What Lane? Page 6

  Dad nods. “Remember a few weeks back, when I said we can’t do what white folks can?”

  “Yeah.” I look at my bracelet.

  “Tamir had a toy gun—maybe it looked real. The white cop shot him without checking to see if it was a toy.”

  My eyes go back to the screen. The headshot of Tamir—he looked kinda like Wes. I feel bad-bad for Tamir. And I feel mad. At the cops who killed him. Mad for other reasons I can’t put into words.

  “This stuff,” Dad says, “it just keeps happening. Your grandpa Soda Pop had to live with it. Now you have to live with it.”

  I look at his face and he’s . . .

  . . . ZERO words can describe his face.

  He’s never looked how he does now. Like he could rip apart his laptop with his bare hands.

  I scoot next to him, slide my arm around his back, hug him soft, and rest my head on his shoulder.

  He reaches for my hand and holds it like he never wants to let me go.

  * * *

  At night, I lie on my bed thinking about that Tamir Rice video. We saw the whole thing. After he was shot, his older sister came to the park and tried to help him. Instead of letting her, the cops put her in handcuffs.

  Jen and Jeremiah pop up in my mind. What if it was them? It’d crush Jen if Jeremiah was shot by cops. It’d kill her if cops cuffed her, keeping her from Jeremiah as he died.

  Then I think again. That wouldn’t happen to them. They’re in a different lane.

  CHAPTER 22

  THE NEXT DAY, I can’t get Tamir Rice off my mind.

  In all my morning classes, I think of him. What was going through his head?

  In all my afternoon classes, I keep thinking of Tamir. What’s his sister going through? Did the cop who killed him get punished? If a Black cop did that, would he get the same punishment as the white cop? Why didn’t that cop stop to really see Tamir?

  I check: Ms. Simmons teaches like her lesson will really help me. I pretend to listen.

  I spend a lot of the time sketching block letters in the margins of my loose-leaf and shading in his name: TAMIR RICE.

  Finally it’s eighth-period advisory with Mr. Carrión.

  We sit in the circle of chairs and he asks, “So, anything anyone wants to bring up related to what’s going on in our world?”

  I’m too ready. I blurt out, “Let’s discuss cops shooting young unarmed Black kids.”

  Everyone eyes me like, Wow! Where did THAT come from? Especially Wes.

  “A Black Lives Matter bulletin board about it is in the high school,” I say.

  A white girl named Elizabeth asks, all snooty, “When did cops ever shoot Black kids our age? Never.”

  Woooow. She is straight ignorant but talks all confident like an expert.

  I look at Mr. Carrión, hoping he’ll explain, and he does. “So you’d think cops don’t shoot and kill innocent Black kids, and I wish they didn’t, but the fact is, cops do.”

  Elizabeth’s friend Brittany backs her up. “Then the kids had to do something. No one gets shot for no reason.”

  I hear my dad in my head getting upset about Tamir Rice. Words come out. “Tamir Rice was twelve. He was in a park, sitting on a picnic table like we always do. He was playing with a toy gun like a Star Wars soldier or something, and the gun might’ve looked real.”

  “And he was Black,” Mr. Carrión adds.

  “Are you saying that’s why they shot him?” Elizabeth asks.

  Wes raises his eyebrows and lets out a loud duh. “You think cops would’ve shot him if he was white?”

  Instead of answering that, this white boy named Liam says, “He didn’t get shot because he was Black. He had that toy gun. The cops probably thought it was real and couldn’t tell his age. They maybe shot him to stop him from hurting someone.”

  “So I’ll ask my question differently,” Wes says. “If he was white, would cops have talked to him first, or shot him?”

  Elizabeth interrupts. “But when did this happen? Because the world’s not that way now. And I don’t even see race. I just see humans.”

  “Okay, so maybe you don’t see race,” Wes tells Elizabeth. “But cops see race. That’s why they shoot us or treat us differently than they treat you. So can you help cops see like you? Can you help them see that we’re all human? That we humans should all get the same treatment? Or maybe you can become a cop and help change things?”

