Long Way Down Read online

  would like it.

  But she hated it

  so I broke up with her,

  because

  to me

  her nose was

  funny acting.

  SHAWN THOUGHT THAT

  was stupid

  and funny

  but worthy

  of joking me,

  calling me

  William.

  Worthy

  of a headlock

  that felt like

  a hug.

  NOW THE COLOGNE

  will never drop

  lower in the bottles.

  And I’ll never go to sleep again

  believing

  that touching them

  or anything of his

  will lead to an arm

  around my neck.

  But it feels like an arm

  around my neck,

  wrenching,

  just thinking about how

  I’ll never go to sleep again

  believing him or

  believing he

  will eventually

  come home, because

  he won’t, and now I guess

  I should love him more,

  like he’s my favorite,

  which is hard to do

  because he was my only

  brother, and

  already my favorite.

  SUDDENLY

  our room

  seemed

  lopsided.

  Cut in half.

  Half empty.

  Half cold.

  Half curious

  about that

  one drawer

  in the middle

  of it all.

  THE MIDDLE DRAWER CALLED TO ME,

  its awkward off-centeredness

  a sign that what was in it could

  and should be used to

  set things straight.

  I yanked and pulled and

  snatched and tugged at

  the drawer until it opened

  just more than an inch.

  Just wide enough for my

  fifteen-year-old fingers to

  slither in and touch

  cold steel.

  NICKNAME

  A cannon.

  A strap.

  A piece.

  A biscuit.

  A burner.

  A heater.

  A chopper.

  A gat.

  A hammer.

  A tool

  for RULE No. 3.

  WHICH BRINGS ME TO CARLSON RIGGS

  He was known around

  here for being as loud as

  police sirens but as

  soft as his first name.

  PEOPLE SAID RIGGS

  talked so much trash because

  he was short, but I think it was

  because his mom made him take

  gymnastics when he was a kid, and

  when you wear tights and know how

  to do cartwheels it might be a good idea

  to also know how to defend yourself.

  Or at least talk like you can.

  RIGGS AND SHAWN WERE SO-CALLED FRIENDS, BUT

  the best thing he ever did for Shawn

  was teach him how to do a Penny Drop.

  The worst thing he ever did for Shawn

  was shoot him.

  A PENNY DROP

  is when you hang

  upside down on

  a monkey bar

  and swing

  back and forth,

  harder and harder,

  until just the right

  moment, when you

  release your legs

  and go flying through

  the air, hopefully

  landing on your feet.

  It’s all about timing.

  If you let your

  legs go too early,

  you’ll land on

  your face. If you

  let your legs go

  too late, you’ll land

  flat on your back.

  So you have to

  time it perfectly

  to get it right.

  Shawn taught me

  how to time it perfectly.

  If you could do a

  Penny Drop or a

  backflip (no cartwheels)

  you were the king.

  Shawn could do

  both so he was the

  king around here to

  me and Tony and

  all our friends.

  But he made sure

  I was the prince.

  In case you ain’t know.

  REASONS I THOUGHT (KNEW) RIGGS KILLED SHAWN

  NO. 1: TURF

  Riggs moved to a

  different part of the hood

  where the Dark Suns

  hang and bang and be wild.

  He wanted to join so he

  wouldn’t be looked at like

  all bark no more,

  and instead could have

  a backbone built for him

  by the bite of his block boys

  who wait for anyone to cross

  the line into their territory,

  which happens to be nine

  blocks from our building,

  and in the same neighborhood

  as the corner store

  that sells that special soap

  my mother sent Shawn

  out to get for her the

  day before yesterday.

  NO. 1.1: SURVIVAL TACTICS (made plain)

  Get

  down

  with

  some

  body

  or

  get

  beat

  down

  by

  some

  body.

  NO. 2: CRIME SHOWS

  I grew up watching crime

  shows with my mother.

  Always knew who the killer

  was 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 even

  touched one.

  Heavier than

  I expected,

  like holding

  a newborn

  except I

  knew the

  cry would

  be much

  much much

  much louder.

  A NOISE FROM THE HALLWAY

  My mother,

  stumbling to the bathroom,

  her sobs leading the way.

  I quickly slapped

  the switch on the wall, dropping

  the room into darkness, dropping

  myself into bed, pushing

  the pistol under my pillow

  like a lost tooth.

  SLEEP

  ran from me

  for what seemed

  like forever,

  hid from me

  like I used to hide

  from Shawn

  before finally

  peeking out from

  behind pain.

  I WOKE UP

  in the morning

  and tried to remember

  if I dreamed about

  anything.

  I don’t think I did,

  so I pretended that

  I dreamed about

  Shawn.

  It made me feel better

  about going to sleep

  the night he was

  murdered.

  BUT I ALSO FELT GUILTY

  for waking up,

  for breathing in,

  for stretching,

  yawning, and

  reaching

  under

  the pillow.

  I WRAPPED MY FINGERS

  around the grip, placing

  them over Shawn’s

  prints like little

  brother holding big

  brother’s hand again,

&nbs
p; walking me to the store,

  teaching me how to

  do a Penny Drop.

  If you let go too early

  you’ll land on your face.

  If you let go too late

  you’ll land on your back.

  To land on your feet,

  you gotta time it just right.

  IN THE BATHROOM

  in the mirror

  my face sagged,

  like sadness

  was trying to pull

  the skin off.

  Zombie.

