All American Boys Read online

  “And why is that? Because of the way he looks?”

  “I mean, listen, I’ve been robbed before. Right around here. And I just . . . I don’t ever want to be robbed again. And he looks like the guy who robbed me. He was dressed just like him. These kids are crazy these days, and whatever it’s gonna take to make the people who live around here feel safe, I’m all for it.”

  When I woke up, I followed the same routine as the day before. Well, not exactly the same. First I plugged the TV back in. Then I tried to turn it on, but the remote was still on the fritz. Sometimes when the batteries are getting weak, and smacking it against your palm doesn’t work, you have to slide the back off and run your thumb over the batteries to turn them, and that makes them work. Sometimes. This time.

  The TV came on and I watched for a minute. Everyone had opinions. The lady who caught the incident on tape seemed to side with me and thought the cop was wrong. But not everybody felt that way. There was a cabbie who straight up said he wouldn’t pick me up if he saw me at night. That really pissed me off. I mean, I had heard Spoony talk about that for years. I never took cabs (the bus was cheaper), but he was always going on and on about how he could never catch a cab because of the way he looked. But I didn’t look nothing like Spoony. Nothing. I mean, I wear jeans and T-shirts, and he wears jeans and T-shirts, so we look alike in that way, but who doesn’t wear jeans and T-shirts? Every kid in my school does. And sneakers. And sweatshirts. And jackets. So what exactly does a kid who “looks like me” look like? Seriously, what the hell?

  You would think I would cut the TV off, but I didn’t. Maybe because there was something about having this moment in my life, literally hovering above my head, that served as some kind of weird inspiration for the picture I was making. So, as usual, I muted it, then dove into my art. Oatmeal for breakfast. Chicken burrito for lunch. Ginger ale. Art in between it all.

  Clarissa had been in and out of the room, checking my vitals. Checking to make sure I was eating and using my spirometer. Checking to see how the piece was coming along.

  “It’s gonna be so good when it’s done,” she said, jotting down my blood pressure. She looked exhausted.

  “You work every day?” I asked, shrugging off her compliment. It’s not that I was trying to be rude. I just didn’t really know if “good” was how this piece was actually going to end up.

  “I have been. I usually work every other day, twelve-hour shifts. But I took on some extra work this week. Covering for a friend.”

  It wasn’t hard to tell that that’s just how Clarissa was. A for-real, for-real nice person. So when she brought the lunch in, I told her how thankful I was that she had been looking after me, and how happy I was that she had taken those extra shifts. My mother always raised me to be thankful. She always said, nobody owes you anything, so when you get something, be appreciative. And I was.

  “I mean, I know it’s your job, but you’re really good at it. So, thanks.”

  Clarissa flashed a smile that slipped into an unexpected yawn. “It’s my pleasure. Just trying to add a little sunshine,” she said, lifting a hand to her mouth. She was so sweet, but man was she corny!

  “I hear ya. Well, you’re doing that. Every time you come in here, you brighten the whole room up. Maybe it’s the hair.”

  The red hair up against her pale skin, like fire burning at the end of a match.

  “Ah, yes. Ginger magic,” she joked. “You know, I’m the last of a dying breed.”

  “What you mean?”

  “I mean, gingers. Redheads. We’re going extinct.”

  “Seriously? Like something is killing y’all?”

  “Not exactly. It’s like, not enough redheads are having babies with other redheads. So we’re just not being born anymore.” Clarissa laughed, then glanced up at the muted TV. Her eyes narrowed. “Check it out.”

  I looked up, reluctantly, and there on the screen was the police chief. So I unmuted. We listened. He didn’t really say much except that they were investigating everything and that he had “the utmost faith in Officer Galluzzo’s judgment” and that the officer was “a veteran with an immaculate record.”

  “Yeah, I bet,” Clarissa said. Then, noticing me taking it all in, she added, “Hey, don’t let the bastards get you down.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You know that song?”

  “What song?”

  “Don’t let the bastards—” She stopped, grinned. “Never mind.”

