All American Boys Read online

  Now, Latrice Wilkes was no slouch. As a matter of fact, she was pretty much one of the coolest, prettiest girls in our class. And “Silky” really wasn’t her nickname. That’s just what we called her among each other, and I have no idea why.

  “For real?” I was honestly surprised. I mean, Latrice was way out of Carlos’s league. “Okay, okay, well, then why was it an almost?”

  “Because . . .”

  “Because then Latrice saw English,” Shannon interjected, with perfect timing.

  “Whatever! It’s because the cops came and messed my whole groove up,” Carlos shot back.

  I laughed. Hard. Well, as hard as I could without feeling like my head was going to explode, or my ribs were going to rip through my chest. Once I finally got it under control, I said, “Well, listen, if it makes you feel any better, the cops messed my groove up too.”

  None of them laughed. Not one of them. You could almost feel the temperature of the room drop, like the way light dims whenever a cloud floats in front of the sun. I was that cloud. So I changed the subject. “Anyway, what else is going on at school?”

  “Same ol’ shit. You ain’t miss much except for the fact that everybody’s talkin’ about you,” Shannon explained.

  “Yeah, you finally popular,” Carlos mocked. I couldn’t figure out if he was trying to bring the mood back to a lighter tone, or if he was just trying to make up for getting crushed by Shannon. Or both. “This might even land you an actual date with Tiffany.”

  “Please, I don’t need no broken nose to get a girl.” The mere mention of it made the bandage itchy. I scratched it super gently.

  “Take what you can get, bro. It’s an easy layup,” Carlos replied.

  “Too bad you didn’t have all this layup knowledge when you were trying out for the team, huh?” I owed him a good one for the I almost got with Tiffany joke. Redemption.

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  Me and Carlos went back and forth because it’s what we do, but neither one of our hearts was in it. The jokes lacked punch. No zing. Just . . . flat. Like The Family Circus.

  “Forget all that, man. When you getting outta here?” Shannon asked. He stretched his legs, crossed them at the ankles.

  “The doctor just left right before y’all got here. He said my nose and ribs are healing fine, but they’re still watching me because I got some internal bleeding. He said it hasn’t gotten any worse, thank God, and that after a few more days I should be good to go.”

  “Sweet,” Carlos said. Meant it.

  “Cool,” Shannon said.

  English didn’t say nothing. He just stared at the TV like he was in a trance.

  “English, you good?” I asked.

  “Yeah, yeah,” he said, snapping out of it. “I just . . . I don’t know, man. This is crazy. You know that’s Guzzo’s brother, right?”

  “Guzzo?”

  “Yeah, big giant goony kid on the team. His brother is the asshole who did this to you. Paul Galluzzo. That’s why they call Guzzo, Guzzo. It’s short for Galluzzo,” English explained.

  “Wait, you tellin’ me the ogre-looking dude on the team, that’s his brother?” I asked.

  “That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

  “Has he said anything?”

  “Not that I know of. Coach Carney won’t let us talk about it,” English explained. “Says we gotta focus on the team and our season, and that’s it, and to leave all this stuff at the door. Said he’d bench anybody who brought it on the court.”

  “And you can’t afford to be benched, dude. Especially since scouts are checkin’ for you, hard,” I said.

  “Yeah. But it’s just nuts.”

  “Yo, what I wanna know is, what the hell happened,” Shannon jumped in. “Since Carney’s made it clear that I ain’t allowed to ask Guzzo, let me hear your side of the story. I mean, English told us what Berry said, but I wanna hear it from you.”

  That was my cue. I knew English had already heard most of it from his sister, but I still gave the fellas the play-by-play, hoping that somewhere in it, it would make sense. But it didn’t. I grabbed a bag of chips, reached into my bag to grab my cell phone, a random lady tripped over me, and the next thing I know I was getting pressed out by the officer. There really wasn’t anything else to the story as far as I was concerned. The cop and the clerk thought I was stealing and wouldn’t give me a chance to explain.

  “Did you resist?” Shannon asked.

  “Why would I resist? C’mon, man, you know I was shook. Ain’t no way I was resisting,” I said. “And when he got me on the ground, that’s when he really started going in. Like, every time he hit me, I would move—who wouldn’t—it HURT!—and then he’d tell me to stop moving. But I couldn’t help it.”

