashad. I know that. I know every word you said was true. You didn’t deserve this. You’re not a criminal,” she repeated. I could feel the heat rising in the room. In her. I didn’t know how she had been dealing with this at home, or if she and Dad had been getting into it, or what. But in that moment, the water in the kettle had nally started to boil in front of me. My mother was steaming.

“You’re not some animal that they can just hunt. You’re not some punching bag, some thing for them to beat on whenever they feel like it,” she said, slapping my sketchbook down. She continued to lose her battle with the tears. “is is not okay,” she said. It was the rst time I had ever heard her say it—usually it was Spoony. “It’s not. It’s not okay.” e TV cut back to the police chief. He said Galluzzo would be placed on paid leave until they got to the bottom of this. My mother clenched her jaw as the chief spoke.

en they ashed Galluzzo’s face on the screen. Ma’s breath caught when she saw his mug on the screen. “at asshole,” she growled.

Here’s the thing: My mother almost never curses. I think I may have heard her say “damn,” maybe once, but that’s really it. She’s just not that type. So to hear her say “asshole” let me know how angry she really was, that this thing was breaking her down inside too.

“I’m sorry,” she said immediately, trying to get back to mom mode. She reached over and grabbed a napkin off my food tray to pat her face dry. “I’m sorry,” she said again, forcing a crooked smile, which she was only able to keep up for about ve seconds—yikes!—before crumbling into pieces. She was sobbing and panting, short and choppy, dabbing at her pouring eyes and

nose with the napkin. It was like everything she had been holding in was now nally coming out.

I leaned forward and inched myself closer to her. Each small movement felt like a knife blade pushing into my side. But I didn’t care, I had to get to her. en my arms were around her, and now I was crying, my body burning on the inside, while I told her over and over again, “It’s okay. It’s okay. I’m gonna be ne.” And as she pulled away to blow her nose once more, working as hard as she could to paint that half-full smile back on her face, I reached for the remote and (please work, please work, please work) changed the channel.

 

 

Spoony showed up about an hour later with Berry. My mother and I had calmed down and were watching Family Feud, laughing at some of the stupid answers people were coming up with.

“Name something you might find under your bed.” “A monster!”

“Naw, they don’t hide under there no more. Or in closets,” Spoony said, making an entrance as usual. “ey hide in plain sight, with uniforms and badges.” Spoony. Always an agenda.

“Hi, Mrs. Butler,” Berry said, coming over to my mom with her arms out for a hug.

“Hi, sweetheart. Ain’t you supposed to be in school?” Ma kissed Berry on the cheek.

Berry was in law school. Yep, law school. My dad always got on Spoony, asking him why he wasn’t inspired to make something of himself since he dated such a smart girl. en he’d say, “Well, at least you got enough sense to get a smart girl. I guess I gotta give you credit for that.”

“I’ll put in some extra work at the library this weekend. is is far more important,” Berry said. Spoony gave me ve, then he and Berry switched places so he could hug Ma, and Berry could hug me.

“Wassup, big man?” she said, touching her cheek to mine. Berry was the female version of English. Absolutely gorgeous. And so cool. And smart. Everything wrapped up in one girl. And she was everybody’s rst crush. Me, Shannon, and Carlos. We all loved Berry, and English knew it. We used to

tease him so bad about her, and he hated it, but put up with it because that’s just what we do. Jokes. But once Spoony started dating her, we cut all the jokes out, because even though Spoony wasn’t anywhere near perfect, he was de nitely a dude who got respect. I don’t know why. He just did. It’s not like anyone had ever seen him do anything crazy, but he had this presence about him. A con dence that made it seem like he wasn’t scared of anything or anybody. So the Berry jokes were over, and she instantly fell into big sister zone. “How you holdin’ up?” she asked now.

“Oh, you know me. Living a luxurious life,” I said.

