All American Boys (9 page)

“It just got here. I just woke up.” I said in a
take it easy
tone.

She kissed my forehead again, then leaned back so I could get a clear shot of my father, three-piece suited and shiny-shoed. And the minister, Pastor Johnson, dressed in an oversize suit, a gold chain with a gold cross lying perfectly in the middle of his fat satin tie. In his hand, the Bible. What else.

“How you feelin', Rashad?” the pastor asked. Everybody was asking that, as if I was ever going to tell them the truth. Nobody wanted to hear the truth, even though everybody already knew what it was. I felt . . . violated. That's the only way I can put it. Straight-up violated. And now, to make it worse, I had to have church. Well, sorta church. I had to have prayer.

Now don't get me wrong. I don't have a problem with a good prayer. I mean, I believe in God. At least I think I do. I just wondered where God was when I was being mopped by that cop. And I knew that's what the pastor had come to tell me. That God was there. That God was always there. Which, to me, is the wrong thing to say, because if he or it or whatever was there and didn't do nothing, then that would make God my enemy. Because he let it happen. I would much
rather Pastor Johnson say that God
wasn't
there. That he was busy. That he turned his back, just for a second, to check on somebody else, and that asshole officer snuck right by him and got me. But . . . nope.

“Son, I just stopped by to tell you that God is with you. He's always with you,” the pastor started, predictably. “And everything happens for a reason.”

Reason?
This felt like a good time for me to grab my spirometer, because I was in need of a deep breath. I mean, seriously, what reason could there have been for this? Let me guess, I was too good-lookin' and needed an extra bump on my nose, a reminder that only English Jones runs the school?

“Now we're going to offer up a prayer for your healing, son, believing that God's gon' mend you,” the pastor said. “Let's all bow our heads and look to the Lord.”

My mother and father lowered their heads and closed their eyes. I didn't do either. Kept mine open, and my head up, looking at the three of them, wondering if any of this mattered. I knew it mattered to them, my parents, and maybe that should've been enough for me to participate, but did it matter to me? I'm not so sure. The prayer was long and dramatic, full of the preachy punches in between each point. The pastor mentioned how Jesus was persecuted (
heh
) and Saul was made blind (
heh
) and Job was tested (
heh
) and David
beat Goliath (
heh
). My mother followed right behind the pastor, accompanying his rhythmic prayer with
hallelujah
whispers, and my father's manly but, I guess, godly grunts, all eventually—finally—leading to an amen.

“Amen.” Spoony stood in the doorway, nodding his head, and clapping his hands, a sarcastic look on his face. Man, was I happy to see him. Ma was too. Dad, well, not so much.

“Pastor, you remember my oldest son, Randolph,” he said, caught off guard.

“Yes, yes, of course I do.” The pastor reached out and shook Spoony's hand. “Ain't seen you down at the church in a while.”

“That's 'cause I can't afford to come.”

“Spoony!” my mother gasped.

“Sorry,” he said, shrugging and smirking at me.

“No, no, that's okay,” Pastor Johnson said kindly. “Nothing wrong with the boy having a mind of his own. God gave him that.” Spoony just looked at Dad like,
See?
“Well, listen, I better be going. But we're gonna keep you lifted up in prayer, Rashad. And we're going to add you to the blessing list for the sick and shut-in.”

But I'm not sick or shut-in. I'm beat down. Is there a list for that?
But I didn't say that. I was hoping Spoony would do some kind of big brother ESP thing and say it for me.

“Thank you so much for coming, Pastor,” my mother said, clenching Pastor Johnson's hand. My dad gave him a firm
shake and a tight-lipped nod, and the churchman headed out.

Five seconds couldn't have gone by before Spoony sat gingerly on the side of the bed and grabbed the remote.

“Come on, man. It's Sunday. Ain't nothing on but reruns of what we just experienced,” I joked.

“Oh, there's something else on. Trust me,” Spoony said pointedly.

“You know, you don't always have to be so damn disrespectful!” Dad started in on Spoony with a bark, settling into a chair on the other side of the room. Cursing right after the pastor left, tsk, tsk, tsk.

