Transcription
For all the young brothers and sisters in detentioncenters around the country, the ones I’ve seen, and theones I haven’t. You are loved.
DON’T NOBODYbelieve nothingthese dayswhich is why I haven’ttold nobody the storyI’m about to tell you.And truth is,you probably ain’tgon’ believe it eithergon’ think I’m lyingor 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 ISWill.William.William Holloman.But to my friendsand peoplewho know meknow me,just Will.So call me Will,because after I tell youwhat I’m about to tell youyou’ll eitherwant to be my friendor notwant to be my friendat all.Either way,you’ll know meknow me.
I’M ONLY WILLIAMto my motherand my brother, Shawn,whenever he was tryingto be funny.NowI’m wishing I would’velaughed moreat his dumb jokesbecause the daybefore yesterday,Shawn was shotand killed.
I DON’T KNOW YOU,don’t knowyour last name,if you gotbrothersor sistersor mothersor fathersor cousinsthat be likebrothersand sistersor auntiesor unclesthat be likemothersand fathers,but if the bloodinside you is on the insideof someone else,you never want tosee it on the outside ofthem.
THE SADNESSis just so hardto explain.Imagine waking upand someone,a stranger,got you strapped down,got pliers shovedinto your mouth,gripping a toothsomewhere in the back,one of the bigimportant ones,and rips it out.Imagine the knockingin your head,the pressure pushingthrough your ears,the blood pooling.But the worst part,the absolute worst part,is the constant slippingof your tongueinto the new empty space,where you knowa tooth supposed to bebut ain’t no more.
IT’S SO HARD TO SAY,Shawn’sdead.Shawn’sdead.Shawn’sdead.So strange to say.So sad.But I guessnot surprising,which I guess iseven stranger,and even sadder.
THE DAY BEFORE YESTERDAYme and my friend Tonywere outside talking aboutwhether or not we’d get anytaller now that we were fifteen.When Shawn was fifteenhe grew a foot, maybe a footand a half. That’s when he gaveme all the clothes he couldn’t fit.Tony kept saying he hoped he grewbecause even though he wasthe best ballplayer around hereour age, he was also the shortest.And everybody knowsyou can’t go all the way whenyou’re that small unless you canreally jump. Likefly.
AND THEN THERE WERE SHOTS.Everybodyran,ducked,hid,tuckedthemselves tight.Did what we’ve allbeen trained to.Pressed our lips to thepavement and prayedthe boom, followed bythe buzz of a bullet,ain’t meet us.
AFTER THE SHOTSme and Tonywaited like we always do,for the rumble to stop,before picking our heads upand poking our heads outto count the bodies.This timethere was only one.Shawn.
I’VE NEVER BEENin an earthquake.Don’t know if this waseven close to how theyare, but the grounddefi nitely felt likeit o pened upand ate me.
THINGS THAT ALWAYS HAPPEN WHENEVER SOMEONEIS KILLED AROUND HERENO. 1: SCREAMINGNot everybody screams.Usually justmoms,girlfriends,daughters.In this caseit was Leticia,Shawn’s girlfriend,on her knees kissinghis foreheadbetween shrieks.I think she hopedher voice wouldsomehow keep himalive,would clot the blood.But I thinkshe knewdeep down in thedeepest part ofher downnessshe was kissinghim good-bye.
AND MY MOMmoaning low,Not my baby.Not my baby.Why?hanging over mybrother’s bodylike a dimmedlight post.
NO. 2: SIRENSLots and lots of sirens,howling, cutting throughthe sounds of the city.Except the screams.The screams are alwaysheard over everything.Even the sirens.
NO. 3: QUESTIONSCops flashed lights in our facesand we all turned to stone.Did anybody see anything?a young officer asked.He looked honest, like heain’t never done this before.You can always tell a newbie.They always ask questionslike they really expect answers.Did anybody see anyone?I ain’t seen nothin’,Marcus Andrews, the neighborhoodknow-it-all, said.Even he knew better than toknow anything.