  I had slept

  in my clothes,

  the stench of

  death and sweat

  trapped in the

  cotton like

  fish grease.

  I looked and

  felt like

  shit.

  And so what.

  I STUCK THE CANNON

  in the waistband in the

  back of my jeans, the

  handle sticking out like a

  steel tail.

  I covered it with

  my too-big T-shirt,

  the name-brand

  hand-me-down

  from Shawn.

  THE PLAN

  was to wait for Riggs

  in front of his building.

  Me and Shawn were

  always over his house

  before Riggs joined the gang,

  and since then, Shawn had been

  up that way a bunch of times

  to get Mom’s special soap.

  I figured it would be safest

  if I went in the morning. If I

  timed it right, none of his crew

  would be out yet. No one

  would ever suspect me. I’d hit

  his buzzer, get him to come down

  and open the door. Then I’d pull my

  shirt over my mouth and nose

  and do it.

  IN THE KITCHEN

  the sun burst through the

  window, bathing my mother,

  who slept slumped at the

  table, her head resting in the

  nest of her red, swollen arms.

  She’d probably been scratching

  all night, maybe trying to scratch

  the guilt away. I wanted to

  wake her and tell her that it

  wasn’t her fault, but I didn’t.

  Instead, with the pistol heavy

  on my back, I stepped lightly

  over the creaky parts of the

  floor, trying not to wake her

  and lie about where I was going.

  And break her heart even more.

  THE YELLOW LIGHT

  that lined the hallway

  buzzed like the lightning

  bugs me and Shawn

  used to catch when

  we were kids.

  We scooped them

  into washed-out mayo

  jars four or five

  at a time.

  Shawn would twist

  the lid tight, and the

  two of us would sit

  on a bench and watch

  them fly around,

  bumping into each other,

  trapped, until

  one by one

  their lights went out.

  AT THE ELEVATOR

  Back already sore.

  Uncomfortable.

  Gun strapped

  like a brick

  rubbing my skin

  raw with each step.

  Seemed like time

  stood still as I

  reached out and

  pushed the button.

  White light

  surrounded the

  black arrow.

  DOWN

  DOWN

  DOWN DOWN DOWN

  DOWN DOWN

  DOWN

  .

  THERE’S A STRANGE THING

  that happens

  in the elevator.

  In any elevator.

  Every time

  somebody gets

  in, they check

  to see if the button

  for the floor they’re

  going to is lit,

  and if it isn’t,

  they push it,

  then face

  the door.

  That’s it.

  They don’t

  speak to the

  people already

  in the elevator,

  and the

  people already

  in the elevator

  don’t speak to

  the newcomer.

  Those are

  elevator 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 dangling

  around his neck

  like magic rope.

  Checked to

  make sure

  the L button was lit.

  Going down too.

  L STOOD FOR “LOSER”

  when we were kids,

  so Shawn and I would

  stand in an empty elevator

  and wait for someone to get on

  and push L. And when they did, we

  would giggle because they were the

  loser and me and Shawn were winners

  on a funny and victorious ride down to the

  lobby. I thought about this when the man with

  the gold chains got on and checked to see if the

  L button was already glowing. I wondered if he knew

  that in me and Shawn’s world, I’d already chosen to be

  a loser.

  IT’S UNCOMFORTABLE

  when you

  feel like

  someone

  is looking

  at you but

  only when

  you not

  looking.

  I’VE SEEN GIRLS

  waiting at the bus stop

  make men pitiful pieces

  of putty, curling backward,

  stretching and straining

  every muscle just to get

  a glimpse of what Shawn

  and a lot of men

  around here call

  the world.

  But there were no women

  on this elevator, so there

  were no worlds to be

  checkin’ for.

  But he kept checkin’

  anyway,

  not knowing that

  if he kept checkin’

  anyway

  he’d get

  a world

  of trouble.

  09:08:04 a.m.

  DO I KNOW YOU?

  I asked,

  irritated,

  freaked out.

  The man smiled,

  adjusted the chains

  around his neck.

  Looked me

  straight in the eyes,

  dead in the face.

  You don’t recognize me?

  he asked,

  his voice

  deep,

  familiar.

  I looked harder.

  Squinted, trying to

  place the face.

  Nah. Not really,

  I said.

  He smiled wide.

  A jagged mouth,

  sharp and sharklike.

  Then turned around

  so 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 made

  of triangles.

  RIP
BUCK YOU’LL BE MISSED 4EVA

  MY STOMACH JUMPED

  into my chest

  or my chest fell

  into my stomach.

  Or both.

  I knew him.

  Buck?

  I stumbled

  backward.

  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 EYES

  over and over and

  over and over again,

  trippin’.

  Never smoked

  or nothing like that.

  Don’t know high life.

  Don’t know bad trips.

  Don’t no dead man

  supposed to be

  talking to me, though.

  YEAH

  I did,

  I said,

  hoping he would

  come back with

  I’m not dead or I

  faked my death

  or

  something

  like that.

  Or maybe

  I’d wake up, sit

  straight up

  in bed,

  the gun still tucked

  under my pillow,

  my mother still asleep

  at 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 meat

  in my armpit,

  slapped myself

  in the face,

  even tried to

  blink myself

  awake.

  Blink,

  blink,

  blink,

  but

  Buck.

  I KNOW WHAT YOU THINKIN’.

  That I was scared

  of

  to death.

  BUT NO NEED TO BE AFRAID.

  I had known Buck

  since I was a kid