All American Boys (19 page)

“What is this?” I asked, staring.

“There's major buzz about this thing, man. Facebook, Twitter, everywhere. People are pissed off. Kids your age. They're speaking up, man.”

I stared at the picture. The letters, the tiny loop at the stop of the cursive
s
. So familiar. There 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 after picture of
RASHAD IS ABSENT AGAIN TODAY
, tagged all over the city. I knew the first 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.

“There'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 confirmed.

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

A fierce 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 find 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. That'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. That'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. “They'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. That 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. They 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 left 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. The 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 after 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. “This 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. Then when they didn't find nothing, they let me go with a speeding ticket, but left 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 lift 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 five-foot-nine, dark skin, with a black T-shirt and black sneakers on,” Shannon explained. “That could've been anybody.”

“That 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. They went on and on, story after 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. This wasn't really about me. This 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. That I would stand with them.

That is, if I could get out of the hospital.

“Name a word that rhymes with grain.”

“Pain.”

“Good answer! Good answer!”

W
illy was dragging his ass again on Wednesday morning, but truthfully it wasn't all his fault. I was kind of dragging my ass too, still dwelling on all the things I'd been talking to Jill about the night before. It's not like I was dreaming about it, it was more that weird state where your eyes are closed and you know you are thinking, and it feels like you are both asleep and not, like you're resting, but still thinking, kinda in control of your thoughts and kinda not.

Well, the daze carried right over into morning like I was sleepwalking, and when Willy and I finally made it down the steps to head off to school, it might as well have been a dream, because standing on the sidewalk a few houses down, having just lugged the garbage to the street, was Paul Galluzzo, staring right at me.

He waved to me and I waved back, automatically, out of habit.
What was I doing?
He jogged up to us, and I kept thinking,
All I had to do was turn and walk away, what the hell is wrong with me?
He looked like he hadn't slept in days. Maybe he hadn't. Maybe he'd been up all night too, thinking about what he had done to Rashad. Poor guy—yup, that was my first actual thought. Not Rashad. Paul.
Jesus.

“What's up, Collins?” he said when he got to us.

“Uh, hey,” I mumbled. All that normalcy was gone. He sniffled, and I wasn't sure if it was one of those things a guy like him did before he socked a guy like me in the face. I gripped Willy's hand.

Paul tussled Willy's hair. He glanced back and forth between Willy and me, and I focused on the grease stain on Paul's T-shirt.

“Hey,” he said. “I thought we were going to practice some footwork?” He didn't sound angry, more like he was pleading. “I'm right here, man.”

“Yeah,” I said again, fishing for words. “Look, I know. It's been busy, and we have to get to school and all and—”

“Hey,” he said, now with more force. “Don't bullshit me.”

This made Willy jump a little, and Paul calmed down. “No, listen,” he said, easy, like old times. “Little Guz's been telling me about all the chatter at school.”

“Nah,” I said, not sure what to say. “It's nothing.”

“No,” Paul said. “No, it's not. It's weird. I know it.”

He hesitated, and I couldn't find a word to fill the silence. I just wanted to turn and run, but I had Willy holding me there like an anchor. Or maybe it was me? What the hell did I want him to say?

“You gotta hear my side of the story.”

That was the last thing I wanted to do. “Uh, I know,” I stuttered. “But—”

“No. Listen. You do.” Paul clamped my shoulder with his hand. He raised the other one slowly and pointed close to my face, scabs still tattooing his knuckles. “Because you were there. I know.”

Willy looked up at me. “What's going on?”

Paul sniffled again. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair a mess. He was wearing flip-flops, and I'd never seen him in those stupid things. He let go of me and stood back, his hands on his hips.

“Look,” he said. “People tell a lot of fucked-up stories. People are talking about me. Well, I'm telling you this. There was a woman in the store. The kid took her down because she caught him stealing, I went in to protect her, and then he went after me, okay?” He wiped a hand over his head and then held his fist in front of his mouth for a moment. “What was I supposed to do? It's my job, Quinn. I was protecting the lady. I was just doing my job.”

He reached out to me again but didn't grab me, just kind of touched my shoulder, like he wasn't sure what he was doing. I leaned back, and his fingers fell away awkwardly.

“I know,” I lied. “I hear you.”

“Do you?” Paul's face was all screwed up. “I don't think you do, Quinn. What the hell's the matter with you, man?”

“I know. It's just—” I couldn't find anything else to say. “I have to get this guy to school.” I nodded to Willy. “Catch you later, though, right?”