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Chapter no 1

Long Way Down

‌DON’T NOBODY

believe nothing these days

which is why I haven’t told nobody the story I’m about to tell you.

And truth is,

you probably ain’t gon’ believe it either gon’ think I’m lying or I’m losing it,

but I’m telling you, this story is true.

It happened to me. Really.

It did.

It so did.

‌MY NAME IS

Will. William.

William Holloman.

But to my friends and people

who know me know me,

just Will.

So call me Will, because after I tell you

what I’m about to tell you

you’ll either

want to be my friend or not

want to be my friend at all.

Either way, you’ll know me know me.

‌I’M ONLY WILLIAM

to my mother

and my brother, Shawn, whenever he was trying to be funny.

Now

I’m wishing I would’ve laughed more

at his dumb jokes

because the day before yesterday, Shawn was shot

and killed.

‌I DON’T KNOW YOU,

don’t know your last name, if you got brothers

or sisters or mothers or fathers or cousins that be like brothers and sisters or aunties or uncles that be like mothers and fathers,

but if the blood

inside you is on the inside of someone else,

you never want to

see it on the outside of them.

‌THE SADNESS

is just so hard to explain.

Imagine waking up and someone,

a stranger,

got you strapped down, got pliers shoved

into your mouth, gripping a tooth

somewhere in the back, one of the big important ones,

and rips it out.

Imagine the knocking in your head,

the pressure pushing through your ears, the blood pooling.

But the worst part,

the absolute worst part,

is the constant slipping of your tongue

into the new empty space, where you know

a tooth supposed to be but ain’t no more.

‌IT’S SO HARD TO SAY,

Shawn’s dead.

Shawn’s dead.

Shawn’s dead.

So strange to say. So sad.

But I guess not surprising,

which I guess is even stranger,

and even sadder.

‌THE DAY BEFORE YESTERDAY

me and my friend Tony were outside talking about whether or not we’d get any

taller now that we were fifteen.

When Shawn was fifteen

he grew a foot, maybe a foot and a half. That’s when he gave

me all the clothes he couldn’t fit.

Tony kept saying he hoped he grew because even though he was

the best ballplayer around here our age, he was also the shortest.

And everybody knows

you can’t go all the way when you’re that small unless you can really jump. Like

fly.

‌AND THEN THERE WERE SHOTS.

Everybody ran, ducked, hid, tucked

themselves tight.

Did what we’ve all been trained to.

Pressed our lips to the pavement and prayed the boom, followed by the buzz of a bullet, ain’t meet us.

‌AFTER THE SHOTS

me and Tony

waited like we always do, for the rumble to stop, before picking our heads up and poking our heads out

to count the bodies.

This time

there was only one. Shawn.

‌I’VE NEVER BEEN

in an earthquake. Don’t know if this was even close to how they are, but the ground defi nitely felt like

it o pened up and ate me.

‌THINGS THAT ALWAYS HAPPEN WHENEVER SOMEONE IS KILLED AROUND HERE

NO. 1: SCREAMING

Not everybody screams.

Usually just

moms, girlfriends, daughters.

In this case

it was Leticia,

Shawn’s girlfriend, on her knees kissing his forehead

between shrieks. I think she hoped her voice would

somehow keep him alive,

would clot the blood.

But I think she knew

deep down in the deepest part of her downness

she was kissing him good-bye.

‌AND MY MOM

moaning low,

Not my baby. Not my baby. Why?

hanging over my brother’s body like a dimmed light post.

‌NO. 2: SIRENS

Lots and lots of sirens, howling, cutting through the sounds of the city.

Except the screams.

The screams are always heard over everything.

Even the sirens.

‌NO. 3: QUESTIONS

Cops flashed lights in our faces and we all turned to stone.

Did anybody see anything?

a young officer asked.

He looked honest, like he ain’t never done this before. You can always tell a newbie.

They always ask questions

like they really expect answers.

Did anybody see anyone?

I ain’t seen nothin’,

Marcus Andrews, the neighborhood know-it-all, said.

Even he knew better than to know anything.

‌IN CASE YOU AIN’T KNOW,

gunshots make everybody deaf and blind especially when they make somebody

dead.

