Darkness Before Dawn (2 page)

I looked at my mother with a mixture of disgust and rage. I had to get out of there. “I have to get to Andy's house,” I said suddenly. “I have to see for myself. And I have to see Monty. He's going to need somebody. Can I use your car, Mom? I'll be careful.”

“Let me drive you, Keisha. You're too upset and shaken to drive. Besides, Andy's parents are going to need some support, too.”

“I guess you're right. Let's hurry.” My voice was tight and I avoided the offer of a final hug from my mother. I pretended not to notice my mother's outstretched arms as I looked for the car keys, and I refused to look her in the eye as we walked out the door. I was silent as we rode to Andy's house.

When we got there, at least six police cars crowded Andy's little street and a bright red ambulance sat in the driveway, red lights blinking in the dusk. Crowds of kids from school huddled together. Even boys were crying without embarrassment on the front lawn, and girls sobbed together, using each other for support. Rhonda sat on the damp lawn with Tyrone, pulling blades of grass from the earth, one at a time, unable to cry anymore, I guess. Her eyes were red and swollen like mine. Tyrone
sat very close to her, his arm resting on her leg, looking like he was barely holding in his own tears and anger. He and Andy had played together on the Hazelwood High School basketball team, and had been friends since seventh grade.

I sat down next to Rhonda and hugged her. “I feel so helpless!” I sobbed. “Why did he do this to me?”

“He didn't do it to you, Keisha,” Tyrone said quietly. “He did it to himself.”

“No, Tyrone,” I flashed back at him. “He did it to all of us!” I couldn't look at Tyrone anymore. I hated that Rhonda had Tyrone there to hold and comfort her, while I had no one.

Gerald, another friend and basketball teammate, arrived with his fourteen-year-old sister, Angel. His face was twisted with confusion; Angel was sobbing and sniffling. I walked over to Angel, hugged her, and let her cry. Poor kid. Angel and Gerald had already been through more than their share of unhappiness and death. I glanced over at Gerald, whose face thanked me silently for trying to comfort his sister.

“I ain't got over Robbie bein' dead,” Gerald told me quietly. “High school boys ain't supposed to die. They're supposed to act stupid, and flunk tests, and chase girls, and get out of school, and live. Not die. And now Andy is dead, too? I can't deal with this!” He clenched his fists.

I couldn't say anything. He was right.

Just then another car pulled up and Rob's fourteen-year-old sister, Kiara, rushed out of the car and over to
Angel. I watched as the two friends ran to each other and wept as they tried to console each other. So many tears.

I said to Gerald, “You know this is hard on Kiara. She hasn't gotten over her own big brother's death.”

“Yeah, I feel you. Nothing but Band-Aids covering all that pain, and this must rip everything raw for her.”

I sighed and said carefully, “This must be rough on both of you. You two have been through more mess than oughta be allowed.”

“Yeah.” Gerald glanced at the sky, which was almost completely dark now. “Leftover pain to the max.”

I touched him gently on the shoulder. “I feel ya. It's going to be rough for Monty and his folks, too. Poor kid. He just turned seven.”

I could see Andy and Monty's parents through the front window, huddled together on the sofa. My mom went in and sat with them, once again offering her shoulder as a pillow for pain. Policemen marched in and out of the house, barking orders into their shoulder radios.

I didn't notice Monty at first. He was sitting alone in a swing on the lawn of the house across the street. I left Gerald, wiped my eyes and breathed deeply, and walked slowly across the street to Monty. When me and Andy used to study together at his house, Monty's bright eyes and crooked-toothed grin always greeted me at the door. But what do you say to a second grader who's just found his brother's body?

“Hey, Monty,” I said quietly. He didn't answer. He was wearing Andy's school jacket, the one that said Hazelwood
High in large, shiny silver letters. “You need a hug?” I asked.

Monty nodded slightly. I sat down next to him and held him gently in my arms. I pushed with my feet and let the swing rock us both gently. Neither of us spoke. I felt Monty relax a little and I hugged him closer to me. The evening air was cool; the early spring sun had left little warmth. As the day ended and the night took control, me and Monty cried together in the swing. We kinda shielded each other from the wails of the kids as the plastic bag that contained what had once been Andy was removed from the house. The ambulance left with blinking lights, but no siren, and everyone was left with only darkness and silence.