  She shrugs him off, rolling her eyes. “Ugh. Why are we even talking about this?”

  Wes shrugs too. “Oh. So you want us to stop talking about this, but you don’t actually want to stop this from happening.”

  Liam tells Wes, “I still think that boy didn’t get shot because he was Black.”

  “Liam, when you look like us”—Wes points at his own face, then at me and our other Black and Latino friends—“people think we’re doing something wrong even when we’re not. That is why that cop shot him. That is why we get treated like we’re trouble for no reason.”

  “Facts, Wes,” I say. “This stuff keeps happening.”

  “True,” Devin says. “I don’t know how many people know about this kid named Lesandro. But I’m Dominican and he was too. Grown-ups saw him, thought he was trouble, and kicked him out of a store that he ran into for safety. Then he was stabbed to death by a gang. He was fifteen.”

  Mr. Carrión helps Devin. “His last name was Guzman-Feliz. Lesandro Guzman-Feliz.”

  Devin thanks Mr. Carrión. “Good lookin’ out.”

  I look at Devin. “He was fifteen?”

  “Yeah. Up in the Bronx. He was the wrong guy—innocent—but this gang chased him for blocks. The grown-ups in the store he ran into could’ve saved his life. Instead, they did what Wes said, what’s true—they see us and see trouble.”

  “Some people are clueless.” I roll my shoulders and soft-punch my fist in one hand.

  Devin says, “I wonder what would’ve happened if all of the boys and men in these stories were white.”

  “They would’ve been killed too,” Liam says.

  “Really?” Wes asks. “Then name some who got shot dead.”

  Liam can’t name one.

  “Exactly,” Wes says, then he starts naming Black victims. “Trayvon Martin . . .”

  Devin adds another. “Michael Brown—the teenager from Ferguson.”

  Erik continues, “The dude that white cop shot in the back while he ran away. In South Carolina?”

  “Walter Scott,” Mr. Carrión helps.

  Elijah names another. “That man who just sat in his car as the white cop unloaded a gun on him. Castle?”

  Mr. Carrión says, “Castile. From where that singer Prince was from. Minnesota.”

  I didn’t know Wes, Erik, Devin, and Elijah were up on the news like this.

  I check for the whole class’s reaction. Most of the white kids are quiet. Mark and Paul are white and look as upset as us. Nancy and Kat are white too and look upset.

  Mr. Carrión turns on the overhead projector light, and a picture of Tamir Rice flashes in front of the class. “This is Tamir Rice. You see he’s around your age. How would it make you feel if this happened to one of the kids here?”

  It goes real quiet.

  Me and Dan stare at each other. He eyes me like, Are you all right?

  I look over at Wes. He also eyes me like, You okay?

  Nah. I’m not.

  Leaving class, me and Wes walk out together. Erik, Devin, and Elijah are right behind us.

  Wes tells me, “Some of these kids don’t get it. They don’t feel it the way we do.”

  Erik stops and folds his arms. “Bruh, can you believe Elizabeth really said, ‘I don’t see race’? Wait.” His face lights up how faces do when people realize something. “Maybe if she doesn’t see race, that’s why she doesn’t see racism. Lik
e, she wishes we had no problems so there’s no problems to fix?”

  Wes nods. “That. Is. Deep. If she would’ve came at us with just that, I might have said she’s trying to help. But she’s not, because she said, ‘When does that ever happen? Never,’ when we said cops shoot and kill kids like us.”

  “She was trying to say we’re imagining this stuff,” I add.

  Devin says, “She wants to stay blind.”

  Then what hit me earlier hits me again: It’s like everyone out here has such different feelings about this. We’re in so many different lanes.

  First, me and my Black, mixed, and Latino friends are all shook by these shootings.

  Second, some of the white kids are seeing this stuff and are upset too.

  Third, some white kids like Elizabeth, Brittany, and Liam don’t look upset at all and don’t want to believe racism is real.