“Looks like it,” Berry replied, but even though she was smiling, I could see the sadness in her eyes. I could see the sadness in everybody’s eyes. My mother’s, Spoony’s, my friends’, Clarissa’s, even the lady on TV who lmed everything—Claudia’s.

“’Shad, I want you to see something,” Spoony said, easing Berry’s backpack off her shoulder. He unzipped it, pulled out her laptop. “ey got Wi-Fi in here?”

“I don’t think so,” I said, wanting to laugh at him. I don’t know why, but I just thought that was so funny.

He put the laptop back in the bag.

“Here, just use my phone,” Berry said, digging in her back pocket. She tapped the screen a few times, then handed it to Spoony, who handed it to me.

“Look at this.”

On the screen was a picture of my school. And on the sidewalk was some writing. I enlarged the image and did a double take. RASHAD IS ABSENT AGAIN TODAY is what it said, spray painted in bright-blue loopy letters.

“What is this?” I asked, staring.

“ere’s major buzz about this thing, man. Facebook, Twitter, everywhere. People are pissed off. Kids your age. ey’re speaking up, man.”

I stared at the picture. e letters, the tiny loop at the stop of the cursive s.

So familiar. ere was only one person I knew who did that. Carlos. “English texted me earlier saying that some of the kids at your school

have been talking about a protest. He sent me that picture,” Berry said. “But that’s not the only one.” She reached for the phone and began swiping through photos, showing me picture aer picture of RASHAD IS ABSENT AGAIN TODAY, tagged all over the city. I knew the rst one was from Carlos, but not

all the rest of them, because I didn’t recognize the lettering, plus they were too loose. Amateur. I had no idea who those were from.

“ere’s even a hashtag,” she said. #RashadIsAbsentAgainToday.

I couldn’t believe it. I had become a hashtag. I had become searchable. A trending topic. Another number on someone’s chart. But to me, I was still . . . just me.

“A protest?” I thumbed the screen, going from picture to picture. It just seemed weird that there was so much fuss over me.

“Yeah, man,” Spoony con rmed.

“A protest?” my mother repeated, her eyebrows knitting together. “I don’t know about this. I don’t want nobody else getting hurt.”

A erce look came over Spoony’s face. “Ma, we have a right to protest. We have a right to be upset.”

“I know that, Spoony. You don’t think I know that?” Ma’s voice rose. Spoony had no idea that our mom had just called the cop an asshole. He’d missed that. “You don’t think I’m angry?” She glared at him, burned straight through his hoodie.

“I know you are. Sorry,” he said, humbled. “I’m just so tired of this.”

“I am too,” Ma said, coming back down. “And I know protests can be good. Just like I know that not all cops are bad. I married one.”

“I’m not sure Dad’s the best example of a good cop,” Spoony said quicker than quick, the words sharp enough to cut.

Ma gave him a look. Not upset. But sad. Like she was sad that her son seemed so angry, so distrusting. And she didn’t even say anything to refute his statement, didn’t even argue with him, which to me was strange.

“Why not?” I asked.

Spoony looked from me to Ma before brushing the whole thing off with, “Nothing. Doesn’t matter.”

“Listen, I just don’t want them to nd a reason to beat more people. To kill people.” Mom refocused the conversation, her eyes back on me. “And since apparently they don’t trust us, I don’t trust them.”

“But Ma, all we want is to feel like we can be who we are without being accused of being something else. at’s all,” Spoony tried again.

“But do protests even work?” I asked. I mean, I was all for the idea. I really was. But the only time I had ever heard about any protests actually

working was Dr. King’s. at’s it. Ain’t never heard of no other ones making a difference.

“Do they work?” Spoony looked at me crazy, a how I could even ask such a question look.

Berry stepped in. “ey’re a piece to the puzzle. I mean, there are a lot of pieces, like reforming laws and things like that. But protests are what sends the message to the folks in power that something needs to change. at people are fed up,” she explained. “We have a right to voice how we feel, and isn’t that better than just doing nothing?”