IN CASE YOU AIN’T KNOW,gunshots make everybodydeaf and blind especiallywhen they make somebodydead.Best to become invisiblein times like these.Everybody knows that.Even Tony flew away.
I’M NOT SUREif the cops asked me questions.Maybe.Maybe not.Couldn’t hear nothing.Ears filled up with heartbeatslike my head was being heldunder water.Like I was holding my breath.Maybe I was.Maybe I washoping I could give someback to Shawn.Or maybesomehowjoin him.
WHEN BAD THINGS HAPPENwe can usually look up and seethe moon, big and bright,shining over us.That always made me feel better.Like there’s something up therebeaming down on us in the dark.But the day before yesterday, whenShawndied,the moon was off.Somebody told me once a monththe moon blacks outand becomes newand the next night be backto normal.I’ll tell you one thing,the moon is lucky it’s not down herewhere nothingis evernew.
I STOOD THERE,mouth clenchedtight enough to grind myteeth down to dust,and looked at Shawnlying there like a pieceof furniture left outside,like a stained-up couchdraped in a gold chain.Them fuckers ain’t evensnatch it.
RANDOM THOUGHTBlood soaking into aT-shirt, blue jeans, and bootslooks a lot like chocolate syrupwhen the glow from the streetlights hit it.But I know ain’tnothing sweet about blood.I know it ain’t like chocolate syrupat all.
IN HIS HAND,a corner-storeplastic bagwhite withred lettersTHANK YOUTHANK YOUTHANK YOUTHANK YOUTHANK YOUTHANK YOUTHANK YOUHAVE A NICE DAY
IN THAT BAG,special soapfor my mother’seczema.I’ve seen herscratch until itbleeds.Pick at the pusbubbles and flakyscales.Curse the invisiblething trying to eather.
MAYBE THERE’S SOMETHING INVISIBLEtryingto eatall ofus asif weare beef.
BEEFgets passed down like name-brandT-shirts around here. Always too big.Never ironed out.gets inherited like a trunk of fool’sgold or a treasure map leadingto nowhere.came knocking on my brother’s life,kicked the damn door down and tookeverything except his gold chain.
THEN THE YELLOW TAPEthat says DO NOT CROSSgets put up, and there’s nothingleft to do but go home.That tape lets people knowthat this is a murder scene,as if we ain’t already know that.The crowd backs its way intobuildings and down blocksuntil nothing is left but the tape.Shawn was zipped into a bagand rolled away, his blood addedto the pavement galaxy ofbubblegum stars. The tapeframed it like it was art. And the nextday, kids would play mummy with it.
BACK ON THE EIGHTH FLOORI locked myself in my room and puta pillow over my head to mufflethe sound of my mom’s mourning.She sat in the kitchen, sobbinginto her palms, which she peeledaway only to lift glass to mouth.With each sip came a briefsilence, and with each briefsilence I snuck in a breath.
I FELT LIKE CRYING,which felt likeanother persontrapped behind my facetiny fists punchingthe backs of my eyesfeet kickingmy throat at the spotwhere the swallowstarts.Stay put, I whispered to him.Stay strong, I whispered to me.Because cryingis againstTheRules.
THE RULESNO. 1: CRYINGDon’t.No matter what.Don’t.
NO. 2: SNITCHINGDon’t.No matter what.Don’t.
NO. 3: REVENGEIf someone you lovegets killed,find the personwho killedthem andkill them.
THE INVENTION OF THE RULESain’t come from mybrother,his friends,my dad,my uncle,the guys outside,the hustlers and shooters,and definitely not fromme.
ANOTHER THING ABOUT THE RULESThey weren’t meant to be broken.They were meant for the brokento follow.
OUR BEDROOM: A SQUARE, YELLOWY PAINTTwo 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 scribblewith a pencil in case Mom made meerase it:SCARE CARES.
ANAGRAMis when you take a wordand rearrange the lettersto make another word.And sometimes the wordsare still somehow connectedex: CANOE OCEAN.Same letters,different words,somehow still makesense together,like brothers.