  When Ma showed up, the TV was still unmuted. And the story was still developing. And I was still drawing.

  “Knock, knock,” Ma said, tapping the door frame. Clarissa had asked me if I wanted the door open or closed, and I told her open. It just seemed like a good idea to let some air in. Or maybe let some of the suffocating feeling of the room out.

  “Hey,” I said, now a bed remote expert, adjusting it so that I was sitting more upright.

  “How you feeling?” Ma asked, coming in. She was alone.

  “I’m fine. Just doing some drawing,” I told her. “Where’s Dad?”

  She kissed me on the forehead, then sat on the side of the bed. “He couldn’t make it. Something upset his stomach, and he was throwing up all night.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah, he’s fine,” she said. She dug in her purse, pulled out an envelope, and set it on the side table. “This came to the house for you.”

  “Who’s it from?”

  “It’s from Chief Killabrew.” I nodded but didn’t say anything. I figured it was a get-well-soon card, or something like that. Couldn’t even read it because my mother was way more concerned with more pressing issues. “Have you eaten?”

  “Yes, Ma, I ate. Breakfast and lunch,” I said with a groan. I knew this was only the beginning of the mother questions. It’s like all moms have a checklist that they read through to make sure their kids are okay.

  1. Have you eaten? The most important one.

  2. Are you hungry? Not to be confused with #1. And asked even if you say you’ve eaten.

  3. Have you pooped? Just to make sure you’re eating the right stuff.

  4. Have you bathed? And if you’re my mom,

  5. What are you drawing?

  I handed her the notebook. She looked at it and instantly started to get emotional, her eyes tearing up. She was blinking them back when a clip of Claudia James, the lady who taped the whole thing, came back on the screen.

  My mother watched, still holding the sketch pad.

  “You know, some people think the cop was justified. They say he was just doing his job,” I said, darting my eyes from the TV to my mother.

  She looked at me. Her face looked like it was made of clay. Like it could crack at any second.

  “His job?” she said, the tears finally dropping. “You are not a criminal, Rashad. I know that. I know every word you said was true. You didn’t deserve this. You’re not a criminal,” she repeated. I could feel the heat rising in the room. In her. I didn’t know how she had been dealing with this at home, or if she and Dad had been getting into it, or what. But in that moment, the water in the kettle had finally started to boil in front of me. My mother was steaming.

  “You’re not some animal that they can just hunt. You’re not some punching bag, some thing for them to beat on whenever they feel like it,” she said, slapping my sketchbook down. She continued to lose her battle with the tears. “This is not okay,” she said. It was the first time I had ever heard her say it—usually it was Spoony. “It’s not. It’s not okay.” The TV cut back to the police chief. He said Galluzzo would be placed on paid leave until they got to the bottom of this. My mother clenched her jaw as the chief spoke. Then they flashed Galluzzo’s face on the screen. Ma’s breath caught when she saw his mug on the screen. “That asshole,” she growled.

  Here’s the thing: My mother almost never curses. I think I may have heard her say “damn,” maybe once, but that’s really it. She’s just not that type. So to hear her say “assho
le” let me know how angry she really was, that this thing was breaking her down inside too.

  “I’m sorry,” she said immediately, trying to get back to mom mode. She reached over and grabbed a napkin off my food tray to pat her face dry. “I’m sorry,” she said again, forcing a crooked smile, which she was only able to keep up for about five seconds—yikes!—before crumbling into pieces. She was sobbing and panting, short and choppy, dabbing at her pouring eyes and nose with the napkin. It was like everything she had been holding in was now finally coming out.

  I leaned forward and inched myself closer to her. Each small movement felt like a knife blade pushing into my side. But I didn’t care, I had to get to her. Then my arms were around her, and now I was crying, my body burning on the inside, while I told her over and over again, “It’s okay. It’s okay. I’m gonna be fine.” And as she pulled away to blow her nose once more, working as hard as she could to paint that half-full smile back on her face, I reached for the remote and (please work, please work, please work) changed the channel.

  Spoony showed up about an hour later with Berry. My mother and I had calmed down and were watching Family Feud, laughing at some of the stupid answers people were coming up with.

