Unforgivable (10 page)

THERE WAS MAGIC, EVIE. YOU HAVE TO REMEMBER. THOSE moments we forgot to be scared. Those moments we trusted each other so completely we ceased being bodies, when we were so free we turned into light, when we could not tell the difference between our skin and air and earth and water, when we were so big we became everything.

The water held us and made me brave. I had decided you were the one I wanted to show everything—my scars, the ones I always hid. They are the scars that tell the story of my mom leaving and of David dying. They are the physical proof of a pain so huge I could not keep it inside my body.

But then the air shifted. It always shifted. I'd catch a glimpse of you and it would light up the sky, but then the clouds would come and you'd get that look on your face that became so familiar, the look that told me you were gone, I had lost you, and I would have to wait until the next time you were truly present. I grasped
at those rare, small moments when your eyes met mine and I knew you were with me, your mind not wandering, not getting lost in the past or the future or somewhere else you'd rather be. I knew I'd have to get used to waiting and become satisfied with those snippets of breath and skin, those fragments of intoxicating
now
.

And then the light would fade. The magic would be over, only partly revealed. That's the story of us. Over and over. Light and darkness and light again. And right now, the darkness is winning.

MY DREADLOCKS LOOK LIKE DEAD BLACK CATERPILLARS on the bathroom floor. The clippers buzz as I shave my scalp, which tingles with the sudden absence of weight. I imagine my hair follicles all taking a deep breath.

Today is the anniversary of David's death.

Today will not be about him.

I've been sober for six days, a new record. It's been almost a year since the last time I cut. I've finally started looking through the college brochures that have been collecting dust ever since they arrived in the mail. I've decided to take the internship at my dad's office at the courthouse in San Francisco, which starts tomorrow.

I look at myself in the mirror. My head seems too small now, misshapen. I feel slightly off balance. I'm wearing my school uniform—a black suit and white shirt. I decided against the tie. That would be overkill. Maybe this is all overkill. But I want
to look respectable, trustworthy. I want to look like a nice guy. Because I'm about to do the dumbest thing so far in my quest for Evie, way worse than stalking Jenica at school.

I sit in my car for a while before working up enough nerve to get out and go ahead with my crazy plan. As I walk up to the front door of Evie's house, it strikes me how strange it is that I've never actually done this before—never picked her up at home, never walked her back after a date, never been inside her house. These are more signs that something was off, signs I should have seen long ago but chose not to.

The sound of my fist on the wooden door is jarring in the peaceful evening. It's the time of night when everyone is home from work and kids are playing in backyards before dinner. And I am going to disrupt all that.

The door opens, my heart stops for a moment, and I know how it is possible for people to die of fright.

“Can I help you?” a man who must be Evie's dad says suspiciously. He looks like a typical Berkeley dad—medium height, medium build, brown hair, glasses, with the air of someone with a postgraduate education. He wasn't at the hospital when I brought Evie in. He has no idea who I am. I probably look like a Jehovah's Witness to him, all clean-cut and wearing a suit.

I open my mouth to begin the speech I've been rehearsing all day, but before I have a chance to speak, Jenica comes swooping in, wedging herself in front of her father, trying to pull the door closed behind her. “This is a classmate from school, Dad,” she
says. “He just came to talk to me about the comments we got on a final project. I'll talk to him outside.”

“Uh, okay,” he says, obviously confused. “He can come inside, you know. Don't you want to offer him something to drink?”

Jenica catches my eye, and I can feel the heat of her fury. I can almost hear her psychically yelling at me,
Get the hell out of here NOW!

I didn't come this far to talk to Jenica on the front lawn.

“Mr. Whinsett?” I say as Jenica manages to scoot him out of the way and start to shut the door behind her. He catches the door with his hand before it closes.

“Yes?” he says, his face suddenly serious.

“Don't,” Jenica pleads.

“My name is Marcus Lyon,” I begin. “I am in love with your daughter Evie. We have been dating for quite a while. I have been trying to get in contact with her. I need to know if she's okay.”

In the wake of my words, there is silence. Then the sound of dishes coming from what must be the kitchen, a murmur of voices.

Evie.
I step forward without thinking. Then I feel the strong hands of a furious father on my chest, shoving me back.