THE MIDDLE DRAWERwas the only thing ever out of placeon Shawn’s side of the room,like a random, jagged toothin a perfect mouth,jammed tight between thetop drawer of shirtsfolded into neat rectanglesstacked like project floors,and the bottom drawer of socksand underwear.Off track. Stuck. Forced in at an angle.Seemed like the middle drawerwas jacked up on purposeto keep me and Mom outand Shawn’s gun in.
I WON’T PRETEND THAT SHAWNwas the kind of guywho was home by curfew.The kind of guywho called and checked inabout where he was,who he was with,what he was doing.He wasn’t.Not after eighteen,which was when our mothertook her hands off him,pressed them together, andbegan to praythat he wouldn’t go to jailthat he wouldn’t get Leticia pregnantthat he wouldn’tdie.
MY MOTHER USED TO SAY,I know you’re young,gotta get it out,but just remember, whenyou’re walking in the nighttime,make sure the nighttimeain’t walking into you.But Shawnprobably had hisheadphones on.Tupac or Biggie.
SO USUALLYI ended up going to bedat night, curled upon my side of the room,eventually falling asleep staringat the half-empty bottles of cologneon top of Shawn’s dresser.And the jacked-up middle drawer.Alone.
BUT I NEVER TOUCHED NOTHINGbecause it’s no funhiding from headlockshalf the night,which is why I never touched nothingof hisno more.
IT USED TO BE DIFFERENT.When I was twelve and he was sixteenwe would talk trash till one of us passed out.He would tell me about girls, and I wouldtell him about pretend girls, who hepretended were real, too, just to make mefeel good. He would tell me stories abouthow the best rappers ever were Biggie andTupac, but I always wondered if that wasjust because they were dead. People alwayslove people more when they’re dead.
AND WHEN I WAS THIRTEENShawn welcomed me into teenage lifewith a spritz of his almost-grown cologne,said my girlfriend—my first girlfriend—would like it.But she hated itso I broke up with her,becauseto meher nose wasfunny acting.
SHAWN THOUGHT THATwas stupidand funnybut worthyof joking me,calling meWilliam.Worthyof a headlockthat felt likea hug.
NOW THE COLOGNEwill never droplower in the bottles.And I’ll never go to sleep againbelievingthat touching themor anything of hiswill lead to an armaround my neck.But it feels like an armaround my neck,wrenching,just thinking about howI’ll never go to sleep againbelieving him orbelieving hewill eventuallycome home, becausehe won’t, and now I guessI should love him more,like he’s my favorite,which is hard to dobecause he was my onlybrother, andalready my favorite.
SUDDENLYour roomseemedlopsided.Cut in half.Half empty.Half cold.Half curiousabout thatone drawerin the middleof it all.
THE MIDDLE DRAWER CALLED TO ME,its awkward off-centerednessa sign that what was in it couldand should be used toset things straight.I yanked and pulled andsnatched and tugged atthe drawer until it openedjust more than an inch.Just wide enough for myfifteen-year-old fingers toslither in and touchcold steel.
NICKNAMEA cannon.A strap.A piece.A biscuit.A burner.A heater.A chopper.A gat.A hammer.A toolfor RULE No. 3.
WHICH BRINGS ME TO CARLSON RIGGSHe was known aroundhere for being as loud aspolice sirens but assoft as his first name.
PEOPLE SAID RIGGStalked so much trash becausehe was short, but I think it wasbecause his mom made him takegymnastics when he was a kid, andwhen you wear tights and know howto do cartwheels it might be a good ideato also know how to defend yourself.Or at least talk like you can.
RIGGS AND SHAWN WERE SO-CALLED FRIENDS, BUTthe best thing he ever did for Shawnwas teach him how to do a Penny Drop.The worst thing he ever did for Shawnwas shoot him.