  Then I see a bunch of white kids in a whole other lane. They joke and play and laugh and look like they are nowhere close to how me, Wes, Erik, Devin, and Elijah feel. Me, Wes, Erik, Devin, and Elijah should be in that lane, too, where we could just be jokey and not have to worry.

  I wish I was in Into the Spider-Verse and another universe opened up that me, Wes, Erik, Devin, and Elijah could zap into where foul stuff like what happened to Tamir doesn’t happen or where we’re bulletproof like Luke Cage.

  I’m so glad it’s Friday, because I’m so done with today. I just want to go home.

  On my way there, Chad’s across the street on a corner with his friend Andy. They give me the same look as anytime they see me: It’s all hate, maybe wishing I’d disappear. Then Chad’s face smirks mad evil. Before? I was done with today. Now I’m done-done.

  CHAPTER 23

  MY DAD EYES me from the couch as I walk in and slam our apartment door. “Some people! Ugh!”

  “Some people who? What happened, Stephen?”

  I tell him how in advisory I brought up Tamir Rice and thought it’d make me feel better, but now I feel worse. I tell him what everyone said.

  I ask, “How’d some white kids react like they don’t care? That girl Elizabeth! Dad, she actually said we’re imagining this stuff. Forget her. Forget all of them.”

  My dad’s eyebrows lift to the top of his forehead. “Forget her, huh?”

  “Yeah. For. Get. Her.”

  “She doesn’t understand. Maybe she’d see differently if she saw what you saw with her own two eyes. Did she and those classmates see that Black Lives Matter bulletin board you mentioned?”

  “Nah, they rushed by it. But they should see it. You can’t see that board and not feel it—not want to help. Mr. Carrión should show them.”

  “Good idea. Tell him. And tell me more. What was on that board?”

  “Black and white people. Other people too. Showing racism is unfair.”

  “So, white kids were allies there. Acting like Dan, right?”

  Allies. That’s a cool way to describe Dan. I remember learning that word in history class when we talked about the countries that helped us fight in the war. “Yeah, the white kids on that board were like Dan. He gets what I see and feel more now. Especially when his cousin is around. Chad’s even worse than ignorant—he’s a prejudiced hater. And he’s always around lately. Ugh! I turn left; he’s there. I turn right; he’s there.”

  “Maybe Dan can help with that. What do you think’ll happen if you talk to Dan about it? Maybe he can work on his cousin to get him to change? Instead of just doing what you said before, giving him the ‘forget you’ treatment?”

  “Dan knows Chad’s foul to me. He gets mad at him too.” Another thought hits me. “I don’t know how much Dan can get Chad to change. It might be impossible. Chad’s been around me for a while and hasn’t changed—he’s stayed straight grimy. Sometimes to Dan too.”

  “Well,” my dad says, “a lot of things people thought were impossible have been done. Maybe instead of saying it’s impossible, say it’s possible—and give it a try.”

  “Yeah, but if he doesn’t listen, maybe the best thing to do is forget Chad.”

  “Could be, but you’ll have tried.”

  “True. And I’ll talk to Mr. Carrión. There are some kids with more sense than Chad who might listen.”

  CHAPTER 24

  DAN ISN’T IN school on Monday morning.

  During lunch, I text him from our school’s bathroom. Where u?

  As soon as I slide my cell back in my pocket, it vibrates.

  It’s him. Home sick. Flu.

  I can’t believe it!

  After school, I don’t want to hang with Chad, Jen, Jeremiah, and Christopher without Dan. I told Wes I want to chill with him more and I’ll try again. So when I see Jen, Jeremiah, and Christopher at different parts of the school day and they talk about linking up after school, I say I can’t today.

  At dismissal, it happens.

  Walking out of school, I see Wes. “I’m thinking about hitting the comic store. You down?”

  “With who? Dan and them?”

  “Nah. He has the flu. Just me and you.”

  “The flu? That sucks. I feel bad for him.” Wes means it. “My parents made me get a flu shot last year and I still got the flu. Flu sucks.”

  I wish Dan could see Wes now, saying nice stuff about him.

  “Yeah, it sucks. So, the comic store?”

