He smiles sadly and does as I ask.
For the rest of the day, sometimes Chris and I are the only ones in our classes. Sometimes one or two other people join us. People go out of their way to tell me they think Khalil’s death is bullshit, but that Remy’s reason for protesting is bullshit too. I mean, this sophomore girl comes up to me in the hall and explains that she supports the cause but decided to go back to class after she heard why they were really protesting.
They act like I’m the official representative of the black race and they owe me an explanation. I think I understand though. If I sit out a protest, I’m making a statement, but if they sit out a protest, they look racist.
At lunch, Chris and I head to our table near the vending machines. Jess with her perfect pixie cut is the only one there, eating cheese fries and reading her phone.
“Hey?” I ask more than say. I’m surprised she’s here.
“S’up?” She nods. “Have a seat. As you can see, there’s plenty of room.”
I sit beside her, and Chris sits on the other side of me. Jess and I have played basketball together for three years, and she’s put her head on my shoulder for two of them, but I’m ashamed to admit I don’t know much about her. I do know she’s a senior, her parents are attorneys, and she works at a bookstore. I didn’t know that she’d skip the protest.
I guess I’m staring at her hard, because she says, “I don’t use dead people to get out of class.”
If I wasn’t straight I would totally date her for saying that. This time I rest my head on her shoulder.
She pats my hair and says, “White people do stupid shit sometimes.”
Jess is white.
Seven and Layla join us with their trays. Seven holds his fist out to me. I bump it.
“Sev-en,” Jess says, and they fist-bump too. I had no idea they were cool like that. “I take it we’re protesting the ‘Get Out of Class’ protest?”
“Yep,” Seven says. “Protesting the ‘Get Out of Class’ protest.”
Seven and I get Sekani after school, and he won’t shut up about the news cameras he saw from his classroom window, because he’s Sekani and he came into this world looking for a camera. I have too many selfies of him on my phone giving the “light skin face,” his eyes squinted and eyebrows raised.
“Are y’all gonna be on the news?” he asks.
“Nah,” says Seven. “Don’t need to be.”
We could go home, lock the door, and fight over the TV like we always do, or we could help Daddy at the store. We go to the store.
Daddy stands in the doorway, watching a reporter and camera operator set up in front of Mr. Lewis’s shop. Of course, when Sekani sees the camera, he says, “Ooh, I wanna be on TV!”
“Shut up,” I say. “No you don’t.”
“Yes, I do. You don’t know what I want!”
The car stops, and Sekani pushes my seat forward, sending my chin into the dashboard as he jumps out. “Daddy, I wanna be on TV!”
I rub my chin. His hyper butt is gonna kill me one day.
Daddy holds Sekani by the shoulders. “Calm down, man. You not gon’ be on TV.”
“What’s going on?” Seven asks when we get out.
“Some cops got jumped around the corner,” Daddy says, one arm around Sekani’s chest to keep him still.
“Jumped?” I say.
“Yeah. They pulled them out their patrol car and stomped them. Gray Boys.”
The code name for King Lords. Damn.
“I heard what happened at y’all school,” Daddy says. “Everything cool?”
“Yeah.” I give the easy answer. “We’re good.”
Mr. Lewis adjusts his clothes and runs a hand over his Afro. The reporter says something, and he lets out a belly-jiggling laugh.
“What this fool ’bout to say?” Daddy wonders.
“We go live in five,” says the camera operator, and all I can think is, Please don’t put Mr. Lewis on live TV. “Four, three, two, one.”
“That’s right, Joe,” the reporter says. “I’m here with Mr. Cedric Lewis Jr., who witnessed the incident involving the officers today. Can you tell us what you saw, Mr. Lewis?”
“He ain’t witness nothing,” Daddy tells us. “Was in his shop the whole time. I told him what happened!”
“I sholl can,” Mr. Lewis says. “Them boys pulled those officers out their car. They weren’t doing nothing either. Just sitting there and got beat like dogs. Ridiculous! You hear me? Re-damn-diculous!”
Somebody’s gonna turn Mr. Lewis into a meme. He’s making a fool out of himself and doesn’t even know it.
“Do you think that it was retaliation for the Khalil Harris case?” the reporter asks.
“I sholl do! Which is stupid. These thugs been terrorizing Garden Heights for years, how they gon’ get mad now? What, ’cause they didn’t kill him themselves? The president and all’a them searching for terrorists, but I’ll name one right now they can come get.”
“Don’t do it, Mr. Lewis,” Daddy prays. “Don’t do it.”
Of course, he does. “His name King, and he live right here in Garden Heights. Probably the biggest drug dealer in the city. He over that King Lords gang. Come get him if you wanna get somebody. Wasn’t nobody but his boys who did that to them cops anyway. We sick of this! Somebody march ’bout that!”
Daddy covers Sekani’s ears. Every cuss word that follows equals a dollar in Sekani’s jar if he hears it. “Shit,” Daddy hisses. “Shit, shit, shit. This motha—”
“He snitched,” says Seven.
“On live TV,” I add.
Daddy keeps saying, “Shit, shit, shit.”
“Do you think that the curfew the mayor announced today will prevent incidents like this?” the reporter asks Mr. Lewis.
I look at Daddy. “What curfew?”
He takes his hands off Sekani’s ears. “Every business in Garden Heights gotta close by nine. And nobody can be in the streets after ten. Lights out, like in prison.”
“So you’ll be home tonight, Daddy?” Sekani asks.
Daddy smiles and pulls him closer. “Yeah, man. After you do your homework, I can show you a thang or two on Madden.”
The reporter wraps up her interview. Daddy waits until she and the camera operator leave and then goes over to Mr. Lewis. “You crazy?” he asks.
“What? ’Cause I told the truth?” Mr. Lewis says.
“Man, you can’t be going on live TV, snitching like that. You a dead man walking, you know that, right?”
“I ain’t scared of that nigga!” Mr. Lewis says real loud, for everybody to hear. “You scared of him?”
“Nah, but I know how the game work.”
“I’m too old for games! You oughta be too!”
“Mr. Lewis, listen—”
“Nah, you listen here, boy. I fought a war, came back, and fought one here. See this?” He lifts up his pants leg, revealing a plaid sock over a prosthetic. “Lost it in the war. This right here.” He lifts his shirt to his underarm. There’s a thin pink scar stretching from his back to his swollen belly. “Got it after some white boys cut me ’cause I drank from their fountain.” He lets his shirt fall down. “I done faced a whole lot worse than some so-called King. Ain’t nothing he can do but kill me, and if that’s how I gotta go for speaking the truth, that’s how I gotta go.”
“You don’t get it,” Daddy says.
“Yeah I do. Hell, I get you. Walking around here, claiming you ain’t a gangster no more, claiming you trying to change stuff, but still following all’a that ‘don’t snitch’ mess. And you teaching them kids the same thing, ain’t you? King still controlling your dumb ass, and you too stupid to realize it.”
“Stupid? How you gon’ call me stupid when you the one snitching on live TV!”
A familiar whoop-whoop sound alarms us.
Oh God.
The patrol car with flashing lights cruises down the street. It stops next to Daddy and Mr. Lewis.
Two officers get out. One black, one white. Their hands linger too close to the guns at their waists.
No, no, no.
“We got a problem here?” the black one asks, looking squarely at Daddy. He’s bald just like Daddy, but older, taller, bigger.
“No, sir, officer,” Daddy says. His hands that were once in his jeans pockets are visible at his sides.