Best to become invisible in times like these.

Everybody knows that. Even Tony flew away.

‌I’M NOT SURE

if the cops asked me questions.

Maybe. Maybe not.

Couldn’t hear nothing.

Ears filled up with heartbeats like my head was being held under water.

Like I was holding my breath.

Maybe I was.

Maybe I was

hoping I could give some back to Shawn.

Or maybe somehow

join him.

‌WHEN BAD THINGS HAPPEN

we can usually look up and see the moon, big and bright, shining over us.

That always made me feel better.

Like there’s something up there beaming down on us in the dark.

But the day before yesterday, when Shawn

died,

the moon was off.

Somebody told me once a month the moon blacks out

and becomes new

and the next night be back to normal.

I’ll tell you one thing,

the moon is lucky it’s not down here

where nothing is ever

new.

‌I STOOD THERE,

mouth clenched

tight enough to grind my teeth down to dust,

and looked at Shawn lying there like a piece of furniture left outside,

like a stained-up couch draped in a gold chain. Them fuckers ain’t even

snatch it.

‌RANDOM THOUGHT

Blood soaking into a

T-shirt, blue jeans, and boots looks a lot like chocolate syrup

when the glow from the streetlights hit it.

But I know ain’t

nothing sweet about blood.

I know it ain’t like chocolate syrup at all.

‌IN HIS HAND,

a corner-store plastic bag

white with red letters

THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU

HAVE A NICE DAY

‌IN THAT BAG,

special soap

for my mother’s eczema.

I’ve seen her scratch until it

bleeds.

Pick at the pus bubbles and flaky

scales.

Curse the invisible thing trying to eat

her.

‌MAYBE THERE’S SOMETHING INVISIBLE

trying to eat

all of us as

if we

are beef.

‌BEEF

gets passed down like name-brand

T-shirts around here. Always too big. Never ironed out.

gets inherited like a trunk of fool’s gold or a treasure map leading

to nowhere.

came knocking on my brother’s life, kicked the damn door down and took everything except his gold chain.

‌THEN THE YELLOW TAPE

that says DO NOT CROSS

gets put up, and there’s nothing left to do but go home.

That tape lets people know that this is a murder scene,

as if we ain’t already know that.

The crowd backs its way into buildings and down blocks until nothing is left but the tape.

Shawn was zipped into a bag

and rolled away, his blood added to the pavement galaxy of

bubblegum stars. The tape

framed it like it was art. And the next day, kids would play mummy with it.

‌BACK ON THE EIGHTH FLOOR

I locked myself in my room and put a pillow over my head to muffle

the sound of my mom’s mourning.

She sat in the kitchen, sobbing into her palms, which she peeled away only to lift glass to mouth.

With each sip came a brief silence, and with each brief silence I snuck in a breath.

‌I FELT LIKE CRYING,

which felt like another person

trapped behind my face

tiny fists punching the backs of my eyes feet kicking

my throat at the spot where the swallow starts.

Stay put, I whispered to him. Stay strong, I whispered to me.

Because crying is against

The Rules.

‌THE RULES NO. 1: CRYING

Don’t.

No matter what. Don’t.

‌NO. 2: SNITCHING

Don’t.

No matter what. Don’t.

‌NO. 3: REVENGE

If someone you love gets killed,

find the person who killed

them and kill them.

‌THE INVENTION OF THE RULES

ain’t come from my

brother, his friends, my dad, my uncle,

the guys outside,

the hustlers and shooters,

and definitely not from me.

‌ANOTHER THING ABOUT THE RULES

They weren’t meant to be broken. They were meant for the broken

to follow.

‌OUR BEDROOM: A SQUARE, YELLOWY PAINT

Two beds:

one to the left of the door, one to the right.

Two dressers:

one in front of the bed to the left of the door, one in front of the bed to the right.

In the middle, a small TV. Shawn’s side was the left:

perfect, almost.

Mine, the right: pigsty, mostly.

Shawn’s wall had:

a poster of Tupac, a poster of Biggie.

My wall had:

an anagram I wrote in messed-up scribble with a pencil in case Mom made me

erase it:

SCARE = CARES.

