For all the young brothers and sisters in detention centers around the country, the ones I’ve seen, and the ones I haven’t. You are loved.

DON’T NOBODY

believe nothing

these days

which is why I haven’t

told nobody the story

I’m about to tell you.

And truth is,

you probably ain’t

gon’ believe it either

gon’ think I’m lying

or I’m losing it,

but I’m telling you,

this story is true.

It happened to me.

Really.

It did.

It so did.

MY NAME IS

Will.

William.

William Holloman.

But to my friends

and people

who know me

know me,

just Will.

So call me Will,

because after I tell you

what I’m about to tell you

you’ll either

want to be my friend

or not

want to be my friend

at all.

Either way,

you’ll know me

know me.

I’M ONLY WILLIAM

to my mother

and my brother, Shawn,

whenever he was trying

to be funny.

Now

I’m wishing I would’ve

laughed more

at his dumb jokes

because the day

before yesterday,

Shawn was shot

and killed.

I DON’T KNOW YOU,

don’t know

your last name,

if you got

brothers

or sisters

or mothers

or fathers

or cousins

that be like

brothers

and sisters

or aunties

or uncles

that be like

mothers

and fathers,

but if the blood

inside you is on the inside

of someone else,

you never want to

see it on the outside of

them.

THE SADNESS

is just so hard

to explain.

Imagine waking up

and someone,

a stranger,

got you strapped down,

got pliers shoved

into your mouth,

gripping a tooth

somewhere in the back,

one of the big

important ones,

and rips it out.

Imagine the knocking

in your head,

the pressure pushing

through your ears,

the blood pooling.

But the worst part,

the absolute worst part,

is the constant slipping

of your tongue

into the new empty space,

where you know

a tooth supposed to be but ain’t no more.

IT’S SO HARD TO SAY, Shawn’s

dead.

Shawn’s

dead.

Shawn’s

dead.

So strange to say.

So sad.

But I guess

not surprising,

which I guess is

even stranger,

and even sadder.

THE DAY BEFORE YESTERDAY

me and my friend Tony

were outside talking about

whether or not we’d get any

taller now that we were fifteen.

When Shawn was fifteen

he grew a foot, maybe a foot

and a half. That’s when he gave

me all the clothes he couldn’t fit.

Tony kept saying he hoped he grew

because even though he was

the best ballplayer around here

our age, he was also the shortest.

And everybody knows

you can’t go all the way when

you’re that small unless you can

really jump. Like

fly.

AND THEN THERE WERE SHOTS.

Everybody

ran,

ducked,

hid,

tucked

themselves tight.

Did what we’ve all

been trained to.

Pressed our lips to the

pavement and prayed

the boom, followed by

the buzz of a bullet,

ain’t meet us.

AFTER THE SHOTS

me and Tony

waited like we always do,

for the rumble to stop,

before picking our heads up

and poking our heads out

to count the bodies.

This time

there was only one.

Shawn.

I’VE NEVER BEEN

in an earthquake.

Don’t know if this was

even close to how they

are, but the ground

defi nitely felt like

it o pened up

and ate me.

THINGS THAT ALWAYS HAPPEN WHENEVER SOMEONE

IS KILLED AROUND HERE

NO. 1: SCREAMING

Not everybody screams.

Usually just

moms,

girlfriends,

daughters.

In this case

it was Leticia,

Shawn’s girlfriend,

on her knees kissing

his forehead

between shrieks.

I think she hoped

her voice would

somehow keep him

alive,

would clot the blood.

But I think

she knew

deep down in the

deepest part of

her downness

she was kissing

him good-bye.

AND MY MOM

moaning low,

Not my baby.

Not my baby.

Why?

hanging over my

brother’s body

like a dimmed

light post.

NO. 2: SIRENS

Lots and lots of sirens,

howling, cutting through

the sounds of the city.

Except the screams.

The screams are always

heard over everything.

Even the sirens.

NO. 3: QUESTIONS

Cops flashed lights in our faces

and we all turned to stone.

Did anybody see anything?

a young officer asked.

He looked honest, like he

ain’t never done this before.

You can always tell a newbie.

They always ask questions

like they really expect answers.

