Caught Up (22 page)

P
andemonium.

That's the only way to explain what is unfolding right before my very eyes.

Gunshots!

Loud.

People are screaming at the top of their lungs, scrambling for safety. Ducking bullets. Dropping to the floor and rolling for cover.

We are all terrified.

“Ohmygod,
Malik!”
I shriek. “What's happening?” He snatches me by the hand and is practically dragging me. I know I said I wanted to have a thrilling summer. But this goes way beyond my definition of excitement. The crowd stampedes out the back and side emergency exits. We all pour out of the building, scattering.

Malik and I run up two blocks, then finally slow down. I try catching my breath.

“W-w-what is going on? What h-happened in there?”

“Listen, babe. Not now, a'ight. I need you to focus.”

“
Focus?!”
I scream hysterically, yanking my arm from him. “Are you kidding me? A bunch of gunfire broke out in the middle of a club. And I barely made it out alive! We could have been killed. How—”

“Yo!” he snaps, pulling out his keys and disarming his alarm. “Chill wit' da questions, a'ight? I need'a think!”

I swallow.

He opens the driver's side door, tells me to get in, then hands me the key to his truck. “Stay here. You hear me? And if anything starts looking crazy be ready to peel off. You hear me?”

“Y-y-yes. But w-where are you going?”

“Back to handle . . .” Malik stops in midsentence and glances over his shoulder just as a black Suburban with tinted windows rolled halfway down with its headlights out approaches us. The first things I see are two black guns being held out the front and rear windows, aimed directly at us. “Yo, get down!”

But it's too late. I duck down and scream as the gunmen open fire, shooting up the side of the truck.

I hear tires screeching, then more gunshots being fired. Fearfully, I peek to see what's happening. I am a shaken mess.

Through tears, I witness Malik pulling a gun from his waistband, aiming at the speeding SUV and firing shots. He takes off running behind the truck. I've never seen him, or anyone—except Raynard Price, a guy who ran track and went to school with my brother Kent—run so fast. He hits the back of the truck, causing it to swerve then slam into a parked car.

My heart is beating rapidly. This is all a terrible nightmare.

Just when I think it can't, won't, get any worse, there are more gunshots being fired. At Malik!

And then...

He hits the ground.

“Nooooo!” I scream, swinging open the door and hopping out of the truck, leaving the door wide open. I run to where he is. I run down the street. “Malik! Malik!”

There is blood everywhere.

He's been shot.

“Ohmygod! Malik! Are you okay?”

Sirens blare in the distance.

“I'm fine. Aaah, s
hiiiiit
! Punks clipped me in the leg 'n' shoulder, dat's all.”

“Ohmygod! I have to get you to a hospital.”

“Kennedy! I need you to focus!
Uhhh!
There's no time for that!” He starts breathing heavy. “I need you to take this gun, and go back to the truck and get a black book bag from outta the backseat. It's on the floor.”

“Okay.” I am crying uncontrollably.

Sirens squeal louder as they get closer to the scene.

“Uhhh . . . I need you to get dat bag 'n' get outta here. Don't look inside. You hear me? Call Sasha 'n' give her da bag.

“But what about you?”

“I'm cool. Just go.”

“I can't leave you like this!”

“Look, baby, I got dis. Get outta here, a'ight? Now!”

He hands me the gun. Without a thought, I take it and run back toward the truck. I am shaking violently.

I can see the flashing red and blue lights. I open the backseat door, find the book bag and open it, stuffing the gun inside, then start running in the opposite direction. Seconds after this, police are everywhere. I don't know how many show up after the first eight squad cars I count. A sea of blue uniforms hops out of cruisers. Weapons are drawn. Everything is happening so fast.

“Police! Stop where you are!”

“Police!”

My knees shake. “What's going on?”

“Drop the bag!”

“Please. Don't shoot. It's all a big misunderstanding. Someone started shooting at my boyfriend. Then he started chasing them. And then he got shot. Please. You have to call an ambulance. My boyfriend's is bleeding pretty bad.”

“Ma'am. This is your last warning! Put you hands where we can see them. Now!”

I do as they say. Next thing I know I am being swarmed by police. Then tackled to the ground. There's a knee in my back. I am being handcuffed, then violently yanked up.

I glance over to where I left him lying. He isn't there.

“You are under arrest . . .”

“You have the right to remain silent . . .”

I
f I ever thought there wasn't such a thing as a hell on earth, I was sadly mistaken. There is a hell on earth! And it's this place! The Lorna P. Johnson Youth Detention Center. Metal doors clanking open and closed. Nasty steel seatless toilets. Metal bed frames bolted to concrete walls. Thin mattresses. Cheap bedsheets that cut like sandpaper. Pig slop served on thick, clunky plastic trays.

I have been fingerprinted. Have had my mug shot taken. And have basically been treated like a criminal. Like I am guilty.

I'm not guilty!

I haven't done anything!