‌ANAGRAM

is when you take a word and rearrange the letters to make another word.

And sometimes the words are still somehow connected

ex: CANOE = OCEAN.

Same letters, different words, somehow still make sense together,

like brothers.

‌THE MIDDLE DRAWER

was the only thing ever out of place on Shawn’s side of the room,

like a random, jagged tooth in a perfect mouth, jammed tight between the top drawer of shirts

folded into neat rectangles stacked like project floors,

and the bottom drawer of socks and underwear.

Off track. Stuck. Forced in at an angle.

Seemed like the middle drawer was jacked up on purpose

to keep me and Mom out and Shawn’s gun in.

‌I WON’T PRETEND THAT SHAWN

was the kind of guy

who was home by curfew.

The kind of guy

who called and checked in about where he was,

who he was with, what he was doing.

He wasn’t.

Not after eighteen,

which was when our mother took her hands off him, pressed them together, and

began to pray

that he wouldn’t go to jail

that he wouldn’t get Leticia pregnant that he wouldn’t die.

‌MY MOTHER USED TO SAY,

I know you’re young, gotta get it out,

but just remember, when

you’re walking in the nighttime, make sure the nighttime

ain’t walking into you.

But Shawn probably had his headphones on.

Tupac or Biggie.

‌SO USUALLY

I ended up going to bed at night, curled up

on my side of the room, eventually falling asleep staring

at the half-empty bottles of cologne on top of Shawn’s dresser.

And the jacked-up middle drawer. Alone.

‌BUT I NEVER TOUCHED NOTHING

because it’s no fun hiding from headlocks half the night,

which is why I never touched nothing of his

no more.

‌IT USED TO BE DIFFERENT.

When I was twelve and he was sixteen

we would talk trash till one of us passed out.

He would tell me about girls, and I would tell him about pretend girls, who he

pretended were real, too, just to make me feel good. He would tell me stories about

how the best rappers ever were Biggie and Tupac, but I always wondered if that was

just because they were dead. People always love people more when they’re dead.

‌AND WHEN I WAS THIRTEEN

Shawn welcomed me into teenage life with a spritz of his almost-grown cologne, said my girlfriend—

my first girlfriend— would like it.

But she hated it

so I broke up with her, because

to me

her nose was funny acting.

‌SHAWN THOUGHT THAT

was stupid and funny but worthy of joking me, calling me

William.

Worthy

of a headlock that felt like a hug.

‌NOW THE COLOGNE

will never drop lower in the bottles.

And I’ll never go to sleep again believing

that touching them or anything of his will lead to an arm around my neck.

But it feels like an arm around my neck, wrenching,

just thinking about how

I’ll never go to sleep again believing him or believing he

will eventually

come home, because

he won’t, and now I guess I should love him more,

like he’s my favorite,

which is hard to do because he was my only brother, and

already my favorite.

‌SUDDENLY

our room seemed lopsided.

Cut in half.

Half empty. Half cold.

Half curious about that one drawer

in the middle of it all.

‌THE MIDDLE DRAWER CALLED TO ME,

its awkward off-centeredness a sign that what was in it could and should be used to

set things straight.

I yanked and pulled and snatched and tugged at the drawer until it opened just more than an inch.

Just wide enough for my fifteen-year-old fingers to slither in and touch

cold steel.

‌NICKNAME

A cannon. A strap.

A piece. A biscuit. A burner. A heater.

A chopper. A gat.

A hammer.

A tool

for RULE No. 3.

‌WHICH BRINGS ME TO CARLSON RIGGS

He was known around here for being as loud as police sirens but as

soft as his first name.

‌PEOPLE SAID RIGGS

talked so much trash because he was short, but I think it was

because his mom made him take gymnastics when he was a kid, and when you wear tights and know how

to do cartwheels it might be a good idea to also know how to defend yourself.

Or at least talk like you can.

‌RIGGS AND SHAWN WERE SO-CALLED FRIENDS, BUT

the best thing he ever did for Shawn

was teach him how to do a Penny Drop.

The worst thing he ever did for Shawn was shoot him.

‌A PENNY DROP

is when you hang upside down on a monkey bar and swing

back and forth, harder and harder, until just the right moment, when you release your legs

and go flying through the air, hopefully landing on your feet.

