Pieces of Why (4 page)

I
BOLTED OUT
the door, taking off toward Keisha's apartment. Usually I sang while I walked, marking time with my feet, but that day I couldn't sing a note. My whole body felt hot and tense, coiled like a rusty spring. When you sing, your body has to open up: lungs, diaphragm, throat, shoulders. Even parts that don't seem involved with making music need to let loose, like when you lift your chin and straighten your back.

Imagine the to
p of your head lifti
ng off, letting your
spirit free, and th
en the music overflo
ws.

I could hear Ms. Marion's voice, but I couldn't unclench my muscles. By the time I got to Keisha's, I still hadn't found that place in me where my singing should have been.

I took the outside emergency staircase one flight up to Keisha's floor. The metal frame was already hot from the sun, so I puffed on my fingers after I pried the window open. Keisha must have heard me coming, because she appeared and reached out to pull me inside.

“You're here early,” she said. She was still in her pajamas, her braids loose and disheveled, looking crazy with flyaway curls. She chewed on her lower lip, and there was something odd about the way she looked at me, as if she wished I'd arrived later. Or maybe hadn't come at all? But that was silly. I practically lived at Keisha's house.

I waited for her to start our secret handshake.

“Well?” I said at last.

“Oh.” Keisha let out her breath in a nervous whoosh and held out her hands.

Shimmer,
shimmer,

superstars,

Keisha and Tia,

we'
ll go far.

We smacked our hands together, up and down, side, side, then once in the middle. It barely rhymed, but we'd only been in second grade when we'd made it up.

“Tia? That you?” Ms. Evette called.

“Yes ma'am. Ma says hey,” I lied.

Ms. Evette sashayed into the doorway. “You feeling better today? How's that cut?”

“It's healing,” I said, flopping down on Keisha's purple comforter.

Ms. Evette glanced at Keisha, then cocked her head to one side. “Did you see the paper this morning?” she asked me.

I nodded.

“And did you talk to your mother about what happened?”

I hesitated only a moment before nodding again. Technically, it wasn't a lie.

“There's going to be a vigil for the baby at June Fest tonight,” Ms. Evette said. “I spoke to Marion this morning and she'd like the choir to perform the song you've been practicing, if you feel up to singing the lead. Is your ma coming out?”

I shook my head, but I noticed the way Ms. Evette hadn't really waited for an answer. In fact, she almost seemed relieved, which was strange because normally she got exasperated real quick when it came to Ma not showing up for things.

“Well, you girls keep it down in here.”

As soon as Ms. Evette stepped away, Keisha queued up “Pyramid” on her laptop. It was an old pop song by Charice that had been our favorite when we were nine years old—the one that convinced us to join the Rainbow Choir. Keisha hadn't played it in a long time, though, and I'd started to think we might be outgrowing it. I wondered why she'd chosen that song today.

Keisha drummed her fingers in rhythm, and her eyes danced around the room, landing anywhere other than my face. “I'm surprised your ma didn't lock you in the house today,” she said at last.

I snorted. “Me too.”

Keisha opened her mouth, and then she shut it again, as if she'd changed her mind about what she'd been meaning to
say. When “Pyramid” ended, Keisha didn't queue up anything else, and we were quiet for a long time.

“Were you scared last night?” Keisha asked at last. “I thought someone was going to bust into the church and we'd all end up on the news, like one of those school shootings. Me and Ma stayed up late talking about it.”

Even now I could hear the
pop, pop, pop
of the gunshots. I'd been terrified.

“Kenny Lin held my hand,” I said. “I was looking for you, and I guess I must have seemed scared, because he came up beside me and said everything would be okay.”

“C-c-crazy Kenny did that?” Keisha said, her eyebrows shooting up. “Wow. I never would've guessed he had it in him. He's so quiet.”

“I know,” I said. “But it was nice. I mean—”

I hadn't even finished my sentence before Keisha was tossing one of her pillows at me. “Do you
like
him? Do
not
tell me you have a crush on Kenny Lin.”

My cheeks burned. “I never said that.”

“You didn't have to,” Keisha said, flopping backward. “I can see it on your face.”

Instead of responding, I crossed my eyes, and that made Keisha laugh. It was impossible to win an argument with her, so it was better not to start up in the first place. For a moment, things felt normal between us, but just as quickly, the feeling slipped away.

“So did you really talk to your mother about the shooting?” Keisha asked.

I shrugged. “Sort of. Ma told me not to dwell on it.”

“Figures.”

My brows creased. “What's that supposed to mean?”

Keisha got that look in her eyes—the one she got when she wasn't messing around. “It means your mother doesn't like it when you think about bad things because she doesn't want you to ask any questions. She wants you to live in a bubble.”