A PENNY DROPis when you hangupside down ona monkey barand swingback and forth,harder and harder,until just the rightmoment, when yourelease your legsand go flying throughthe air, hopefullylanding on your feet.It’s all about timing.If you let yourlegs go too early,you’ll land onyour face. If youlet your legs gotoo late, you’ll landflat on your back.So you have totime it perfectlyto get it right.Shawn taught mehow to time it perfectly.If you could do aPenny Drop or abackflip (no cartwheels)you were the king.Shawn could doboth so he was the
king around here tome and Tony andall our friends.But he made sureI was the prince.In case you ain’t know.
REASONS I THOUGHT (KNEW) RIGGS KILLED SHAWNNO. 1: TURFRiggs moved to adifferent part of the hoodwhere the Dark Sunshang and bang and be wild.He wanted to join so hewouldn’t be looked at likeall bark no more,and instead could havea backbone built for himby the bite of his block boyswho wait for anyone to crossthe line into their territory,which happens to be nineblocks from our building,and in the same neighborhoodas the corner storethat sells that special soapmy mother sent Shawnout to get for her theday before yesterday.
NO. 1.1: SURVIVAL TACTICS (made plain)Getdownwithsomebodyorgetbeatdownbysomebody.
NO. 2: CRIME SHOWSI grew up watching crimeshows with my mother.Always knew who the killerwas 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 eventouched one.Heavier thanI expected,like holdinga newbornexcept Iknew thecry wouldbe muchmuch muchmuch louder.
A NOISE FROM THE HALLWAYMy mother,stumbling to the bathroom,her sobs leading the way.I quickly slappedthe switch on the wall, droppingthe room into darkness, droppingmyself into bed, pushingthe pistol under my pillowlike a lost tooth.
SLEEPran from mefor what seemedlike forever,hid from melike I used to hidefrom Shawnbefore finallypeeking out frombehind pain.
I WOKE UPin the morningand tried to rememberif I dreamed aboutanything.I don’t think I did,so I pretended thatI dreamed aboutShawn.It made me feel betterabout going to sleepthe night he wasmurdered.
BUT I ALSO FELT GUILTYfor waking up,for breathing in,for stretching,yawning, andreachingunderthe pillow.
I WRAPPED MY FINGERSaround the grip, placingthem over Shawn’sprints like littlebrother holding bigbrother’s hand again,walking me to the store,teaching me how todo a Penny Drop.If you let go too earlyyou’ll land on your face.If you let go too lateyou’ll land on your back.To land on your feet,you gotta time it just right.
IN THE BATHROOMin the mirrormy face sagged,like sadnesswas trying to pullthe skin off.Zombie.I had sleptin my clothes,the stench ofdeath and sweattrapped in thecotton likefish grease.I looked andfelt likeshit.And so what.
I STUCK THE CANNONin the waistband in theback of my jeans, thehandle sticking out like asteel tail.I covered it withmy too-big T-shirt,the name-brandhand-me-downfrom Shawn.
THE PLANwas to wait for Riggsin front of his building.Me and Shawn werealways over his housebefore Riggs joined the gang,and since then, Shawn had beenup that way a bunch of timesto get Mom’s special soap.I figured it would be safestif I went in the morning. If Itimed it right, none of his crewwould be out yet. No onewould ever suspect me. I’d hithis buzzer, get him to come downand open the door. Then I’d pull myshirt over my mouth and noseand do it.
IN THE KITCHENthe sun burst through thewindow, bathing my mother,who slept slumped at thetable, her head resting in thenest of her red, swollen arms.She’d probably been scratchingall night, maybe trying to scratchthe guilt away. I wanted towake her and tell her that itwasn’t her fault, but I didn’t.Instead, with the pistol heavyon my back, I stepped lightlyover the creaky parts of thefloor, trying not to wake herand lie about where I was going.And break her heart even more.
THE YELLOW LIGHTthat lined the hallwaybuzzed like the lightningbugs me and Shawnused to catch whenwe were kids.We scooped theminto washed-out mayojars four or fiveat a time.Shawn would twistthe lid tight, and thetwo of us would siton a bench and watchthem fly around,bumping into each other,trapped, untilone by onetheir lights went out.