Spoony and Berry tag-teamed me with the more political activism mumbo jumbo than I could stand, until at last, thank God, English, Shannon, and Carlos showed up. ey all hugged my mom and Berry, and dapped up Spoony.

“Yo, you heard about the protest?” Carlos shot off instantly, picking up right where my brother and Berry had le off. “Hashtag RashadIsAbsentAgainToday.”

I looked at him. He looked at me. Friendship ESP. “So this thing is really gonna happen?” I asked.

“Dude, even Tiffany was talking about it in Mr. Fisher’s class,” English said. Mr. Fisher was a history teacher at the school. Kind of a weird guy, but still supercool. White hair. Jacked-up bowl cut. Weird cloth ties. Shirt tucked in tight jeans. But he knew all about history and would celebrate Black History Month in February and March. e only other teacher who was down for stuff like that was Mrs. Tracey, the English teacher. Shannon and Carlos used to always joke about how Mr. Fisher and Mrs. Tracey were probably dating, probably having gross sex aer school on Mrs. Tracey’s desk, on top of Shakespeare’s Sonnets or something.

“For real?” I asked.

“Yeah, man. Fish is really supporting it. Like, he’s helping us plan it and everything.” English was gassed. “He kept saying how we are part of history. How this is part of history.”

“Word? Is he giving out extra credit for it?” I joked, just to try to lighten the mood.

“’Shad, we serious, man,” Carlos said. “Like, for real.”

“Told you, ’Shad,” Spoony said. “is thing is bubbling. People are sick of it.” He looked at Ma, who seemed caught somewhere between mad and

worried. “Ma, seriously, what if he was killed?”

“But he wasn’t,” she said, straight, the same way my dad had said a few days before when Spoony said the same thing.

“But what about all the others?” Spoony said. “Matter fact, how many of y’all been messed with by the cops?”

“Man, what? I’ve been pulled over so many times,” Carlos said. “Because you speed,” I jumped in.

“Yeah, true. But at least three times, they’ve made me get out the car while they tore it apart looking for drugs or guns or whatever they thought I had. en when they didn’t nd nothing, they let me go with a speeding ticket, but le my car a mess. Glove compartment emptied out. Trunk all dug through. Just trashed my ride for no reason.”

“Man, I’ve been stopped on the street,” English said. “You have?” Berry sparked up.

“Yeah. More than once, too. Cops wanting me to li my shirt so they could see if I had weapons on me. Pat-downs and all that.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Berry asked.

“Because I already know what time it is. I’d seen it before, so it was nothing. Plus I didn’t want you freakin’ out.”

“At least yours were only pat-downs. One time they had me facedown on the sidewalk on Overlook Street. Said they got word that there was a robbery and said the description of the person was ve-foot-nine, dark skin, with a black T-shirt and black sneakers on,” Shannon explained. “at could’ve been anybody.”

“at could’ve been any kid I work with at the rec center. Matter fact, that could’ve been me!” Spoony chimed in.

“Exactly,” Berry agreed.

And I wished the stories stopped there. I really did. But they didn’t. ey went on and on, story aer story about not trusting police officers because they always seemed to act like bullies. And even though there were times when they’d been helpful, the bad times . . . were BAD TIMES. And it just seemed like they didn’t . . . I don’t know. Like, they see us. But they don’t really see us.

“Okay,” I said.

“Okay what?” Spoony asked.

“Okay. I’m down with the protest.” I have to admit, I said I was down but I wasn’t really sure I meant it. I was scared. And it’s not like they needed me to sign on. is wasn’t really about me. is was bigger than me. I knew that now. But I wanted my brother and my friends to know, since the spotlight was on me, that I was in. at I would stand with them.

at is, if I could get out of the hospital.

 

 

“Name a word that rhymes with grain.” “Pain.”

“Good answer! Good answer!”