This isn't what my life is. Or was supposed to be like. Fingerprints and face mugs. And charges of crimes I didn't commit. But somehow it's what it's become. This isn't how I planned my summer to turn out. But somehow, in the blink of an eye, this is what it has come to. And now what's left of my summer is ruined!

I'm locked up! I'm sitting here in a drab navy blue uniform with the words
LORNA P
. J
OHNSON YDC
stamped across the left side of my chest in small block letters and a pair of slip-on canvas type sneakers that hurt the bottom of my feet.

I am surrounded by other teens that had a penchant for making bad choices. Some of them were repeat offenders. Some of them were here on violent charges. And some of the girls here are scary. Rough-looking. Disrespectful. Nasty. Trifling. Vicious. And crazy. And all they want to do is pick fights with each other, including with me.

It's crazy here!

Being called filthy names. Being threatened. Having to constantly watch my back. It's all too much to bear.

I thought being arrested, handcuffed, then shoved into the backseat of a police car was humiliating. But nothing prepared me for (or compared to) being in this hellhole. From getting processed at intake to getting strip-searched. I'd never felt so violated in my whole entire life, standing butt-naked and being told to bend over and pull open my butt cheeks while some strange woman looked on.

I take a deep breath, willing my emotions in check while removing the receiver from the base of the phone and dialing.

“Yo?”

“Hey,” I say softly, relieved and happy to finally hear Malik's voice. I had been trying to reach him for the last four days to no avail. I'd even left several messages for him with Sasha. But even she's acting funny now.

“Look, Kennedy,” she said nastily when I called her last night. “You're going to have to chill with all these calls. I gave him your messages.”

“And what'd he say?” I asked anxiously.

She sighed. “He said a'ight.”

“That's it?”

“Yeah, basically.”

“Is he in the hospital?”

“No. Somebody he knows is a nurse. She handled things.”

“Oh.” I was relieved to hear he was okay. But saddened that she hadn't expressed that he was deeply hurt by my arrest. “Did he at least ask you how I was doing?”

She huffed. “Look. Not really.”

Hurt washed over me. He hadn't even thought enough about me to ask her if I was okay. I couldn't believe it. And I couldn't believe she was acting like I was inconveniencing her.

“Well, look, girl. You can write me if you want, but I don't take calls from jailbirds, unless you my man. No shade.”

“Oh, okay. I understand.” My feelings were hurt. But I kept it to myself. I felt like I had no one. “I'll let you go then.”

“Cool. Keep ya head up, girl.” And with that said, I heard the dial tone.

“Who dis?” Malik roars into the phone, bringing me out of my mindless fog.

I blink. “It's me. Kennedy. Oh, wow. You've forgotten who I am that fast?” I say, half joking. “Have I been replaced already?”

I clutch the phone tightly.

He lets out a chuckle. “Oh, nah-nah. Just didn't think you'd be callin' me straight through; that's all. I thought your calls were collect.”

“They are. But the social worker let me call you since I can't make collect calls to cell phones and I haven't been able to reach you any other way. Did you get my letter?”

“Oh, a'ight. Yeah. I got it. Good lookin' out, babe. I been meanin' to hit you back. But you know how it is.”

“No. I don't know how it is, out there anyway. I'm in here stressing, Malik.”

“I feel you, babe. I'm stressin', too, yo. Shit's been mad hectic. I just got outta da hospital.”

I blink. “When?”

“Yesterday.”

I frown. “Sasha told me you didn't go to the hospital. I thought some nurse you know took care of everything.”

“Oh, yeah. She did. But I still had to go to the hospital.”

I swallow. I can't believe I'm hearing all of this. That he was in the hospital, even though Sasha said he wasn't. That he's too busy to take a few minutes out of his time to write me back. I'm the one locked up for something that he should be locked up for. And this is the thanks I get. I thought I was so important to him.

Something doesn't add up.

His story.

I don't know what to believe.

“You could at least write me back, Malik.” I feel myself getting teary-eyed. “I feel like I'm in this alone.” I start crying. “I don't even have a way of talking to you. Didn't Sasha give you my messages?”

“Nah,” he says. “I ain't seen her in a minute.”

I frown. “She told me she gave you my messages.”

“Yo, eff dat broad, yo. She stay lyin'.”

“Well, I don't know if she's lying or not. She had no reason to lie to me. She said she told you that I wanted to talk to you. Now you saying she didn't. Obviously somebody's lying.”

“Oh, word? So you callin' ya man a liar? Is dat how you doin' it, huh?”

“I don't know what I'm calling you. All I know is, I'm not feeling like you're here for me. And I don't feel like you're my man. I feel abandoned in here.”

“Yo, c'mon, Kennedy. Chill. I got you, babe. Word is bond. I'ma handle that letter later tonight for you, a'ight? I'ma hit you wit' a few dollas, too, a'ight? You know you my heart, boo. I ain't gonna leave you stranded, ma. Ever.”