It was then that Monty's mother frantically called out to him from the house. I guess she realized she hadn't seen him in a while and got worried. Reluctantly, he gave me one last hug, left the swing, and ran across the street to his mother, the arms of Andy's jacket dragging the ground.

The rest of that
school year was almost impossible for everybody. The school brought in grief counselors, just as they had when Robbie had died five months before. They were strangers, though, asking questions that no one could answer. They tried to be helpful, but we were glad when they left. We had our own way of dealing with grief. We went to Eden Park together and sat by the reflecting pool and talked about stuff that was bothering us. Rhonda and Tyrone got so tight that I think they were braided together. He'd breathe out and she'd breathe in. I didn't have anybody, and that's the way I wanted it. I didn't think I would ever find anyone else. I'd known Andy since kindergarten. How could someone come and replace eleven years of memories?

It was time for the all-school picnic. I remember sighing as I packed a bag to take—a deck of cards, a can of bug
spray, a Frisbee, even my swimming suit, but I doubted if I would swim this year. This picnic was always the best part of the school year. On the Saturday after the last day of school, everybody went to Houston Woods State Park, where we had races and games, cooked hot dogs and hamburgers on the grill, rented paddleboats and rowboats, sang songs and told ghost stories by the fire until midnight. Teachers brought their own kids, students brought their little brothers and sisters, and all the hard work of the school year was forgotten in the flickering of the bonfire at the end of the day. Andy and I had always taken Monty along. He wouldn't sleep for a week in anticipation.

I decided to call Monty to see if he'd like to go with me this year.

“I'm scared to go, Keisha,” Monty admitted after a silence.

“Why, Monty?”

“‘Cause Andy won't be there,” Monty said quietly. “And I'm scared of the ghost stories.”

“We can leave before dark. I promise.”

“But the fire in the dark is the best part.” Monty was worried. “Keisha?” he asked.

“Yes, Monty.”

“Is Andy a ghost now?”

I saw now what was frightening Monty. “No, Monty, I don't think so,” I said honestly. “Andy is in a good place, where he is happy and at peace. Besides, ghosts aren't real and Andy is real. He will always be real as long as you love him and I love him.”

“Are you sure?” Monty asked.

“As sure as I can be, Monty. I know that Andy misses you as much as you miss him. But come to the picnic with me. There'll be lots of other kids there, and you need to have some fun. Tell your mom I'll pick you up at three.”

“OK, Keisha. Thanks.”

When we got to the picnic, most of my friends were already there. B. J. was sitting under a tree with the smallest children, telling them stories and helping them sing songs. I waved at him, and he waved back, smiling. B. J. was either going to be a preacher or a teacher—everybody said so. He loved kids, especially the younger ones. Maybe that's because they were smaller than he was. B. J. was only five feet tall, but he was tough and wiry and knew tae kwon do. Kids seemed to collect around him wherever he went. He had managed to collect several younger siblings of the senior class, as well as several children of faculty members. The five-year-old twins of Mr. Jasper, the art teacher, each grabbed one of B. J.'s hands as they dragged him to where their dad was painting the faces of the little ones. He grinned at me as the kids pushed him into Mr. Jasper's lawn chair and he pretended to protest as tiger stripes were painted on his cheeks.

The principal, Mr. Hathaway, was cheerfully grilling hamburgers. With him was a young man who was obviously his son, but I'd never seen him before. Mr. Hathaway was tall, with caramel-colored skin. He had probably been good-looking thirty years before, and had very unusual hazel, almost golden eyes. Andy used to tease the freshmen
and tell them that Hathaway had X-ray vision, because nothing seemed to get by him; those eyes seemed to pierce right into a kid who got caught doing something wrong. Mr. Hathaway's son, who was delivering ice and soda to his father, looked like a younger, tighter version of his dad. He was muscular, slim, and strikingly good-looking, for his hazel eyes decorated perfectly his honey-bronzed face. His movements, as he lifted the heavy boxes, reminded me of water flowing down a mountain—powerful and strong, but gentle—almost liquid. I glanced at him, not really interested, but he sure did look good. He flashed a smile at me which I guess was meant to charm me. Didn't work. My mama taught me to be polite, so I smiled back. Now, I'm no fool—he was really fine—but he looked to be way over twenty-one, so he disappeared from my thoughts about as fast as his smile faded. I didn't look back, but I was aware he was watching me as I headed over with Monty to speak to Mrs. Blackwell, my English teacher, who had brought her son Brandon.