I paused. “Well, it's not like we can change any of the bad stuff that happens, so what's the use in knowing about it?”

It's useless to l
ive in the past, Tia
Rose. Keep your eye
s ahead, never behin
d.

Keisha got real quiet. “If it were me . . . I'd rather know the truth.”

There was something Keisha wasn't telling me. A cold prickle ran up the length of my body. “Why are you acting so strange?”

Keisha poked her finger into the split seam of her purple beanbag chair. “Tia,” she said at last, “if I knew something about your father . . . something my mom told me last night . . . would you want to know? I mean, if it was bad news, would you still want me to tell you?”

I drew in my breath.

There
's nothing new to sa
y about a dead man.

Of course I should say yes. But once I knew, there would
be no taking it back. Ever. I felt like a little kid, wishing I could cover my ears tight and sing nonsense syllables at the top of my lungs.

“Say it,” I said, at last. “Quick, before I chicken out.”

Keisha nodded, as if she understood. She took a deep breath. “Your father isn't in prison for armed robbery,” she said. “He's in prison for . . .”

Murder.

“. . . murder.”

I'd thought the word even before Keisha said it, but how could I know that? It wasn't even true. I shook my head. “No . . . that isn't . . . Ma told me what happened . . .”

The facts came back like puzzle pieces before you put them together.

1) My father had gotten drunk and robbed someone.

2) He'd had a gun and used it.

3) He hid from the police and fought them after his arrest.

4) There had been a trial.

5) This wasn't my father's first arrest. He'd had a series of smaller arrests that made the judge decide he'd run out of chances.

6) Ma had decided the same thing.

7) I'd never been given a choice.

I didn't say any of that out loud.

Keisha studied her feet. “Well, if she didn't tell you that he killed someone, then she didn't tell you the whole story. Ma said it was a big deal around here and that's why your mom hates to go out in public.”

I could feel tears pricking the back of my eyelids. My father had killed someone? That couldn't be true. But even as part of my brain denied the idea, another part knew this was real.

Who else knew
? Ms. Evette? Ms. Ma
rion? People in the
neighborhood? Everyo
ne besides me?

“No,” I said, trying to force the truth back into hiding. “Ma wouldn't lie to me about something this important. And besides, I'd know. Sure, I was a little kid, but I was still there!”

Keisha shrugged. “You told me you don't remember your father, so maybe that includes . . . what he did.”

“What did your mother tell you?” I said, forcing the words out of my mouth. “Who did he kill?”

Keisha shook her head. “She wouldn't say. Ma thinks you already know, and she said if you weren't telling, then I'd have to wait until you were ready. But I was sure you wouldn't have hid something this big. Not from me.”

I shook my head. “I know my father robbed someone, and Ma said he was armed, but . . .”

Ma didn't always tell the truth.

Keisha paused. “You know, there's a way we could find out exactly what your father did, if you really want to know.”

Her gaze slid to her computer.

The idea made my blood run cold, but I always told myself not to be a coward. Like walking through No-Man's-Land: Keep moving forward, no matter what.

Could I do that now?

“Okay,” I said at last.

“Here goes,” Keisha said. She typed in
Lyl
e Frank, murder, New
Orleans, robbery.
I couldn't help wondering what kind of list I'd have behind my name when I got older.

We both held our breath.

Whatever happened had been horrible enough to make Ma ashamed, even in our own home. Had he killed someone she'd known? A priest or nun? What if he'd killed a police officer?

But even with all of those horrible thoughts running through my brain, I didn't expect the last piece of the puzzle until it clicked into place.

Lyle Frank
Charged with Murder
of Girl, 12.

Blood rushed to my toes, my ears thrumming with the dull roar I'd heard right before I fainted. Keisha made a strangled noise, and then she angled the laptop away, but I reached out and turned the computer screen back toward me.

Child Dead After
Fatal Robbery.

Famil
y Mourns Loss
of Bel
oved Daughter.

Lyle
Frank Convicted o
f M
urder, Sentenced to
Life.

The list of links went on and on. I clicked one, forcing
air in and out of my lungs, and then she was there looking back at me: the girl my father had killed.

Danielle Morto
n.

She looked a lot like Keisha. She had deep brown skin, sparkling dark brown eyes, and she wore her hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her T-shirt had a treble clef on it, with butterflies taking the place of the notes on a scale.

“No,” I whispered. “No, no, no.”

My fingers reached out to touch the screen.

I clicked on another link and then another, and they were like pieces to a whole new puzzle, falling into place.

1) My father's mug shot.

2) A photo of Danielle's family leaving the church after her funeral.

3) An article about Danielle's school releasing pink balloons in her memory.

4) A grainy picture of my mother leaving the courthouse after my father's sentencing.

5) My father in an orange jumpsuit, being led out of the courtroom, his hands cuffed behind his back.