AT THE ELEVATORBack already sore.Uncomfortable.Gun strappedlike a brickrubbing my skinraw with each step.Seemed like timestood still as Ireached out andpushed the button.White lightsurrounded theblack arrow.DOWNDOWNDOWN DOWN DOWNDOWN DOWNDOWN.
THERE’S A STRANGE THINGthat happensin the elevator.In any elevator.Every timesomebody getsin, they checkto see if the buttonfor the floor they’regoing to is lit,and if it isn’t,they push it,then facethe door.That’s it.They don’tspeak to thepeople alreadyin the elevator,and thepeople alreadyin the elevatordon’t speak tothe newcomer.Those areelevator 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 danglingaround his necklike magic rope.Checked tomake surethe L button was lit.Going down too.
L STOOD FOR “LOSER”when we were kids,so Shawn and I wouldstand in an empty elevatorand wait for someone to get onand push L. And when they did, wewould giggle because they were theloser and me and Shawn were winnerson a funny and victorious ride down to thelobby. I thought about this when the man withthe gold chains got on and checked to see if theL button was already glowing. I wondered if he knewthat in me and Shawn’s world, I’d already chosen to bea loser.
IT’S UNCOMFORTABLEwhen youfeel likesomeoneis lookingat you butonly whenyou notlooking.
I’VE SEEN GIRLSwaiting at the bus stopmake men pitiful piecesof putty, curling backward,stretching and strainingevery muscle just to geta glimpse of what Shawnand a lot of menaround here callthe world.But there were no womenon this elevator, so therewere no worlds to becheckin’ for.But he kept checkin’anyway,not knowing thatif he kept checkin’anywayhe’d geta worldof trouble.
09:08:04 a.m.DO I KNOW YOU?I asked,irritated,freaked out.The man smiled,adjusted the chainsaround his neck.Looked mestraight in the eyes,dead in the face.You don’t recognize me?he asked,his voicedeep,familiar.I looked harder.Squinted, trying toplace the face.Nah. Not really,I said.He smiled wide.A jagged mouth,sharp and sharklike.Then turned aroundso 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 madeof triangles.RIP BUCK YOU’LL BE MISSED 4EVA
MY STOMACH JUMPEDinto my chestor my chest fellinto my stomach.Or both.I knew him.Buck?I stumbledbackward.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 EYESover and over andover and over again,trippin’.Never smokedor nothing like that.Don’t know high life.Don’t know bad trips.Don’t no dead mansupposed to betalking to me, though.
YEAHI did,I said,hoping he wouldcome back withI’m not dead or Ifaked my deathorsomethinglike that.Or maybeI’d wake up, sitstraight upin bed,the gun still tuckedunder my pillow,my mother still asleepat 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 meatin my armpit,slapped myselfin the face,even tried toblink myselfawake.Blink,blink,blink,butBuck.
I KNOW WHAT YOU THINKIN’.That I was scaredofto death.
BUT NO NEED TO BE AFRAID.I had known Bucksince I was a kidthe only big brotherShawn had ever had.Shawn knew Buckbetter than I did,knew Buck longer thanwe’d known our dad.
I TAKE IT BACK.I was scared.What if he had cometo get me,to take mewith him?What if he had cometo catchmy breath?
ANAGRAM NO. 1ALIVE A VEIL
09:08:05 a.m.CATCHING MY BREATH, I ASKED,So why you here?I wipedthe cornersof my mouth, thought,Please don’t sayyou’ve come totake me.Please don’t sayI’m dead.Please.Actually,he said,doing the bus-stoplean back again,I came to checkon 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 imprintof the piece, likeanother pieceof me,an extra vertebra,some morebackbone.
THOUGHT ABOUT MOVING ITto the front,but Shawn used to always saydogs,even snarling ones,tuck their tails between their legs,a sign of fear.A signal ofbluff.
I REMEMBERwhen I gavethat 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 itsomewhere you couldn’t get it.and I repliedwith as muchtough inmy voice asI 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 chestright outside our building,I said,anger sour in the backof my throat.But I know it was theDark Suns. Riggs andthem. Had to be.Buck folded his arms.I see,he said,shaking his head,his mouth fadinginto frown.So what you ’bout to do?
