Long Way Down Read online

  For all the young brothers and sisters in detention centers around the country, the ones I’ve seen, and the ones I haven’t. You are loved.

  DON’T NOBODY

  believe nothing

  these days

  which is why I haven’t

  told nobody the story

  I’m about to tell you.

  And truth is,

  you probably ain’t

  gon’ believe it either

  gon’ think I’m lying

  or 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 IS

  Will.

  William.

  William Holloman.

  But to my friends

  and people

  who know me

  know me,

  just Will.

  So call me Will,

  because after I tell you

  what I’m about to tell you

  you’ll either

  want to be my friend

  or not

  want to be my friend

  at all.

  Either way,

  you’ll know me

  know me.

  I’M ONLY WILLIAM

  to my mother

  and my brother, Shawn,

  whenever he was trying

  to be funny.

  Now

  I’m wishing I would’ve

  laughed more

  at his dumb jokes

  because the day

  before yesterday,

  Shawn was shot

  and killed.

  I DON’T KNOW YOU,

  don’t know

  your last name,

  if you got

  brothers

  or sisters

  or mothers

  or fathers

  or cousins

  that be like

  brothers

  and sisters

  or aunties

  or uncles

  that be like

  mothers

  and fathers,

  but if the blood

  inside you is on the inside

  of someone else,

  you never want to

  see it on the outside of

  them.

  THE SADNESS

  is just so hard

  to explain.

  Imagine waking up

  and someone,

  a stranger,

  got you strapped down,

  got pliers shoved

  into your mouth,

  gripping a tooth

  somewhere in the back,

  one of the big

  important ones,

  and rips it out.

  Imagine the knocking

  in your head,

  the pressure pushing

  through your ears,

  the blood pooling.

  But the worst part,

  the absolute worst part,

  is the constant slipping

  of your tongue

  into the new empty space,

  where you know

  a tooth supposed to be

  but ain’t no more.

  IT’S SO HARD TO SAY,

  Shawn’s

  dead.

  Shawn’s

  dead.

  Shawn’s

  dead.

  So strange to say.

  So sad.

  But I guess

  not surprising,

  which I guess is

  even stranger,

  and even sadder.

  THE DAY BEFORE YESTERDAY

  me and my friend Tony

  were outside talking about

  whether or not we’d get any

  taller now that we were fifteen.

  When Shawn was fifteen

  he grew a foot, maybe a foot

  and a half. That’s when he gave

  me all the clothes he couldn’t fit.

  Tony kept saying he hoped he grew

  because even though he was

  the best ballplayer around here

  our age, he was also the shortest.

  And everybody knows

  you can’t go all the way when

  you’re that small unless you can

  really jump. Like

  fly.

  AND THEN THERE WERE SHOTS.

  Everybody

  ran,

  ducked,

  hid,

  tucked

  themselves tight.

  Did what we’ve all

  been trained to.

  Pressed our lips to the

  pavement and prayed

  the boom, followed by

  the buzz of a bullet,

  ain’t meet us.

  AFTER THE SHOTS

  me and Tony

  waited like we always do,

  for the rumble to stop,

  before picking our heads up

  and poking our heads out

  to count the bodies.

  This time

  there was only one.

  Shawn.

  I’VE NEVER BEEN

  in an earthquake.

  Don’t know if this was

  even close to how they

  are, but the ground

  defi nitely felt like

  it o pened up

  and ate me.

  THINGS THAT ALWAYS HAPPEN WHENEVER SOMEONE IS KILLED AROUND HERE

  NO. 1: SCREAMING

  Not everybody screams.

  Usually just

  moms,

  girlfriends,

  daughters.

  In this case

  it was Leticia,

  Shawn’s girlfriend,

  on her knees kissing

  his forehead

  between shrieks.

  I think she hoped

  her voice would

  somehow keep him

  alive,

  would clot the blood.

  But I think

  she knew

  deep down in the

  deepest part of

  her downness

  she was kissing

  him good-bye.

  AND MY MOM

  moaning low,

  Not my baby.

  Not my baby.

  Why?

  hanging over my

  brother’s body

  like a dimmed

  light post.

  NO. 2: SIRENS

  Lots and lots of sirens,

  howling, cutting through

  the sounds of the city.

  Except the screams.

  The screams are always

  heard over everything.

  Even the sirens.

  NO. 3: QUESTIONS

  Cops flashed lights in our faces

  and we all turned to stone.

  Did anybody see anything?

  a young officer asked.

  He looked honest, like he

  ain’t never done this before.

  You can always tell a newbie.

  They always ask questions

  like they really expect answers.

  Did anybody see anyone?

  I ain’t seen nothin’,

  Marcus Andrews, the neighborhood

  know-it-all, said.

  Even he knew better than to

  know anything.

  IN CASE YOU AIN’T KNOW,

  gunshots make everybody

  deaf and blind especially

  when they make somebody

  dead.

  Best to become invisible

  in times like these.

  Everybody knows that.

  Even Tony flew awa
y.

  I’M NOT SURE

  if the cops asked me questions.

  Maybe.

  Maybe not.

  Couldn’t hear nothing.

  Ears filled up with heartbeats

  like my head was being held

  under water.

  Like I was holding my breath.

  Maybe I was.

  Maybe I was

  hoping I could give some

  back to Shawn.

  Or maybe

  somehow

  join him.

  WHEN BAD THINGS HAPPEN

  we can usually look up and see

  the moon, big and bright,

  shining over us.

  That always made me feel better.

  Like there’s something up there

  beaming down on us in the dark.

  But the day before yesterday, when

  Shawn

  died,

  the moon was off.

  Somebody told me once a month

  the moon blacks out

  and becomes new

  and the next night be back

  to normal.