  “I’m picking up my little sister from her elementary school. Let me walk her home; then I’ll meet you at the comic spot.”

  “Bet.”

  We split in different directions.

  All of a sudden, I feel less stressed. Because the biggest stress in the store will be choosing which comic to read.

  The closer I get to the comic store, the more I get amped. The comic store is the opposite of drama. It’ll be just fun.

  I notice I’m walking faster.

  But when I turn onto the comic store’s block, I freeze. Across the street, Chad is on the corner.

  I duck behind a truck. When a bus passes between us, I dip into the store.

  * * *

  The store is extra Halloweeny. Someone OD’d and put a clown mask on the face of the Darth Vader statue as tall as a grown man. On the ceiling, an inflatable Spider-Man swings on a web, chasing an inflatable green-skinned witch on a broom.

  I walk aisle to aisle, scanning for a mostly empty spot.

  BOOM.

  All the way to the left of the store, the aisle with the hardcover graphic novels has no one in it. I go in and take my time looking from shelf to shelf. I grab a Miles Morales comic.

  “Hey,” the comic book store owner greets someone who walks in.

  “Hi.”

  I stiffen. That sounds like . . .

  I peek through the openings of shelves. It’s Chad.

  He squints from aisle to aisle like he’s searching for someone.

  I spy as he gets closer and closer and . . .

  . . . Why is he coming toward MY aisle?

  I don’t have time to jet into another one. I know it’s dumb, but I grab a random comic off the shelf, hold it over my face, and hope he won’t recognize my back.

  It’s like forever goes by, but it’s more like seconds.

  “Stephen.”

  UGH! I lower my comic, turn around, and front like I didn’t know he was here. “Chad. You here.”

  “Yeah. I saw you come in, so . . .” He pauses. “You alone?”

  I lie. “Actually, I was just leaving.”

  “Hold up.” Chad snatches the comic from my hand. “Black Panther? Again? Why’re you reading trash?”

  “I . . .”

  “Oh. Because he’s Black? I get it.” Chad flips the pages like he smells a stinky garbage bag. “What a wack hero. I mean, what king would—?”

  A voice pops up in our aisle.

&
nbsp; “That’s the comic I came for.”

  Chad turns and his mouth flaps open.

  It’s Wes.

  For me, it’s Wes, my boy, showing up.

  For Chad, it’s Wes, a whole other guy. The Wes who Chad played Hands with back in the day. The Wes who told Chad he’d punch him in the face when Chad OD’d during Hands. The same Wes who said Chad ran away then.

  Wes puts his hand out. “Chad, can I see that?”

  Chad gives Wes the book without speaking. Then he leaves so fast without saying bye to either of us that he’s basically running.

  Wes turns to me. “He sounded like he was cutting on you. I told you he’ll go too far if you let him.”

  I nod. “He was dissing Black Panther.”

  “I bet. Chad’s the kinda guy who hates when we’re on top or winning. Bet he thinks we oughta be lower than him.” Wes looks at the comic. “And who’s more on top than Black Panther, y’feel me? He runs a whole country.”

  I nod, and Wes eyes the door and laughs. “So why you think Chad ran out of here so fast?”

  I shrug.

  “Because he’s a punk, for real.”

  I give him props. “You remind me of T’Challa. I mean, the Black Panther. You and him have the same boldness.”

  Wes studies the cover of the Black Panther comic. “Is the comic as tight as the movie?” Then he stops talking like he just realized something. “Hold up. This is a teenage Black Panther. He kinda looks like me, right?”

  I check. “Dang. This is bananas. This is you-you.”

  Wes loves it. It’s cool—his face reminds me of how I feel when I see me in Miles Morales.

  “You buying anything?” he asks me.

  I shake my head. “I just came to read. I didn’t bring money.”

  “I’ll buy this. Let’s hit somewhere and read it.”

  “Word.”

  “We gotta hang out on the reg like we used to,” I tell Wes as we head out of the store.

  He huffs a laugh. “That’s on you.” He joke-pretends to get in a boxer stance to throw a soft jab at me.