  “Shit,” Carlos said, his eyes full wide.

  English was staring at the TV again, his face now becoming a fist, tight and angry. The room was stifling with a weird tension, this strange sadness, when finally Shannon spoke up. “English.”

  English didn’t respond.

  “English!” Shannon snapped.

  “What?” he snapped back. And that’s when I could tell this whole thing was getting to him. It was stirring him up inside in a way that I had never seen before. I mean, this was English Jones, the coolest dude on Earth.

  English braced his hands on either arm of the chair, and for a second I thought he was going to throw it. But then he drew a deep breath and simply said, “We got practice. We gotta go.”

  He looked from Shannon to me, his eyes slightly glassy. He stood up. Shannon stood with him.

  “Yo, what we gonna do about this?” Carlos asked, watching English and Shannon grab their bags. He ran his finger along his nose like he always did when he was thinking of something he probably shouldn’t have been thinking of.

  “I don’t know. But I’m telling you, Coach ain’t playing,” Shannon said, flinging his bag up on his shoulder.

  “Just leave it alone,” I said.

  “Naw, man, we gotta do something, ’Shad. I mean, maybe you can’t do nothing, ’cause you in here. And maybe these two can’t do nothing because of punk-ass Carney. But I’m not on the team.” Carlos caught my eye and stopped me from cracking a basketball joke before I could even open my mouth. “So I can do something. Somebody gotta do something.”

  “Los, just don’t be stupid,” English warned, coming over to the bed and giving me five.

  Carlos didn’t respond. Instead he just asked me if I wanted him to stay. Carlos didn’t have anywhere to be. He never had anywhere to be.

  “Naw, I’m cool,” I said. “I’m sure my parents and my crazy brother will be by here later.”

  “Word,” from Carlos.

  “We’ll be back tomorrow,” from Shannon, reaching out for my hand.

  Only a nod from English. And then it was just me, the TV, and the shadows, fades, and outlines of my art again. I thought about the fact that English and Shannon wanted to do something but were afraid to break the rules. I understood. I did. But the look on English’s face was a look I had never seen. He was struggling with it all. Maybe it was what happened to me that was eating him. Or maybe it was the fact that he felt like he couldn’t do anything about it. And then I thought about what kind of ridiculous plan Carlos might cook up. I just didn’t want him to put himself in some stupid situation where he got his ass beat too. Even though I hadn’t had to put myself in any “situation” for that to happen.

  I glanced at the TV. My face, again. Wasn’t there anything else going on? I mean, there had to be something going on in the Middle East, right? Celebrity drama? Anything besides me?

  I wasn’t sure what to do about any of it, or if I even wanted anyone else to do anything on my behalf. The looks on my friends’ and family’s faces—it hurt me to see them that way. Especially knowing that it hurt them to see me this way. I didn’t deserve this. None of us did. None of us.

  I grabbed the remote, pointed it at the screen, and hit the power button to c
lick it off. But it didn’t go off. I clicked it again. Nothing. I slapped the remote in my palm a few times, because that’s what you do to, I guess, activate the batteries. Clicked again. Nothing.

  Now, split screen. Galluzzo’s face, next to mine. Him in his uniform. Me in mine. But we were not the same. We were not the same.

  I didn’t deserve this. Click. Nothing. Click. Nothing. My eyes began to well up and my throat suddenly felt scorched, as if I had swallowed fire. Click. Click. Click. Click. Nothing. Fuck. Click. Please. Please turn off. Please. His face. Next to mine. I didn’t do nothing. I didn’t do nothing. His face. Made my bones hurt. A scrapy feeling in the marrow stuff. Fuck. Click. Nothing. Click. NOTHING. I couldn’t take it anymore, and before I did something stupid like throw the remote across the room, smashing it into hundreds of plastic pieces that I wish were Galluzzo’s face, I leaped from the bed in a panic and yanked the cord from the wall, which turns out was also stupid because it felt like giant hands that I couldn’t see were ripping me in half.

  But the TV was off. My face next to his, gone. Finally.