“Get the hell out of my house,” he says.

“Marcus, just leave,” Jenica cries. “Please.”

“I know that you want to protect her,” I say quickly, knowing I don't have much time before he slams the door in my face. “But you don't understand. I care about Evie. I want her to be healthy,
too. I'm not bad. I'm not going to hurt her.” This is coming out all wrong. This is not what I wanted to say.

“Don't you think it's a little too late for that?” Evie's dad says, stepping toward me, his voice shaking with anger. If I stay here any longer, I'm going to get hurt.

“What's going on out there?”

Evie's voice. From the kitchen.

Evie's face. Her body. Emerging from the doorway.

My heart stops. It bursts. It flies out of my chest and goes to her.

“Evie,” I say.

She freezes. Her face goes white. She takes a shallow breath and holds it. She doesn't breathe as she meets my eyes, as they speak unfathomable shock and fear and sadness.

“Get out of here!” Evie's dad bellows. “Jenica, get me the phone. I'm going to call the cops.” Jenica is crying too hard to move.

“Wait,” I say. “Evie, tell them. Tell them it's not my fault.”

She is stone. She is ice. She has not moved a millimeter since she saw me.

Evie's mom enters from the kitchen, looks around at the still tableau, then registers my presence at the front door. “What is
he
doing here?”

“Pam, call the cops,” Evie's dad says. I hear his words. Evie's mom picks up the phone in the living room and starts dialing, and I know I should be scared, but all that matters is Evie's eyes still locked on mine.

“Just leave, Marcus,” Jenica begs.

“Evie,” I say as Jenica grabs my arm. “Tell them. Please! Tell them the truth.”

She looks away. She says nothing. Jenica shuts the door in front of my face. I hear the deadbolt lock. Then silence.

I can't drive. I can barely see. Anger and hurt cloud my eyes, fill my ears with static. I want to tear into my skin until I reach muscle, until I reach bone. But I can't—not here, not now. So I run. It is the only thing I can think of. Moving my body is the only thing I can do to keep my mind and heart from ripping me apart from the inside.

I tear off my jacket and run down the tree-lined street. I have no idea where I'm going or what I'm doing. I need to get out of here, out of myself. But I have no drugs to do it, and even if I did, I know they wouldn't solve anything. Maybe if I run far enough I will find the end of the world and fall off.

Whoop, whoop.
The sky is sliced open with the sudden scream of sirens. Not in the distance, not the usual long monotonous dirge, but right here, right behind me, two short yelps so close they ring inside my head. Cars all around me reflect flashing red lights.

“Young man,” says a muddled, amplified voice. “Stop running right now.”

I turn around and the car is just feet behind me. The red lights spin quietly as the car stops in the middle of the street and two cops get out.

“Stay right there,” says one of them, a young black cop. His hand is on his gun. “Don't move.”

“What's going on?” I say, and my voice sounds distant, like I'm hearing it through a long tube. The world is suddenly tiny. Everything is in slow motion. The air throbs with the spinning red lights. My heart bursts through my ribs.

“Can you tell us what you're doing in this neighborhood?” the other cop says.

“I was visiting a friend.”

“Why were you running?” the black one says. They are standing too close to me. They are closing in. I can't breathe. I can't speak.

“We got a call about someone matching your description bothering a family up the street,” says the black one. “Do you know anything about that?”

“I was visiting a friend,” I repeat. I can hear a tinge of hostility enter my voice. “If her parents want to call it ‘bothering,' that's their problem.”

What am I doing? The first thing a man with dark skin knows is to never, ever talk back to a cop.

“What's with the attitude?” the black cop says.

“I didn't do anything wrong.” Anger takes over my fear, like a delicious poison spreading through my body. There is nothing I can do to stop it.

“People don't usually run when they didn't do anything wrong.”

He's too close. I can smell mustard and meat on his breath. Some kind of metal band winds around my chest, tighter and tighter, faster and faster, until it's red-hot, until it bursts and incinerates everything containing my rage.

“Fuck. You.” I say it slowly, deeply, looking straight into the black cop's beady, power-drunk eyes.