  I’ll tell you one thing,

  the moon is lucky it’s not down here

  where nothing

  is ever

  new.

  I STOOD THERE,

  mouth clenched

  tight enough to grind my

  teeth down to dust,

  and looked at Shawn

  lying there like a piece

  of furniture left outside,

  like a stained-up couch

  draped in a gold chain.

  Them fuckers ain’t even

  snatch it.

  RANDOM THOUGHT

  Blood soaking into a

  T-shirt, blue jeans, and boots

  looks a lot like chocolate syrup

  when the glow from the streetlights hit it.

  But I know ain’t

  nothing sweet about blood.

  I know it ain’t like chocolate syrup

  at all.

  IN HIS HAND,

  a corner-store

  plastic bag

  white with

  red letters

  THANK YOU

  THANK YOU

  THANK YOU

  THANK YOU

  THANK YOU

  THANK YOU

  THANK YOU

  HAVE A NICE DAY

  IN THAT BAG,

  special soap

  for my mother’s

  eczema.

  I’ve seen her

  scratch until it

  bleeds.

  Pick at the pus

  bubbles and flaky

  scales.

  Curse the invisible

  thing trying to eat

  her.

  MAYBE THERE’S SOMETHING INVISIBLE

  trying

  to eat

  all of

  us as

  if we

  are beef.

  BEEF

  gets passed down like name-brand

  T-shirts around here. Always too big.

  Never ironed out.

  gets inherited like a trunk of fool’s

  gold or a treasure map leading

  to nowhere.

  came knocking on my brother’s life,

  kicked the damn door down and took

  everything except his gold chain.

  THEN THE YELLOW TAPE

  that says DO NOT CROSS

  gets put up, and there’s nothing

  left to do but go home.

  That tape lets people know

  that this is a murder scene,

  as if we ain’t already know that.

  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 was art. And the next

  day, kids would play mummy with it.

  BACK ON THE EIGHTH FLOOR

  I locked myself in my room and put

  a pillow over my head to muffle

  the sound of my mom’s mourning.

  She sat in the kitchen, sobbing

  into her palms, which she peeled

  away only to lift glass to mouth.

  With each sip came a brief

  silence, and with each brief

  silence I snuck in a breath.

  I FELT LIKE CRYING,

  which felt like

  another person

  trapped behind my face

  tiny fists punching

  the backs of my eyes

  feet kicking

  my throat at the spot

  where the swallow

  starts.

  Stay put, I whispered to him.

  Stay strong, I whispered to me.

  Because crying

  is against

  The

  Rules.

  THE RULES

  NO. 1: CRYING

  Don’t.

  No matter what.

  Don’t.

  NO. 2: SNITCHING

  Don’t.

  No matter what.

  Don’t.

  NO. 3: REVENGE

  If someone you love

  gets killed,

  find the person

  who killed

  them and

  kill them.

  THE INVENTION OF THE RULES

  ain’t come from my

  brother,

  his friends,

  my dad,

  my uncle,

  the guys outside,

  the hustlers and shooters,

  and definitely not from

  me.

  ANOTHER THING ABOUT THE RULES

  They weren’t meant to be broken.

  They were meant for the broken

  to follow.

  OUR BEDROOM: A SQUARE, YELLOWY PAINT

  Two 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 scribble

  with a pencil in case Mom made me

  erase it:

  SCARE = CARES.

  ANAGRAM

  is when you take a word

  and rearrange the letters

  to make another word.

  And sometimes the words

  are still somehow connected

  ex: CANOE = OCEAN.

  Same letters,

  different words,

  somehow still make

  sense together,

  like brothers.

  THE MIDDLE DRAWER

  was the only thing ever out of place

  on Shawn’s side of the room,

  like a random, jagged tooth

  in a perfect mouth,

  jammed tight between the

  top drawer of shirts

  folded into neat rectangles

  stacked like project floors,

  and the bottom drawer of socks

  and underwear.

  Off track. Stuck. Forced in at an angle.

  Seemed like the middle drawer

  was jacked up on purpose

  to keep me and Mom out

  and Shawn’s gun in.

  I WON’T PRETEND THAT SHAWN

  was the kind of guy

  who was home by curfew.

  The kind of guy

  who called and checked in

  about where he was,
>
  who he was with,

  what he was doing.

  He wasn’t.

  Not after eighteen,

  which was when our mother

  took her hands off him,

  pressed them together, and

  began to pray

  that he wouldn’t go to jail

  that he wouldn’t get Leticia pregnant

  that he wouldn’t   die.

  MY MOTHER USED TO SAY,

  I know you’re young,

  gotta get it out,

  but just remember, when

  you’re walking in the nighttime,

  make sure the nighttime

  ain’t walking into you.

  But Shawn

  probably had his

  headphones on.

  Tupac or Biggie.

  SO USUALLY

  I ended up going to bed

  at night, curled up

  on my side of the room,

  eventually falling asleep staring

  at the half-empty bottles of cologne

  on top of Shawn’s dresser.

  And the jacked-up middle drawer.

  Alone.

  BUT I NEVER TOUCHED NOTHING

  because it’s no fun

  hiding from headlocks

  half the night,

  which is why I never touched nothing

  of his

  no more.

  IT USED TO BE DIFFERENT.

  When I was twelve and he was sixteen

  we would talk trash till one of us passed out.

  He would tell me about girls, and I would

  tell him about pretend girls, who he

  pretended were real, too, just to make me

  feel good. He would tell me stories about

  how the best rappers ever were Biggie and

  Tupac, but I always wondered if that was

  just because they were dead. People always

  love people more when they’re dead.

  AND WHEN I WAS THIRTEEN

  Shawn welcomed me into teenage life

  with a spritz of his almost-grown cologne,

  said my girlfriend—

  my first girlfriend—