I sigh, reaching for a tissue on the social worker's desk, then blowing my nose. “Money isn't allowed in here, Malik. I'm in a youth detention center, remember?”

“Oh, right, right. My bad. So you good? You need some books or sumthin'?”

My nose flares. “No, I'm not good, Malik. I'm locked up. I want to come home. I hate it here.” More tears swell in my eyes, then rapidly fall unchecked. “I can't do this, Malik. I think I'm going crazy. This place is horrible. The food is disgusting.” I glance over at the social worker. She's playing a game of solitaire on her computer, pretending to not be listening in on my conversation. “I feel like I'm going crazy,” I whisper into the phone. “These girls in here are trifling. Always looking for a fight.”

“I feel you, babe. You gotta keep ya head up, though. Stay focused, you feel me?”

I sniffle. Wipe my tears with the arm of my sleeve. “I'm trying. But it's hard. I just want to get out of here.”

“When's ya court date?”

I tell him it's in two days. Ask him if he can come to court. My heart drops when he tells me no. “I would if I could, babe. You know that, right?”

“Then why can't you come?”

“I have warrants, yo. I ain't 'bout to chance havin' dem mofos run down on me if I come through.”

“I'm scared.” I feel myself starting to hyperventilate. “I can't do this, Malik.”

“All you gotta do, babe, is play ya position, ya heard? Just sit tight and ride it out. This is your first time. You don't have any priors. And you're a minor. They'll go easy on you.”

“Are you
frickin'
kidding me! I shriek. “I don't want them to
go easy
on me. I want them to release me. I want out of here! I didn't do anything! That gun wasn't mine and neither were those drugs. And you know it!”

“Whoa, whoa. Slow down. You sayin' too much.”

“No I'm not. Obviously I'm not saying enough because I'm in here. And
you're
out there. Living la vida loca. You have to come to court and tell them what really happened.
Please
, Malik, you have to come get me out of this place. You can't let me sit in here and rot.”

“Oh, word? So now you tryna dry-snitch on ya man, is that it? You tryna talk all reckless in front of them social workers, is dat how you doin' it, yo? You tryna hem me up, is dat it?”

I frown. “I'm not
dry-snitching
. Or trying to get you hemmed up or whatever that means. All I'm
asking
you to do is tell the truth. That's all. I shouldn't have to be locked up for helping
you
.”

My plea is met with a deafening silence.

“Hello? Malik? You still there?”

“Yeah, uh, I'm here. Look, I gotta go handle somethin' real quick. Let me hit you back a li'l later, a'ight?”

Is he serious?
I stare at the phone in disbelief. I blink. “You can't
hit
me back, Malik. I don't have the luxury of making calls whenever I want. I'm locked up! Remember?”

“Oh, true. A'ight, well, see if you can hit me up later. I gotta go make this run. I love you, a'ight?”

“Bye, Malik.”

I hang up, glancing at the timer. I've wasted eight minutes of my ten-minute phone call on nothing. I dial home. The phone rings for what seems like forever before someone finally answers. My heart skips a beat.

“Hello?”

“Hello? Mom?” I burst into tears. “I'm so sorry for everything. You have to get me out of here, please.”

“Who is this?”

I blink.
What the heck is wrong with everyone acting like they don't know my voice?

“It's me. Kennedy, Mom.”

“And where are you calling me from?”

I choke back a scream. “In . . . in the d-d-detention center.”

“That's what I thought. No, sweetie. This isn't the Kennedy I know. This is some imposter calling here. Because the Kennedy
I
gave birth to wouldn't be calling
me
from some detention center. No. She'd be home with her family. The Kennedy I know wouldn't have cursed me out, or been sneaking out of the house, or telling me to stay out of her life. The Kennedy I gave birth to would have never run away, or brought drugs into this house. No, not my child.”

Tears sprout from my eyes. “Mom, please. I know I screwed up. Can you please . . .”

“Oh, no. Don't ‘mom, please' me, Miss I'm Grown. Remember, you chose the streets over your family. You told me to stay out of your life, remember? Now you want to call here, crying. Now you need me, huh. Well, guess what, Miss I'm Grown? You don't get to pick and choose when you want your family in your life, or me as your mother.”

I scream and cry and can barely breathe. I am crying hysterically. Hearing the hurt and disappointment in her voice is killing me. I wish I could take everything I said back. Wish I could undo what I'd already done. But I can't. And I don't know how to make it better.

“I know, Mom.
Pllllease
. Don't say that. I was wrong.”

“That's too bad,” she says evenly. Distant. “Now what do you want, Kennedy?”

“Are you going to come to court for me?”

“No. Let the streets be there for you. You made your bed, now lie in it.”

The line goes dead.

And I'm left being lifted up from the floor like a rag doll by two COs then dragged back to my cell. All I remember hearing is the door clanking shut.

And I am alone.