The world spins. It is a tornado of hands and arms and metal. My shoulder tweaks as he pulls my arms back. My wrists burn inside the too-tight handcuffs.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I yell. “You can't do this. I didn't do anything wrong.”

“Looks like you're coming with us,” the white cop says with a sigh, like he's bored, like this is a usual day at the office.

I stumble as the black cop pushes me toward the car. His hand is on the top of my head, guiding me into the back. I go limp as soon as I touch the hard plastic seat. I stop fighting. This is happening. This is really happening. There's nothing I can say or do to stop it. It doesn't matter what the truth is.

I look out the window at the few people on the sidewalk who have stopped to watch. A tiny Chihuahua on a pink studded leash barks hysterically. Curious faces stare out of windows. A black boy, no older than five, watches the scene from inside his house, his tiny arm wrapped tight around a teddy bear. The inside of the car smells like puke and toxic cleanser.

Both cops get in and we start driving. One of them says something into the police radio, but I can't understand it. My brain seems strangely incapable of processing information. I am in a cop car. I am in handcuffs. But I have no idea what it means.

“Am I being arrested?” I hear my voice say. But they are talking about baseball. The thick plastic barrier between us is a desert hundreds of miles thick.

“What are the charges?” I say. One of them is an A's fan, and the other likes the Giants.

I close my eyes. I imagine a pain worse than this.

“Your dad's here,” says the female cop at the front desk of the police station. She doesn't look up at me. I'm not worth even that.

I've been sitting on this bench for two hours, replaying the few minutes of events that got me here, over and over in my head. With each repeat, my shame deepens. I keep seeing Evie's face. I keep hearing her silence.

Dad walks in with the white cop who picked me up. They're talking in low tones and I can't hear what they're saying. He's nodding; his mouth is a thin, serious line.

“Let's go,” Dad says, grabbing my arm, much tighter than necessary. “You're not being charged with anything.”

I stand up. I wait for more. But he says nothing. I can't read his face.

“I didn't do anything illegal, Dad.”

“Let's go, Marcus,” he says again, not meeting my eyes.

“Can't you talk to someone?” I say, even though I know I shouldn't. But someone needs to suffer for this injustice. Someone besides me. “Can't you get those cops in trouble or something? They were abusing their power. It was racial profiling.”

“God dammit, Marcus,” Dad snarls. He grabs my arm even harder and pulls me out the door.

It's halfway to night when we get outside. I wonder what Evie's doing right now. I wonder what she told her parents.

“Why didn't you say anything?” I say.

“Let it go,” he says, walking ahead, so quiet I can barely hear him.

“Let it go?” I say. “They're the ones who broke the law. You have to do something.”

He stops walking and turns around. We are standing on the front steps of the Berkeley police department. The sky burns the dark orange of sunset.

“Marcus, listen to me. You were a young black man running down the middle of the street of a nice neighborhood in Berkeley. A nice white man called the cops because he said you were bothering his nice white teenage daughter. It doesn't matter what you say. It doesn't matter what the truth is.”

“But you're a
judge
,
Dad,” I say. “You're like their
boss
.”

“I could be president of the United States and I'd still be a nigger to most people in the country,” he says.

I breathe. I swallow. I feel sick. I want to claw at my skin until I tear it off, until I'm raw.

Dad shakes his head. “What is this even about? A girl? All this over a girl?”

I start walking. I am not going to talk to him about this. I am not going to talk to him about anything. “I should go get my car.”

“Give me the address and Monica and I will go pick it up.”

“I can do it.”

“Marcus, I don't want you going anywhere near that house.”

“Fine.”

I follow him to his pimped-out Mercedes. I get inside, sink
into the plush leather seat, listen to the jazz on his top-of-the-line stereo. Is he saying that none of his money, none of his power and accomplishments, gives him the right to stand up for his son against some cops who abused their power? Or is this an excuse? Is the truth that he didn't even want to?

“What are you doing, Marcus?” he says as he pulls out of the parking space. “Are you trying to turn out like your brother?”

“I can't believe you just said that.”

He doesn't respond. His teeth gnash. I know what his anger looks like. I've been watching it my whole life. But this is something different, something more. Something worse.

I want to break something. I want to break everything.