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