It’s all about timing.

If you let your legs go too early, you’ll land on your face. If you let your legs go

too late, you’ll land flat on your back.

So you have to time it perfectly to get it right.

Shawn taught me

how to time it perfectly.

If you could do a Penny Drop or a

backflip (no cartwheels) you were the king.

Shawn could do both so he was the

king around here to me and Tony and all our friends.

But he made sure I was the prince.

In case you ain’t know.

‌REASONS I THOUGHT (KNEW) RIGGS KILLED SHAWN NO. 1: TURF

Riggs moved to a different part of the hood where the Dark Suns

hang and bang and be wild.

He wanted to join so he wouldn’t be looked at like all bark no more,

and instead could have

a backbone built for him

by the bite of his block boys who wait for anyone to cross the line into their territory,

which happens to be nine blocks from our building,

and in the same neighborhood as the corner store

that sells that special soap my mother sent Shawn out to get for her the

day before yesterday.

‌NO. 1.1: SURVIVAL TACTICS (made plain)

Get down with some body

or

get beat down by some body.

‌NO. 2: CRIME SHOWS

I grew up watching crime shows with my mother.

Always knew who the killer was way before the cops.

It’s like a gift. Anagrams, and solving murder cases.

‌NO. 3: . . .

Had to be.

‌I HAD NEVER HELD A GUN.

Never even touched one.

Heavier than I expected,

like holding a newborn

except I knew the

cry would be much

much much much louder.

‌A NOISE FROM THE HALLWAY

My mother,

stumbling to the bathroom, her sobs leading the way.

I quickly slapped

the switch on the wall, dropping the room into darkness, dropping myself into bed, pushing

the pistol under my pillow like a lost tooth.

‌SLEEP

ran from me

for what seemed like forever,

hid from me

like I used to hide from Shawn

before finally peeking out from behind pain.

‌I WOKE UP

in the morning

and tried to remember if I dreamed about anything.

I don’t think I did, so I pretended that I dreamed about Shawn.

It made me feel better about going to sleep the night he was murdered.

‌BUT I ALSO FELT GUILTY

for waking up, for breathing in,

for stretching, yawning, and reaching

under

the pillow.

‌I WRAPPED MY FINGERS

around the grip, placing them over Shawn’s prints like little

brother holding big brother’s hand again,

walking me to the store, teaching me how to

do a Penny Drop.

If you let go too early you’ll land on your face. If you let go too late you’ll land on your back. To land on your feet,

you gotta time it just right.

‌IN THE BATHROOM

in the mirror my face sagged, like sadness

was trying to pull the skin off.

Zombie.

I had slept

in my clothes, the stench of death and sweat trapped in the cotton like

fish grease. I looked and felt like

shit.

And so what.

‌I STUCK THE CANNON

in the waistband in the back of my jeans, the handle sticking out like a

steel tail.

I covered it with my too-big T-shirt, the name-brand hand-me-down

from Shawn.

‌THE PLAN

was to wait for Riggs in front of his building.

Me and Shawn were always over his house

before Riggs joined the gang,

and since then, Shawn had been up that way a bunch of times

to get Mom’s special soap.

I figured it would be safest if I went in the morning. If I

timed it right, none of his crew

would be out yet. No one would ever suspect me. I’d hit

his buzzer, get him to come down

and open the door. Then I’d pull my shirt over my mouth and nose

and do it.

‌IN THE KITCHEN

the sun burst through the window, bathing my mother, who slept slumped at the table, her head resting in the nest of her red, swollen arms.

She’d probably been scratching all night, maybe trying to scratch the guilt away. I wanted to

wake her and tell her that it wasn’t her fault, but I didn’t.

Instead, with the pistol heavy on my back, I stepped lightly over the creaky parts of the floor, trying not to wake her and lie about where I was going.

And break her heart even more.

‌THE YELLOW LIGHT

that lined the hallway buzzed like the lightning bugs me and Shawn used to catch when

we were kids.

We scooped them into washed-out mayo jars four or five

at a time.

Shawn would twist the lid tight, and the two of us would sit on a bench and watch them fly around,

bumping into each other, trapped, until

one by one

their lights went out.