  Tuesday

  On Tuesday morning, everything changed—for real.

  Spray painted in wide, loopy neon-blue letters like a script of stars so bright they glowed in the day, and stretched so large it covered the entire sidewalk at the foot of the front stairs, was a graffiti tag. A tag so huge every single student, teacher, administrator, staff member, parent, and visitor to Springfield Central had to step over or around, and could not miss:

  RASHAD IS ABSENT AGAIN TODAY

  Everybody was staring at it, taking photos of it, posing with it, and definitely talking about it. As soon as I saw it, I felt a ball of shredded nerves unwind and whip around my stomach. Oh shit! And my first thought was, probably just like everyone else’s: Who’d done it?

  At first you could tell the teachers were deliberately avoiding discussing it, but it was pretty much all we (the students) talked about between classes or at lunch. I say “we,” but I was still trying to take Coach’s advice and ignore all distractions, so when it came up, I tried not to engage. But it was frigging impossible. At lunch, kids were taking food from the cafeteria and heading out to the front steps, eating and talking while sitting near the giant graffiti tag, but I avoided that and looked for some of the guys on the team in the cafeteria. We’d always sat together at lunch, only in fragments, never the whole team together, but with the impromptu gathering out front, everything had shifted.

  Only Guzzo, Dwyer, Hales, and Reegan sat inside—the four other white guys on the team. Guzzo looked up and saw me in line. He waved me over to their table, and although he’d ignored me all day yesterday, his interest now kind of ticked me off. See, that wasn’t Guzzo’s style. Usually, he’d let others call the shots. But today he was too insistent, beckoning me like he was some kind of Mafia boss and I was supposed to hustle right over to him.

  And besides, once I had my sad, soupy Sloppy Joe on the tray and looked out over the rest of the cafeteria, I realized it wasn’t just the basketball team divided up this way today. Paul had once told me about how the city’s demographics had changed over the last thirty years, and why that mattered for his job. “It’s harder to be a cop here now than it used to be,” he’d said, and his facts had been so particular I couldn’t help but think of them now as I looked across the deserted tables in the half-empty room. Thirty years ago the city had been 84 percent white, Paul’d told me. Now, not counting Hispanics and Latinos who identified as white, Springfield was 37 percent white. Strange how some of that stuff just sticks to you, especially the shit that suddenly feels so real. Because right now, only about half the high school who had lunch fifth period sat in the cafeteria that day. The white half.

  I would have stood there like an idiot, feeling those nerves in my stomach start to spin again, if I hadn’t felt a push from behind.

  “Hey,” Jill said.

  “Hey.”

  “Where you sitting?”

  It was probably the first time since I’d been in high school that I’d ever been asked that question. I’m not a total fucknut. I know for some people, especially at the beginning of high school, where to sit and who you’ll sit with is a big deal. Not everyone feels like they automatically belong. Not everyone feels like wherever they go they’ll be welcome. But I did. I’d always just walked into the cafeteria and sat wherever the hell I wanted. In fact, I did that pretty much anywhere I went unless the seats were already assigned.

  “Um.” I paused. “Not sure.”

  “Yeah, but you know what’s weird? I want to go sit outside.”

  “Me too,” I said, only realizing when she had said it that that’s what I really did want to do. “But would that be weird?”

  “I just said it was weird! But I don’t think anyone out there would mind.”

  Huh. I hadn’t thought of it like that. I’d been thinking of the guys inside. “No,” I said, nodding to Guzzo’s table. “Those dudes.”

  Guzzo probably realized what we were talking about, because he got up and walked over to us. “You two going to stand there all day? Come sit down.” And once he had come over, it felt impossible not to follow him, so we did.

  Dwyer, Hales, and Reegan got lost in a conversation about their fantasy basketball league teams while Guzzo pressed us. “Seriously,” he said. “You two are spending a lot of time together.”

  Jill laughed. “You guys are all family to me.”

  “Quinn’s not,” Guzzo said, looking at me, but in an odd way. “Not really. Or is he?”

  “I’m right here, man. No need to be all cold about it.”

  “I’m not the one who ran away from the barbecue.”

  “Jesus. Seriously? You’re crying about that?”