  “Name something you might find under your bed.”

  “A monster!”

  “Naw, they don’t hide under there no more. Or in closets,” Spoony said, making an entrance as usual. “They hide in plain sight, with uniforms and badges.” Spoony. Always an agenda.

  “Hi, Mrs. Butler,” Berry said, coming over to my mom with her arms out for a hug.

  “Hi, sweetheart. Ain’t you supposed to be in school?” Ma kissed Berry on the cheek.

  Berry was in law school. Yep, law school. My dad always got on Spoony, asking him why he wasn’t inspired to make something of himself since he dated such a smart girl. Then he’d say, “Well, at least you got enough sense to get a smart girl. I guess I gotta give you credit for that.”

  “I’ll put in some extra work at the library this weekend. This is far more important,” Berry said. Spoony gave me five, then he and Berry switched places so he could hug Ma, and Berry could hug me.

  “Wassup, big man?” she said, touching her cheek to mine. Berry was the female version of English. Absolutely gorgeous. And so cool. And smart. Everything wrapped up in one girl. And she was everybody’s first crush. Me, Shannon, and Carlos. We all loved Berry, and English knew it. We used to tease him so bad about her, and he hated it, but put up with it because that’s just what we do. Jokes. But once Spoony started dating her, we cut all the jokes out, because even though Spoony wasn’t anywhere near perfect, he was definitely a dude who got respect. I don’t know why. He just did. It’s not like anyone had ever seen him do anything crazy, but he had this presence about him. A confidence that made it seem like he wasn’t scared of anything or anybody. So the Berry jokes were over, and she instantly fell into big sister zone. “How you holdin’ up?” she asked now.

  “Oh, you know me. Living a luxurious life,” I said.

  “Looks like it,” Berry replied, but even though she was smiling, I could see the sadness in her eyes. I could see the sadness in everybody’s eyes. My mother’s, Spoony’s, my friends’, Clarissa’s, even the lady on TV who filmed everything—Claudia’s.

  “ ’Shad, I want you to see something,” Spoony said, easing Berry’s backpack off her shoulder. He unzipped it, pulled out her laptop. “They got Wi-Fi in here?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said, wanting to laugh at him. I don’t know why, but I just thought that was so funny.

  He put the laptop back in the bag.

  “Here, just use my phone,” Berry said, digging in her back pocket. She tapped the screen a few times, then handed it to Spoony, who handed it to me.

  “Look at this.”

  On the screen was a picture of my school. And on the sidewalk was some writing. I enlarged the image and did a double take. RASHAD IS ABSENT AGAIN TODAY is what it said, spray painted in bright-blue loopy letters.

  “What is this?” I asked, staring.

  “There’s major buzz about this thing, man. Facebook, Twitter, everywhere. People are pissed off. Kids your age. They’re speaking up, man.”

  I stared at the picture. The letters, the tiny loop at the stop of the cursive s. So familiar. There was only one person I knew who did that. Carlos.

  “English texted me earlier saying that some of the kids at your school have been talking about a protest. He sent me that picture,” Berry said. “But that’s not the only one.” She reached for the phone and began swiping through photos, showing me picture after picture of RASHAD IS ABSENT AGAIN TODAY, tagged all over the city. I knew the first one was from Carlos, but not all the rest of them, because I didn’t recognize the lettering, plus they were too loose. Amateur. I had no idea who those were from.

  “There’s even a hashtag,” she said.

  #RashadIsAbsentAgainToday.

  I couldn’t believe it. I had become a hashtag. I had become searchable. A trending topic. Another number on someone’s chart. But to me, I was still . . . just me.

  “A protest?” I thumbed the screen, going from picture to picture. It just seemed weird that there was so much fuss over me.

  “Yeah, man,” Spoony confirmed.

  “A protest?” my mother repeated, her eyebrows knitting together. “I don’t know about this. I don’t want nobody else getting hurt.”

  A fierce look came over Spoony’s face. “Ma, we have a right to protest. We have a right to be upset.”