‌AT THE ELEVATOR

Back already sore. Uncomfortable.

Gun strapped like a brick rubbing my skin

raw with each step.

Seemed like time stood still as I reached out and pushed the button.

White light surrounded the black arrow.

DOWN DOWN

DOWN DOWN DOWN DOWN DOWN

DOWN

.

 

 

‌THERE’S A STRANGE THING

that happens in the elevator. In any elevator.

Every time somebody gets in, they check

to see if the button for the floor they’re going to is lit,

and if it isn’t, they push it, then face the door.

That’s it.

They don’t speak to the people already in the elevator, and the people already in the elevator don’t speak to the newcomer.

Those are elevator rules, I guess.

No talking. No looking. Stand still,

stare at the door, and wait.

‌09:08:02 a.m.

A GUY GOT ON,

definitely older than me, but not old.

Medium-brown skin. Slim. Low haircut, part on the side.

No hair on his face, none at all. Not even a mustache.

Gold links dangling around his neck like magic rope.

Checked to make sure

the button was lit. Going down too.

‌L STOOD FOR “LOSER”

when we were kids, so Shawn and I would

stand in an empty elevator and wait for someone to get on

and push L. And when they did, we would giggle because they were the loser and me and Shawn were winners

on a funny and victorious ride down to the lobby. I thought about this when the man with the gold chains got on and checked to see if the

button was already glowing. I wondered if he knew that in me and Shawn’s world, I’d already chosen to be

a loser.

‌IT’S UNCOMFORTABLE

when you feel like someone is looking at you but only when you not looking.

‌I’VE SEEN GIRLS

waiting at the bus stop make men pitiful pieces

of putty, curling backward, stretching and straining every muscle just to get

a glimpse of what Shawn and a lot of men

around here call the world.

But there were no women on this elevator, so there were no worlds to be checkin’ for.

But he kept checkin’ anyway,

not knowing that if he kept checkin’ anyway

he’d get a world

of trouble.

‌09:08:04 a.m.

DO I KNOW YOU?

I asked, irritated, freaked out.

The man smiled, adjusted the chains around his neck.

Looked me straight in the eyes, dead in the face.

You don’t recognize me?

he asked, his voice deep, familiar.

I looked harder. Squinted, trying to place the face.

Nah. Not really,

I said.

He smiled wide.

A jagged mouth, sharp and sharklike.

Then turned around so that I could see the

back of his T-shirt.

A silk-screened photo. Him, squatting low.

Middle fingers in the air.

And a smile made of triangles.

RIP BUCK YOU’LL BE MISSED 4EVA

‌MY STOMACH JUMPED

into my chest or my chest fell

into my stomach.

Or both.

I knew him.

Buck?

I stumbled

backward. Couldn’t be. Couldn’t be.

Ain’t that what it say?

he said,

facing me. Couldn’t be. Couldn’t be.

But I thought . . .

I stuttered.

I thought . . . I thought . . .

You thought I was dead,

he said, straight up.

Straight up.

‌I RUBBED MY EYES

over and over and over and over again,

trippin’.

Never smoked

or nothing like that.

Don’t know high life. Don’t know bad trips. Don’t no dead man

supposed to be talking to me, though.

‌YEAH

I did,

I said,

hoping he would come back with I’m not dead or I faked my death or

something like that.

Or maybe

I’d wake up, sit straight up

in bed,

the gun still tucked under my pillow,

my mother still asleep at the kitchen table.

A dream.

Buck looked at me, noticing my panic, softly said,

I am.

‌I DID ALL THE WAKE-UP TRICKS.

Pinched the meat in my armpit, slapped myself

in the face, even tried to blink myself awake.

Blink, blink, blink,

but

Buck.

‌I KNOW WHAT YOU THINKIN’.

That I was scared of

to death.

‌BUT NO NEED TO BE AFRAID.

I had known Buck since I was a kid

the only big brother Shawn had ever had.

Shawn knew Buck better than I did,

knew Buck longer than we’d known our dad.

‌I TAKE IT BACK.

was scared.

What if he had come to get me,

to take me with him?

What if he had come to catch

my breath?