My eyes turnedto razor blades.I’m about to do whatI gotta do. What youwoulda done.I squared.Follow The Rules.
09:08:08 a.m.THE ELEVATOR RUMBLEDand vibratedand knockedaround like the middle drawer,like something off track.Scared the hell outta me.What’s takingthis stupidthing so long?I asked,pounding the dooras hardas my heart waspounding inside me.This rickety thinghas always moved slow,Buck said,grinning.Yeah, but thisis ridiculous,I replied,palms wetting.Might as well relax,Buck said.It’s a long
waydown.
MAYBE HE DIDN’T HEAR MEor 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 machobetweenmy shaky legs,maskingmy jumpy heart.
BUCK LAUGHED, ANDlaughter,when it’s loudand heavyand aimedat you,I thinkcan feel justas bad asa bullet’sbang.
YOU GOT WORK TO DO?A job to do?Buck teased,wiping laugh-tearsfrom his eyes.Right, right. You gon’ followThe Rules, huh?Yeah, that’s right,I said,opening my stanceto let him know thiswasn’t a game,that I was forreal.Buck pressedhis finger to my chestlike he was pushing anelevator button.The L button.But you ain’tgot it in you, Will,he said,cocky.Your brother did, but you—you don’t.
HE ASKED MEif I had even checkedto see if the gun wasloaded.I hadn’t.And now almost shotmyself tryingto figure outhow to.
GIVE IT TO MEbeforeyou hurt yourself.Buck clicked something.The clip slid from the griplike a metal candy bar.Fourteen slugs.One in the hole.Fifteen total,he said,slammingthe clip back in.How manyshould 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 heresisted and resisted,laughed and laughed,Bucked and bucked.
BUCK FINALLY LET GOand I stumbled into the corner,slamming against the walllike a clown.You don’t got it in you,he repeatedover and over againunder his un-breathwhile sliding a packof cigarettes fromhis pocket.Tossed one in his mouth,struck a match that soundedlike a finger snap.Then the elevator came to a stop.
I HAD HALF A SECONDtoget a grip,grab the grip,tuck the gun,turn around,ignore Buck,catch my breath,stand up straight,act normalact naturalact likethe only rulesthat matterare the onesfor 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,cuttingthrough the cigarette smoke.
SHE CHECKED TO MAKE SUREL was lit.And I waswalking my eyesup her legs,the ruffle and foldof her flowerdress, herarms, herneck, hercheek, herhair.Thenthe bus-stoplean backto get a glimpseof the world.But the metal barreldug into my back,making me wince,making me obviousand wack.
09:08:12 a.m.I DIDN’T KNOWsmokingwas allowedin elevators,she said,her small talk smackingwith sarcasm.But I was too shookto notice.You . . . can see that?I repliedall goofy,my game no goodaround ghosts.I wondered if shethought it was melighting upbefore shegot onsince she couldn’t seeBuck in the cornerpuffing out,making faces like,Get onwith it.Uh . . . of course.It’s everywhere,she said,
pinchingback a cough.She fanned smokefrom her face,thumbed to Buck,who shook his head andblew vanishing halos.She could see him.She could see him?She could see him!Thenshe turned to meand added,I didn’t knowgunswere allowedin elevators either.
SHE COULD SEEBuck?But how?I thought he wasonly my ghost,only my grandimagination.Butwhen shecould see him,could smell his funkycigarette,I knew for a factthis was real.
AT THIS POINTyou probablyalready don’tbelieve meor think I’m nuts.And maybe I am.But I swearthis is alltrue.Swear.
I JOINED IN,fanning the smoke,shaking her commentabout the gun,looking at Buckall crazy.But he ain’t care.Just leaned back andtook another pull on the cig,burning but not burning down.Still long.Fire.Smoke.But no ash.