  He opened his mouth to say something more, but Jill interrupted him. “Guys, you’ve been at it since Friday. I’ve seen it.”

  This shut us both up. I bit into my hash brown, but it was so greasy, I just ended up shoving the whole thing in my mouth. While I chewed, Guzzo gave me that look again. “Quinn’s the one acting weird.”

  “Come on,” Jill said. “It’s not only him. You are too. But why not? I would be too if I had been there and seen Paul whaling on Rashad.”

  “What the fuck?” Guzzo threw his plastic fork down on his tray. “Shut up about that.” Hales glanced over skeptically, and Guzzo leaned in close to us. “Did you tell anyone else?” he asked her.

  “That you were there?” she said. “No. Is it a secret?”

  “Of course!” Guzzo said. His hand clenched into a fist. “You told her?” he said to me. “Are you fucking demented? Nobody should know about this. Not even my brother.”

  “What?” I said. “Man, we aren’t in any trouble. We didn’t do anything.”

  “You really are stupid,” Guzzo said, picking his fork back up and pointing it at me. Red bits of Sloppy Joe dripped from the tines. “Don’t tell anyone else we were there. The force, they’re worried for my brother. They’ve given him some time so he can stay off the streets. There’s probably going to be a lawsuit because there’s always a lawsuit these days. Look, whatever, how the hell is he supposed to do what he needs to do if he gets sued for just doing his job?”

  “Listen to you!” Jill exclaimed, leaning in now too, agitated. “You sound like our mothers. But tell that to Rashad’s family. Rashad’s absent today. Again. I mean, I know that guy too.”

  Guzzo looked disgusted. “You don’t know him,” he said, waving her off. “You just like thinking you know him because now he’s a celebrity. A celebrity-victim, or whatever. That’s bullshit.” He gestured to the doors behind us. “You need to get outside before next period? Was that where you were headed before I called you over?”

  I glanced at Jill. “Dude,” I said to Guzzo. “Come on. It doesn’t have to be like that.”

  “It already is like that, asshole,” Guzzo said. He pushed his chair back and stood up. “You know. Paul was just trying to help someone inside t
he store. That’s what he says. And then there’s the whole stopping people from stealing thing.” He was breathing heavy. Fighting to find words. “And, by the way,” he finally said, pointing at me, “Paul’s staying with us, you know. If you’re curious. Remember him? My brother? The dude who fucking raised you. Feel free to drop by. I mean, you are like family. Isn’t he, Jill?”

  For once in her life, Jill didn’t shoot back the last word, and Guzzo stalked off without looking back at either of us. I was about to get up too, because I was sick of it all—I hadn’t started it, why the hell did I have to be in the middle of it? But as I pushed my own chair back, Dwyer grabbed my arm.

  “Listen, man,” he said. “You’ve got to fix this. We got to get the team straight. We’ve got scouts coming, man. This is too big. This is our life, man. Our futures. Don’t be a dick about it. Like Coach said. Leave it at the door. All of it, you know?”

  What he said stuck with me for the rest of the day. Yeah, I was thinking about the damn scouts too—of course I was! The kind of doors a scout’s praise might open. The kinds of scholarships a kid like me needed when Ma was working night shifts over at Uline. I knew it was my future, and Dwyer’s, and everyone else’s, too. How could I not? It’d been on my mind in one way or another since I’d started working out with Paul—back when he was taller than me, not just bigger, flicking his wrists and teaching me how to sneak a crossover right in front of my opponent. Those hands. There was so much history slapping hands and saying yes to Paul.

  As what Dwyer had said to me replayed again and again in my head, it began to say something else, too. Like maybe I was hearing what Dwyer was saying under his breath, between his words. He almost sounded scared, or not scared, but nervous. It wasn’t Dwyer. It was fear. It seemed to follow me like my shadow these days, but I recognized now how it was trailing everyone else, too.

  At practice, Coach had us running like crazy. Hales got so winded he puked in the trash can by the door to the hallway. “Boot and rally,” Reegan yelled to him. He wanted to laugh but he was too out of breath. The rest of us crouched with our hands on our knees, or folded on our heads, trying to avoid cramps, and Coach paced in between us like he was a doctor walking through the asthma ward.