‌ANAGRAM NO. 1

ALIVE = A VEIL

‌09:08:05 a.m.

CATCHING MY BREATH, I ASKED,

So why you here?

I wiped the corners

of my mouth, thought,

Please don’t say you’ve come to take me.

Please don’t say I’m dead.

Please.

Actually,

he said,

doing the bus-stop lean back again,

I came to check on my gun.

‌MY RESPONSE

. . .

Then, finally,

in an almost-whisper, he added,

Your tail is showing.

‌I PUT MY HAND BEHIND MY BACK,

felt the imprint of the piece, like another piece of me,

an extra vertebra, some more backbone.

‌THOUGHT ABOUT MOVING IT

to the front,

but Shawn used to always say dogs,

even snarling ones,

tuck their tails between their legs,

a sign of fear. A signal of

bluff.

‌I REMEMBER

when I gave

that thing to Shawn,

Buck said,

He was around your age.

Told him he could hold it for me. Taught him how to use it too.

Taught him The Rules.

Made him promise to put it somewhere you couldn’t get it.

and I replied with as much tough in

my voice as I could.

But I got it.

‌AND I’M GLAD I FOUND IT,

because I’m gonna need it,

I explained.

Shawn’s dead now.

No need to tiptoe around it.

Plus, I figured Buck already knew. Figured dead know dead stuff.

Damn.

(Dumb thing to think.)

Happened last night. Followed him from the store. Caught him slippin’,

gave him two to the chest right outside our building,

I said,

anger sour in the back of my throat.

But I know it was the Dark Suns. Riggs and them. Had to be.

Buck folded his arms.

I see,

he said,

shaking his head, his mouth fading into frown.

So what you ’bout to do?

My eyes turned to razor blades.

I’m about to do what I gotta do. What you woulda done.

I squared.

Follow The Rules.

‌09:08:08 a.m.

THE ELEVATOR RUMBLED

and vibrated and knocked

around like the middle drawer, like something off track.

Scared the hell outta me.

What’s taking this stupid thing so long?

I asked,

pounding the door as hard

as my heart was pounding inside me.

This rickety thing

has always moved slow,

Buck said, grinning.

Yeah, but this is ridiculous,

I replied, palms wetting.

Might as well relax,

Buck said.

It’s a long

way

down.

‌MAYBE HE DIDN’T HEAR ME

or didn’t take me seriously.

Old people always do that.

Always try to act like what I’m saying ain’t true. Always try to act like I’m not forreal.

But I was forreal.

So forreal.

‌RELAX?!

I snapped.

Relax?

I ain’t got time to relax! I got work to do.

A job to do. Business to handle,

I said,

feeling myself, my macho between

my shaky legs, masking

my jumpy heart.

‌BUCK LAUGHED, AND

laughter,

when it’s loud and heavy and aimed

at you,

I think

can feel just as bad as

a bullet’s bang.

‌YOU GOT WORK TO DO?

A job to do?

Buck teased, wiping laugh-tears from his eyes.

Right, right. You gon’ follow The Rules, huh?

Yeah, that’s right,

I said,

opening my stance to let him know this wasn’t a game,

that I was forreal.

Buck pressed

his finger to my chest like he was pushing an elevator button.

The button.

But you ain’t

got it in you, Will,

he said, cocky.

Your brother did, but you— you don’t.

‌HE ASKED ME

if I had even checked to see if the gun was loaded.

I hadn’t.

And now almost shot myself trying

to figure out how to.

‌GIVE IT TO ME

before

you hurt yourself.

Buck clicked something.

The clip slid from the grip like a metal candy bar.

Fourteen slugs. One in the hole. Fifteen total,

he said, slamming

the clip back in.

How many should there be?

I asked.

Sixteen.

But, whatever.

‌09:08:11 a.m.

HE HELD THE GUN OUT.

I grabbed it,

but Buck wouldn’t let go.

I yanked and yanked, pulled and pulled,

but he

resisted and resisted, laughed and laughed,

Bucked and bucked.

‌BUCK FINALLY LET GO

and I stumbled into the corner, slamming against the wall

like a clown.