Spoony ignored him and turned the TV on. He nodded up to the screen. “Check it out.”

I looked up at the glowing screen. And there it was. There
I
was. On the freakin' news.

“Again, this is footage that was taken from a smartphone Friday night, of a police officer shoving a young man through the door of Jerry's Corner Mart on Fourth Street. As you can see, the officer already has the young man subdued. He doesn't seem to be resisting, but is still slammed to the ground, where the officer proceeds with what looks to be unnecessary force. Jerry's has experienced a string of robberies, but as of now we are uncertain as to whether or not this was another one of those cases. We attempted to contact Jerry's management for a comment but to no avail. The Springfield PD has also declined
making a statement at this time. What we do know is that the young man in this video is sixteen-year-old Rashad Butler of West Springfield. We'll keep you updated as we learn more.”

My mother's mouth gaped. “What? I mean, how . . .”

“Spoony, how'd they get my name?” I stared at the TV in disbelief.

“I told you, li'l bruh, there are always witnesses. Berry kept checking online all night, YouTube, Facebook, everything, and eventually, the video surfaced. So we sent it to the news. Told them who you were.”

At this, my dad lost it. “I mean, seriously, have you lost your damn mind? Are them things on your head affecting your thinking? Rashad doesn't need this kind of attention, Spoony. He doesn't need all this craziness. None of us do.”

Spoony jumped to his feet. “You think
me
sending it to the
news
is crazy? The crazy part is what happened to 'Shad. What's happening all over this country. You of all people should know that!”

My father glared at Spoony and I mean he held it there, as if there was, in fact, some kind of father-son ESP thing, and he was beaming the cuss-out of the century straight to my brother's brain. Then, like he always did, Dad stormed out of the room, followed by Spoony throwing words at his back. “Yeah, run away, as usual.”

“Spoony!” Ma shouted.

My throat dried. My stomach boiled. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. I mean, it was me, but it wasn't. But . . . it
was
. I didn't know how or what to feel. Like, how could I be that boy—a victim. Me. It was just . . . I don't know . . . surreal. But we kept watching as the story looped. Sunday, aside from being a wack TV show day, is also apparently a slow news day. Every few minutes, the footage of me being crushed under the weight of the cop played, the newsperson talking about the “string of robberies” and not being able to get a comment from Jerry's management or the police department. Then a picture of me dressed in my ROTC uniform flashed across the screen.

I glared at Spoony. “Where'd they get
that?
” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“Man, listen, I had to make sure we controlled as much of the narrative as possible. If I ain't send that photo in, they would've dug all through the Internet for some picture of you looking crazy,” Spoony said. “Trust me, man. I've seen it time and time again.”

I was pissed about the photo, and to be honest, a little embarrassed by it, but I knew Spoony had a point. I would've hated for them to put up some picture of me hanging with
Carlos, posing with my middle fingers up. Even though . . . well . . . never mind.

The story played over and over and over again, like watching a movie in virtual reality where it doesn't really seem like you—like it's real—but you can feel every blow, every break. You can taste blood. You can smell the officer's breath. And that was hard for me. To see myself, like that. They kept saying it was a
developing story. As more unfolds. As we learn more.

“Cut it off,” I finally said.

“We need to keep up with how it develops,” Spoony said.

“Cut it off, Spoon!” I reached for the remote myself and was instantly reminded that my ribs were broken. “Argkk!” My mother lifted off her seat, ready to spring into mommy mode. Spoony quickly handed me the clicker.

“Okay, okay,” he said apologetically. “Take it easy. My bad, man. It's just . . .”

“I'm fine,” I said hard, shooting down whatever reason he was about to deliver. I turned the TV off. “I just don't want to watch it no more.”

The truth is, I wasn't mad at Spoony. I wasn't. As a matter of fact, he did exactly what I expected him to do. I just didn't want to keep watching it.

My mother, trying to cut the tension, began digging in her church bag, which was way bigger than her normal bag. The church bag had to be big enough to fit her Sunday service
survival kit. Her Bible, some candy, and all the sins of our family. “Oh, Rashad, I forgot, I brought the stuff you asked for.”

