“He was sixteen. He was a Crip, Aunt Mittie.”
That’s all he has to say. Between Crips and Bloods, color is the only offense needed.
“He ain’t here.” Ma’s voice goes harder. “And your mama is working a double shift, so she ain’t home yet. Greg, you look out for your brother now.”
“Aunt Mittie, I’ve been trying, but he never listens to me. He’s always tripped about me becoming a cop. A lot of folks here in the neighborhood did.”
“I understand, Greg. You wanted to change things. I get that, but you know cops haven’t made friends here. It’ll take some time, but folks will come around.”
A shot cracks the air beyond the front porch.
“Go!” Ma’s voice becomes urgent. “If Chaz did what they think, he’ll have to deal with the consequences. Just protect him, Greg. Just . . . for your mama. Okay?”
“I gotta go.”
Jade and I slide down the wall, faces turned toward each other, connected by our fear and worry.
“What’d I say?” Ma stands in front of us, her eyes fired up with frustration. “Get in that closet. Now.”
She points to my bedroom, looking from Jade to me.
“I know you’re scared for Chaz, but be scared for yourself. A stray bullet could take you out. Now, get in there.”
We stand and start down the hall. Ma grabs my elbow, pulling me around to face her. At twelve, I’m almost as tall as she is, but I’m straddling childhood and adolescence. Half the time I think I know best and don’t need her. This is the other half of the time when I want my mama to hug me and tell me it will all be okay. That we’ll all be okay.
“Remember what we talked about?” she asks softly. “You go in that closet and don’t be scared.”
“You can’t make yourself not scared, Ma.” I stuff my hands into the pockets of my jeans.
“That’s true, but you can distract yourself. You’re a sharp boy. You got a memory like an elephant. Recite some of them poems you’re always reading in Ms. Shallowford’s class. Sing a song. Say the Pledge of Allegiance. I don’t care. Just don’t leave that closet until I say so.”
I nod and enter my room. Michael Jordan, NWA, Tupac, and the Oakland Raiders plaster my walls. Other than a small bed and dresser, that’s all the decoration the room requires. Jade isn’t in the closet. She’s standing by the window Chaz must have left open when he snuck out.
“In the closet, Jade.” I walk in, expecting her to follow. For a second, her face defies the order. She glances through the window and out to our front yard. Both her brothers are out there. On opposite sides of the law, but both at risk.
“There’s nothing you can do.” I make my voice certain like I hear Ma’s even when she isn’t sure at all. “Get in here.”
As soon as Jade sits beside me in the tiny closet, the wail of approaching sirens splinters the air. Fear widens her eyes, and she clenches skinny arms around her legs. She presses her forehead to her knees and quietly cries. Jade is more sister than cousin to me. Nobody messes with me if she’s around, and nobody messes with her if I have anything to say about it. Her tears, I can’t take.
What Ma says is true. My head is like a vault. Poems, lyrics, all of it gets locked in my head. Ms. Shallowford’s class is the only place I’m rewarded for remembering poems, for loving poetry. For writing my own. I do it only in class because I don’t want to catch it from the other guys, but for Jade, whose hands tremble as the sirens come closer, I’ll do it.
I start with the question that launches Langston Hughes’ famous poem “Harlem,” asking what happens to a dream deferred.
When I quote the line, when I ask the question, Jade lifts her head. I feel stupid. I usually do this alone. I’m usually in my bed when the sound of bullets rips through the air, and the words that calm and comfort me, I’m the only one who hears. But Jade’s with me now, and I taste her fear. It’s bitter like aspirin dissolving on my tongue as I continue, posing Hughes’ questions about dried-up raisin dreams. Jade blinks at me, her tears slowing. She swipes at her running nose. Feet scamper past my open bedroom window, a chase underway. Angry voices bounce off the walls.
“Hands in the air!” Greg’s voice reaches us in the closet. “Chaz, man stop. Come on. Put the gun down.”
Jade’s chest expands and contracts with breaths like she’s about to hyperventilate, her eyes round as plates.
I continue with the lines of “Harlem,” comparing the delayed dream to rotten meat and syrupy sweets. The words barely penetrate my mind, but they keep my heart from falling out of my chest.
I’m not sure if it helps Jade, but the words anchor me, give me something to focus on besides the chaos on the front yard. Besides the threat of violence chilling the air. I blink back tears, but Jade’s flow freely down her cheeks.
“Chaz, no!” Panic and pain wrestle in Greg’s words. “Don’t make me do it!”
Pop!
It’s a silly word for the sound a gun makes. Ms. Shallowford taught our class about onomatopoeia last week, but none of the sounds she used for gunfire seem right.