You don’t got it in you,

he repeated

over and over again under his un-breath while sliding a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

Tossed one in his mouth, struck a match that sounded like a finger snap.

Then the elevator came to a stop.

 

 

‌I HAD HALF A SECOND

to

get a grip, grab the grip, tuck the gun, turn around, ignore Buck,

catch my breath, stand up straight, act normal

act natural act like

the only rules that matter are the ones

for the elevator.

‌A GIRL STEPPED IN.

Stood beside me. Around my age. Fine as heaven.

Flower dress. Low heels.

Light makeup, lip gloss, cheek stuff.

Perfume,

sweet, fresh, cutting

through the cigarette smoke.

‌SHE CHECKED TO MAKE SURE

was lit.

And I was

walking my eyes up her legs,

the ruffle and fold of her flower dress, her

arms, her neck, her cheek, her hair.

Then

the bus-stop lean back

to get a glimpse of the world.

But the metal barrel dug into my back, making me wince, making me obvious

and wack.

‌09:08:12 a.m.

I DIDN’T KNOW

smoking was allowed in elevators,

she said,

her small talk smacking with sarcasm.

But I was too shook to notice.

You . . . can see that?

I replied all goofy,

my game no good around ghosts.

I wondered if she thought it was me lighting up before she

got on

since she couldn’t see Buck in the corner puffing out,

making faces like,

Get on with it.

Uh . . . of course. It’s everywhere,

she said,

pinching back a cough.

She fanned smoke from her face, thumbed to Buck,

who shook his head and blew vanishing halos.

She could see him. She could see him? She could see him!

Then

she turned to me and added,

I didn’t know guns

were allowed

in elevators either.

‌SHE COULD SEE

Buck? But how?

I thought he was

only my ghost, only my grand imagination.

But when she

could see him,

could smell his funky cigarette,

I knew for a fact this was real.

‌AT THIS POINT

you probably already don’t believe me

or think I’m nuts. And maybe I am.

But I swear this is all true.

Swear.

‌I JOINED IN,

fanning the smoke, shaking her comment about the gun, looking at Buck

all crazy.

But he ain’t care.

Just leaned back and

took another pull on the cig, burning but not burning down.

Still long. Fire.

Smoke. But no ash.

‌SHE BRUSHED HER HAND AGAINST MINE

to get my attention, which on any other occasion would’ve been the perfect open for me to flirt or at least try to do

my best impression of Shawn,

which was

his best impression of Buck.

‌BUT THERE WAS A GHOST IN THE ELEVATOR

so,

no-

go.

‌PLUS

it’s hard to think about kissing and killing

at the same time.

‌SHE ASKED,

What you need it for anyway?

And when I looked confused (pretended to look confused),

she ticked tongue to teeth and clarified,

The gun.

‌09:08:15 a.m.

THE NEXT EXCHANGE WAS A SIMPLE ONE.

I don’t mean no harm, but that ain’t something you just ask someone you don’t even know,

I said,

still trying to play cool.

The girl nodded, replied,

You’re right. So right.

‌BUT THEN

she put her hand on my shoulder, her perfume floating from her wrist to just under my nostrils, said,

But I do

know you,

Will.

‌I WON’T FRONT.

I was a little excited.

I know I just said flirting on an elevator with

a ghost on it was a no-

go,

but we wouldn’t be

on this elevator forever.

And Shawn always said

if a girl says she knows you but you ain’t never met her then she’s been

watching you. Clockin’ you. Checkin’ you.

Buck probably taught him that. I hoped it was true.

‌FROM WHERE?

is what I came with next, loading up my flirts.

Where you know me from?

The girl smiled. With her eyes.

From the playground,

she said.

Monkey bars.

‌VERY FUNNY,

I said, picking up on

her trying to play me.

I ain’t no monkey.

I never said you were,

she replied.

I’m being serious.

Well, then you got the wrong guy because I’m too old to be hanging

at playgrounds.

Yeah, but I knew you when you weren’t.

‌SHE OPENED HER PURSE,

dug around, pulled out a wallet, unfolded it, turned it toward me to flash a photo like white people

on movies when they

want to show off their kids.

But I wasn’t trying to see no kids. But there they were.

There we were.