The stuff I asked for was my phone and phone charger—my mother was given the duffel bag with my ROTC uniform and phone after I, and it, were released into her custody. But more importantly, I wanted my art supplies—sketchbook and pencils. That's all I really needed. That was my hospital survival kit.

She plugged my phone in the wall and put the sketchbook and pencils on the roller tray-table next to the chicken tenders I now wasn't going to be eating. And as soon as my phone had enough juice to power on, the damn dog started barking. Nonstop.

Let me explain.

Me and Carlos had this stupid joke that whenever we were going to a party, we would set our text message alerts to a crazy sound effect. Not for any real reason. I mean, originally it was so we'd always know where each other was, or be able to find a phone if any of us lost one. But at a party, who would be able to hear it over the music? See, stupid. But we kept doing it because it was our thing. A tradition. Like, good luck, or something.

This week Carlos picked a dog bark, just because he thought it would be funny, or dare I say, cool, to tell a girl that there was something in his pants, barking. I mean, it was kind of
funny. But also, so wack. Then he challenged me and said that he could get a girl with that bark line before I could. Truth is, I wasn't even going to try. But I played along and changed my alert anyway. And now that my phone had enough battery to turn on, the dog was barking crazy.

“Hand me that,” I said to Spoony, who was frowning at all the stupid noise.

I checked my messages.

FRIDAY 4:43 p.m. from Spoony

SHAD YOU STILL COMIN TO GET $$?

FRIDAY 5:13 p.m. from Spoony

??? WTF

FRIDAY 5:21 p.m. from Los

YO BE AT MY CRIB BY 7

FRIDAY 5:22 p.m. from Los

AND WATCH HOW MANY GIRLS I GET WITH THAT DOG JOKE

FRIDAY 5:23 p.m. from Los

U KNO GIRLS LUV DOGS DUDE!

FRIDAY 5:35 p.m. from Los

WHERE U AT?

FRIDAY 5:51 p.m. from Spoony

WHERE U AT?

FRIDAY 6:05 p.m. from Ma

HEY, SPOONY AND CARLOS CALLED HERE LOOKING FOR YOU. I CALLED BUT IT KEEPS GOING TO VOICE MAIL. CALL ME.

FRIDAY 7:00 p.m. from Los

DUDE UR KILLIN' ME. WHERE THE FUCK ARE U?

FRIDAY 8:47 p.m. from Los

I DONT KNOW WHERE U ARE BUT IM OUT. IF U CAUGHT A RIDE WITH SOMEBODY ELSE YOU COULDA TOLD ME BRO. DAMN. UNLESS YOU WITH A GIRL. THEN I UNDERSTAND. BUT I KNO U NOT. I'LL CATCH YOU AT THE PARTY. BRING YOUR BEST GAME.

FRIDAY 10:03 p.m. from English

SHAD YOU HERE? ME SHAN AND LOS LOOKIN
FOR U. LOS TRIPPIN! LMAO

SATURDAY 1:01 p.m. from Los

WHERE WERE U? OF COURSE IT GOT SHUT DOWN. SHIT WAS BANANAS!

SATURDAY 4:26 p.m. from Shan

YO, LOS IS TIRED OF TEXTN U SO NOW IM TEXTN U. U GOOD?

SATURDAY 4:41 p.m. from Shan

WHERE ARE U?

SATURDAY 4:49 p.m. from Los

ENGLISH JUST TOLD ME BERRY SAID U IN THE HOSPITAL!

SATURDAY 4:51 p.m. from English

U IN THE HOSPITAL? WTF

SATURDAY 4:52 p.m. from Shan

YO YOU IN THE HOSPITAL BRO? ENGLISH SAID SOME SHIT ABOUT THE COPS?

SUNDAY 12:11 p.m. from Los

YO YOU ON THE NEWS! CRAZY!

Crazy, indeed. I scrolled through, reading them all before sending quick responses to the three of them—Shannon, Carlos, and English—letting them know that I was okay. Well, I said a little more than that.