  “I know that, Spoony. You don’t think I know that?” Ma’s voice rose. Spoony had no idea that our mom had just called the cop an asshole. He’d missed that. “You don’t think I’m angry?” She glared at him, burned straight through his hoodie.

  “I know you are. Sorry,” he said, humbled. “I’m just so tired of this.”

  “I am too,” Ma said, coming back down. “And I know protests can be good. Just like I know that not all cops are bad. I married one.”

  “I’m not sure Dad’s the best example of a good cop,” Spoony said quicker than quick, the words sharp enough to cut.

  Ma gave him a look. Not upset. But sad. Like she was sad that her son seemed so angry, so distrusting. And she didn’t even say anything to refute his statement, didn’t even argue with him, which to me was strange.

  “Why not?” I asked.

  Spoony looked from me to Ma before brushing the whole thing off with, “Nothing. Doesn’t matter.”

  “Listen, I just don’t want them to find a reason to beat more people. To kill people.” Mom refocused the conversation, her eyes back on me. “And since apparently they don’t trust us, I don’t trust them.”

  “But Ma, all we want is to feel like we can be who we are without being accused of being something else. That’s all,” Spoony tried again.

  “But do protests even work?” I asked. I mean, I was all for the idea. I really was. But the only time I had ever heard about any protests actually working was Dr. King’s. That’s it. Ain’t never heard of no other ones making a difference.

  “Do they work?” Spoony looked at me crazy, a how I could even ask such a question look.

  Berry stepped in. “They’re a piece to the puzzle. I mean, there are a lot of pieces, like reforming laws and things like that. But protests are what sends the message to the folks in power that something needs to change. That people are fed up,” she explained. “We have a right to voice how we feel, and isn’t that better than just doing nothing?”

  Spoony and Berry tag-teamed me with the more political activism mumbo jumbo than I could stand, until at last, thank God, English, Shannon, and Carlos showed up. They all hugged my mom and Berry, and dapped up Spoony.

  “Yo, you heard about the protest?” Carlos shot off instantly, picking up right where my brother and Berry had left off. “Hashtag RashadIsAbsentAgainToday.”

  I looked at him. He looked at me. Friendship ESP.

  “So this thi
ng is really gonna happen?” I asked.

  “Dude, even Tiffany was talking about it in Mr. Fisher’s class,” English said. Mr. Fisher was a history teacher at the school. Kind of a weird guy, but still supercool. White hair. Jacked-up bowl cut. Weird cloth ties. Shirt tucked in tight jeans. But he knew all about history and would celebrate Black History Month in February and March. The only other teacher who was down for stuff like that was Mrs. Tracey, the English teacher. Shannon and Carlos used to always joke about how Mr. Fisher and Mrs. Tracey were probably dating, probably having gross sex after school on Mrs. Tracey’s desk, on top of Shakespeare’s Sonnets or something.

  “For real?” I asked.

  “Yeah, man. Fish is really supporting it. Like, he’s helping us plan it and everything.” English was gassed. “He kept saying how we are part of history. How this is part of history.”

  “Word? Is he giving out extra credit for it?” I joked, just to try to lighten the mood.

  “ ’Shad, we serious, man,” Carlos said. “Like, for real.”

  “Told you, ’Shad,” Spoony said. “This thing is bubbling. People are sick of it.” He looked at Ma, who seemed caught somewhere between mad and worried. “Ma, seriously, what if he was killed?”

  “But he wasn’t,” she said, straight, the same way my dad had said a few days before when Spoony said the same thing.

  “But what about all the others?” Spoony said. “Matter fact, how many of y’all been messed with by the cops?”

  “Man, what? I’ve been pulled over so many times,” Carlos said.

  “Because you speed,” I jumped in.

  “Yeah, true. But at least three times, they’ve made me get out the car while they tore it apart looking for drugs or guns or whatever they thought I had. Then when they didn’t find nothing, they let me go with a speeding ticket, but left my car a mess. Glove compartment emptied out. Trunk all dug through. Just trashed my ride for no reason.”