Brandon was eight, and he challenged Monty to a foot race right away. I laughed as I watched them run across the grass. Monty left Brandon in the dust and roared with delight as he took his victory lap around a tree. Brandon laughed and tried to trip him. Then both boys wandered down to watch the junior high girls play softball. I walked alone, remembering the places Andy and I had walked last year. The sun was warm, and I felt relaxed and at peace for the moment. I walked over to watch the game.

Angel sat on the bench with Rob's younger sister, Kiara, who now insisted on being called Joyelle. Neither of them
showed much excitement about the girls' softball game. Kiara had called me a few days after Andy's funeral.

“Can I ask you something serious, Keisha?” she had asked. I could hear the tremor in her voice.

“Sure,” I replied. “Are you OK?”

“No, not really. I'll probably never be OK again,” she said. “I miss my brother, I'm still shaking about Andy, and I'm scared death is just gonna jump in and grab me, too!”

“I know it's hard,” I told her, “but you gotta hold on to the good memories and step out into the future—even if it's scary. That's what I'm trying to do.”

“I'm trying to grab hold of something,” Kiara replied. “And I decided I'm changing my name,” she said suddenly, breathing deeply into the phone. “What do you think?”

“Huh? Can you do that?”

“I have to do something, or I'll go crazy,” Kiara explained. “My parents can't get past Robbie's death and I can't either. And now with Andy being gone, too, I think I'm gonna explode! I have to change something so I can deal with tomorrow, like you said. Do you feel me on this?”

“Yeah, I feel you, I guess. What are you gonna change it to?”

“I've been thinking about this a lot,” Kiara replied. “Robbie and Andy used to call me by my full name to tease me, but I kinda liked it. It made me feel like an actress or a movie star or somebody who gives autographs to other people.”

“What is your full name?”

“Kiara Joyelle Leila Victoria Washington.”

“That's a mouthful,” I commented.

“I just want to be called Joyelle. Is that too much to ask?” She started to cry again. “I want some joy in my life—all the time,” she said angrily. “If anybody wants to talk to me, they have to call me with joy on their lips when they do,” she added almost defiantly.

“I think that's cool, Joyelle,” I told her. All she wanted was for someone to tell her it was OK. “I got your back on this.”

“Thanks, Keisha. This is important to me. I'm gonna tell my parents as soon as they get home from work.”

“What will they say?”

“It will take them some time to get used to it, but they'll do it. It's cheaper than taking me to a shrink, which is probably what
they
need. Life is rough at my house.”

As Joyelle had predicted, her parents let her do it. They called her what she wanted, because I think it was easier than dealing with the kid's pain. I glanced at the two friends watching the game. They looked so bored they could have been in math class. Angel was thin, pale, and almost ghostlike, while Joyelle was round, brown, and solid. Angel was tall; Joyelle was short. But they fit together like coffee and cream. Both of them had started paying more attention to the high school boys playing on the next field than to their own game. They giggled as they watched Gerald miss a hit and Tyrone miss a catch. I just smiled as I watched the boys try to cover their mistakes with loud, macho grunts and roars.

“I can play better than that,” Monty boasted as he walked to the fence.

“Go for it, Monty!” I challenged. “I bet you can, too!”

“Why don't you go on out there and show them!” Angel told him with a laugh.

Joyelle laughed, too, as Monty sauntered over to the field. He picked up a bat and stepped in front of the next batter. “Play ball!” he yelled.

The boys on the field, mostly juniors and seniors, cracked up as the seven-year-old spit in the dirt. “Throw him your fast ball, Gerald!” Leon yelled from the outfield. Leon could always get a laugh from kids as well as teachers. When the biology teacher brought in small minnows to feed the bass in the classroom tank, Leon grabbed a minnow and swallowed it whole. The girls squealed, the boys hooted, and the teacher chuckled and told Leon to stop now or eat all three dozen minnows. Leon laughed and said he'd had enough, but he pretended to breathe like a fish with gills for the rest of the class. He, too, had been with most of them since kindergarten, but somehow he had never been part of their close group of friends.