SHE BRUSHED HER HAND AGAINST MINEto get my attention,which on any otheroccasion would’vebeen the perfectopen for me to flirtor at least try to domy best impression of Shawn,which washis best impression of Buck.
BUT THERE WAS A GHOSTIN THE ELEVATORso,nogo.
PLUSit’s hard to think aboutkissing and killingat the same time.
SHE ASKED,What you needit for anyway?And when Ilooked confused(pretended tolook confused),she tickedtongue to teethand 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 somethingyou just ask someoneyou don’t even know,I said,still trying toplay cool.The girl nodded,replied,You’re right.So right.
BUT THENshe put her hand on my shoulder,her perfume floating from her wristto just under my nostrils, said,ButI doknowyou,Will.
I WON’T FRONT.I was a little excited.I know I just said flirtingon an elevator witha ghost on it was anogo,but we wouldn’t beon this elevator forever.And Shawn always saidif a girl says she knows youbut you ain’t never met herthen she’s beenwatching 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 onher trying to play me.I ain’t no monkey.I never said you were,she replied.I’m being serious.Well, then you got thewrong guy because I’m tooold to be hangingat playgrounds.Yeah, but I knew youwhen you weren’t.
SHE OPENED HER PURSE,dug around,pulled out a wallet,unfolded it,turned it towardme to flash a photolike white peopleon movies when theywant 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 DANIas kids.Eightyears old.No-knee’d jeans andhand-me-down T-shirtfrom Shawn.Flower dress,shorts underneathfor Dani,who hung from a monkey bartongue hanging from her mouthlike pink candy.The sun shining in my eyes.The sunshine in hers.
09:08:18 a.m.YOU REMEMBER THIS?the girl asked,foldingsnappingthe wallet shut.Of course,I said,wondering how sheknew Dani.It was one of the bestand worst days of my life.You remember, on this day,she paused,cocking herhead 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 dressthe same.Her faceeight years older thaneight years oldbut stillthe same.
YEAH, I REMEMBER.I remember.I remember that.I remember this.And then . . .I got hung up.And then . . .Gunshots,she said.Gunshots.
GUNSHOTSlike firecrackerscoming from everywhere.Dani said her body burnedand all she wanted to do wasjump outside of herself,swing to somewhere elselike we pretended to doon monkey bars.
AND NOW I WANNA THROW UP,Buck baited.He heh-heh-heh’d,the cigarette dangling,bouncing with each wordlike a fishing polewith fish on bait,with hook through head.
I TOLD DANIhow I rememberShawn screaming for us toget down.How he lay on top of us,covering us, smashing usinto the dirt.I told her how I rememberstaring at her the wholetime.Her eyes wide, the brightnessdimming. Her mouth, open.Bubble gumand blood.
I SWEAR SOMETIMESit feels like Godbe flashing photosof his children,awkward,amazing,tucked in his walletfor the worldto see.But the worlddon’t wanna seeno kids,and God ain’tno pushy parentso he just foldsand snapsus shut.
WHEN THEY SAIDyou were gone,I cried all night,I confessed.And the next morning,over hard-boiled eggsand sugar cereal,Shawn taught meRule Number One—no crying.
THE WAY I FELTwhen Dani was killedwas a first.Never felt nothing like it.I stood in the showerthe next morningafter Shawn taught methe first rule,no crying,feeling likeI wanted to scratchmy skin off scratchmy eyes out punchthrough something,a wall,a face,anything,so something elsecould havea hole.
ANAGRAM NO. 2FEEL FLEE
IT’S COOLto see you, Dani,I said,feeling funnybut meaningevery word.She grew upgorgeous.At leastshe would’ve.Good to seeyou too, Will.She grinned.But you still haven’tanswered my question.
WHAT YOU NEEDa gun for?
09:08:20 a.m.MY FACEtightenedhardened.They killed Shawn last night.Who killed Shawn?Shouldn’t you already know?Just tell me who killed him, Will.The Dark Suns. You rememberRiggs, used to live around here?Think it was him. Had to be?Hadtobe.
DANI WAS KILLEDbefore she ever learnedT
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