‌ME AND MY FRIEND DANI

as kids. Eight years old.

No-knee’d jeans and hand-me-down T-shirt from Shawn.

Flower dress, shorts underneath for Dani,

who hung from a monkey bar tongue hanging from her mouth like pink candy.

The sun shining in my eyes. The sunshine in hers.

‌09:08:18 a.m.

YOU REMEMBER THIS?

the girl asked, folding snapping

the wallet shut.

Of course,

I said,

wondering how she knew Dani.

It was one of the best and worst days of my life.

You remember, on this day,

she paused, cocking her head to the side, hands on hips, butterflied arms, and continued,

I kissed you?

‌MY EYES GOT BIG.

Dani?

This was Dani. Dani. Standing in front of me.

The flower dress the same.

Her face

eight years older than eight years old

but still the same.

‌YEAH, I REMEMBER.

I remember.

I remember that. I remember this. And then . . .

I got hung up.

And then . . .

Gunshots,

she said. Gunshots.

‌GUNSHOTS

like firecrackers

coming from everywhere.

Dani said her body burned and all she wanted to do was jump outside of herself, swing to somewhere else

like we pretended to do on monkey bars.

‌AND NOW I WANNA THROW UP,

Buck baited.

He heh-heh-heh’d,

the cigarette dangling, bouncing with each word like a fishing pole

with fish on bait,

with hook through head.

‌I TOLD DANI

how I remember

Shawn screaming for us to get down.

How he lay on top of us, covering us, smashing us into the dirt.

I told her how I remember staring at her the whole time.

Her eyes wide, the brightness dimming. Her mouth, open.

Bubble gum and blood.

‌I SWEAR SOMETIMES

it feels like God be flashing photos of his children, awkward, amazing,

tucked in his wallet for the world

to see.

But the world don’t wanna see no kids,

and God ain’t no pushy parent so he just folds and snaps

us shut.

‌WHEN THEY SAID

you were gone, I cried all night,

I confessed.

And the next morning, over hard-boiled eggs and sugar cereal, Shawn taught me Rule Number One—

no crying.

‌THE WAY I FELT

when Dani was killed was a first.

Never felt nothing like it.

I stood in the shower the next morning after Shawn taught me the first rule,

no crying, feeling like

I wanted to scratch my skin off scratch my eyes out punch through something,

a wall, a face,

anything,

so something else could have

a hole.

‌ANAGRAM NO. 2

FEEL = FLEE

‌IT’S COOL

to see you, Dani,

I said, feeling funny but meaning every word.

She grew up gorgeous.

At least

she would’ve.

Good to see you too, Will.

She grinned.

But you still haven’t answered my question.

‌WHAT YOU NEED

a gun for?

‌09:08:20 a.m.

MY FACE

tightened hardened.

They killed Shawn last night.

Who killed Shawn? Shouldn’t you already know?

Just tell me who killed him, Will.

The Dark Suns. You remember Riggs, used to live around here? Think it was him. Had to be?

Had to be.

‌DANI WAS KILLED

before she ever learned The Rules.

So I explained them to her so she wouldn’t think less of me for following them

like I was just another block boy on one looking to off one.

So that she knew I had purpose

and that this was about family

and had I known The Rules when we were kids I would’ve done the same thing

for her.

‌THEN DANI ASKED,

What if you

miss?

‌BUT

I won’t,

I said.

But what if you do?

she asked.

I won’t,

I said.

But how you know?

she asked.

I just know,

I said.

But you ever even shot a gun?

she asked.

Don’t matter,

I said.

Don’t matter.

‌DANI WAS DISAPPOINTED.

Slapped her hands to her face, tried to wipe away worry.

But she couldn’t. And I couldn’t expect her to.

‌I LOOKED BACK AT BUCK

for a bailout, some help, something, but he said nothing.

Just slid the cigarettes

from his pocket and extended it to Dani.

‌BUCK OFFERED,

Smoke?

I guess this was his way

of diffusing the situation.

Thank you,

Dani said, wiggling one from the box.

You smoke?

I asked.

You shoot?

she shot back, slipping it between shiny lips,

leaning forward for the light.

Buck struck a match.

And again

the elevator came to a stop.