The whole story was laid out in a hundred different versions, but all the facts remained the same. My father had been out drinking. He'd broken into the Mortons' house late
at night, shot their only daughter during the course of a robbery, narrowly escaped through a back window, and then hid from police before being caught.

And as a footnote?

Lyle
Frank is the father
of a four-year-old
girl.

Eight years ago, I'd been a footnote in an article about murder.

I slammed the laptop shut.

“Are you okay?” Keisha asked.

I shook my head.

My temples throbbed, and I opened Keisha's window to get some air, but all I could do was look out over the streets of New Orleans, knowing that somewhere, a family had been destroyed because of what my father had done.

“Keisha,” I whispered, “I have to get out of here.”

All morning I'd wanted to get to Keisha's place, but now all I wanted to do was leave.

“I'll go with you,” Keisha said, her face a mask of worry.

I shook my head. “Please. I need to be alone. I just have to . . . get out.” Silence hung in the room, but Keisha has my back, even when she doesn't like it.

“Okay,” she said at last, “but don't you dare do anything stupid, and if you let anything happen to you, I'll be so sore, you won't ever hear the end of it.”

I could only nod.

Keisha watched me escape out the window, and I saw the worry in her eyes. I felt bad, but not bad enough to stay. I climbed down the fire escape, ducking under the overhanging limbs of the magnolia tree.

If Keisha had asked, I couldn't have said where I was going, but somewhere deep inside, I'd already made up my mind. I was drawn by a powerful force, like the Mississippi River flowing relentlessly into the sea.

M
y father had
killed
a girl.

The sun was high in the sky now, and it beat down on me as I ran, sweat soaking my neck, trickling along my spine. I sprinted past my block, but kept on going. A few open windows let out the sounds of babies crying and mothers hollering. Dogs barked in the distance.

I needed to find that baby's mama.

When school was in session, Keisha and I had walked past the baby's house every day. Sometimes there was music escaping from within—songs with syncopated beats and tinsely chimes. There were often people coming and going, and not a single one of them seemed to speak English, so we didn't know where they were really from or how they'd ended up in New Orleans. Ma said maybe they were Ukranian, but I'd heard Ms. Evette say she thought they might be from Poland.

Now people were gathered in the yard, all dressed in
black. It had never occurred to me that anyone else would be there, and I felt stupid for not guessing as much. Just because me and Ma didn't have any friends or family didn't mean other people didn't have them.

I hid behind the wide trunk of an oak tree, panting from my hard run, watching the people come and go. The front door was wide open and guests lingered on the steps and around the iron gate. Their lilting voices were hushed, saying words I couldn't understand. Some of the women wore dark veils, and the men had solemn faces. What would they think if they knew I was hiding there, watching them?

In front of the house was a makeshift shrine with candles, teddy bears, cards, and flowers, and it made me ashamed that I hadn't brought anything. There was only one thing I had to give that anyone would care about, and I pictured myself standing there, singing something beautiful next to that wall of sadness—singing “A Note to God,” the same song I'd sung at the Presbyterian church.

Grant us the f
aith to carry on

Giv
e us hope when it se
ems all hope is gone

I'd watched videos of Charice performing this song, and I'd tried to capture the way she closed her eyes and drew out each note until it was so deep and full, it overflowed. Usually, I could do the same, but now I wondered if these people would want anything I had to offer.

I thought about what Ms. Marion always told me:
It
takes beauty
to make beauty. Lov
e yourself and your
voice will be a gift
to others.

But Ms. Marion had no idea how messed-up my life was. Who could love that?

Outside, people moved to and from the memorial fence with quiet ease, laying down their small offerings before turning away, while my heart ached. I knew it was time to go back to Keisha's apartment before she got too worried and told her mother I'd gone. Whatever answers I thought I'd find here were swallowed up by a single thought: I shouldn't have come.

Turning, I stepped away from my hiding spot behind the oak tree. From somewhere inside, a strong smell was wafting out through the open windows, unfamiliar spices drenching my senses. I wrapped my arms around myself and breathed in deep, tasting something tangy on my tongue. Then I reached out with one hand to steady myself against the rough, gnarled bark of the tree trunk. I felt eyes on me, and glanced up.

That's when I saw her.

At the window on the second floor was the Raven woman. She wore a tattered black shawl and her dark, flowing hair spilled around her shoulders. Her face looked as gray as the worn sidewalk, and her eyes said things about grief I couldn't bear to think about. Made me suck in my breath, fast and hard.

Her gaze rested on me. Did she know who I was? Or did
she see a little kid, too shy to come forward and honor her son?

She pressed one palm against the glass.

Every inch of me wanted to run, but I stared back. The only thing I could do was to hold her gaze without allowing myself to flinch.