Did anybody see anyone?

I ain’t seen nothin’,

Marcus Andrews, the neighborhood

know-it-all, said.

Even he knew better than to

know anything.

IN CASE YOU AIN’T KNOW, gunshots make everybody

deaf and blind especially

when they make somebody

dead.

Best to become invisible

in times like these.

Everybody knows that.

Even Tony flew away.

I’M NOT SURE

if the cops asked me questions.

Maybe.

Maybe not.

Couldn’t hear nothing.

Ears filled up with heartbeats

like my head was being held

under water.

Like I was holding my breath.

Maybe I was.

Maybe I was

hoping I could give some

back to Shawn.

Or maybe

somehow

join him.

WHEN BAD THINGS HAPPEN

we can usually look up and see

the moon, big and bright,

shining over us.

That always made me feel better.

Like there’s something up there

beaming down on us in the dark.

But the day before yesterday, when Shawn

died,

the moon was off.

Somebody told me once a month

the moon blacks out

and becomes new

and the next night be back

to normal.

I’ll tell you one thing,

the moon is lucky it’s not down here where nothing

is ever

new.

I STOOD THERE,

mouth clenched

tight enough to grind my

teeth down to dust,

and looked at Shawn

lying there like a piece

of furniture left outside,

like a stained-up couch

draped in a gold chain.

Them fuckers ain’t even

snatch it.

RANDOM THOUGHT

Blood soaking into a

T-shirt, blue jeans, and boots

looks a lot like chocolate syrup

when the glow from the streetlights hit it.

But I know ain’t

nothing sweet about blood.

I know it ain’t like chocolate syrup at all.

IN HIS HAND,

a corner-store

plastic bag

white with

red letters

THANK YOU

THANK YOU

THANK YOU

THANK YOU

THANK YOU

THANK YOU

THANK YOU

HAVE A NICE DAY

IN THAT BAG,

special soap

for my mother’s

eczema.

I’ve seen her

scratch until it

bleeds.

Pick at the pus

bubbles and flaky

scales.

Curse the invisible

thing trying to eat

her.

MAYBE THERE’S SOMETHING INVISIBLE

trying

to eat

all of

us as

if we

are beef.

BEEF

gets passed down like name-brand

T-shirts around here. Always too big.

Never ironed out.

gets inherited like a trunk of fool’s gold or a treasure map leading

to nowhere.

came knocking on my brother’s life, kicked the damn door down and took everything except his gold chain.

THEN THE YELLOW TAPE

that says DO NOT CROSS

gets put up, and there’s nothing

left to do but go home.

That tape lets people know

that this is a murder scene,

as if we ain’t already know that.

The crowd backs its way into

buildings and down blocks

until nothing is left but the tape.

Shawn was zipped into a bag

and rolled away, his blood added

to the pavement galaxy of

bubblegum stars. The tape

framed it like it was art. And the next day, kids would play mummy with it.

BACK ON THE EIGHTH FLOOR

I locked myself in my room and put a pillow over my head to muffle

the sound of my mom’s mourning.

She sat in the kitchen, sobbing

into her palms, which she peeled

away only to lift glass to mouth.

With each sip came a brief

silence, and with each brief

silence I snuck in a breath.

I FELT LIKE CRYING, which felt like

another person

trapped behind my face

tiny fists punching

the backs of my eyes

feet kicking

my throat at the spot

where the swallow

starts.

Stay put, I whispered to him.

Stay strong, I whispered to me.

Because crying

is against

The

Rules.

THE RULES

NO. 1: CRYING

Don’t.

No matter what.

Don’t.

NO. 2: SNITCHING

Don’t.

No matter what.

Don’t.

NO. 3: REVENGE

If someone you love

gets killed,

find the person

who killed

them and

kill them.

THE INVENTION OF THE RULES

ain’t come from my

brother,

his friends,

my dad,

my uncle,

the guys outside,

the hustlers and shooters,

and definitely not from

me.

ANOTHER THING ABOUT THE RULES

They weren’t meant to be broken.

They were meant for the broken

to follow.

OUR BEDROOM: A SQUARE, YELLOWY PAINT

Two beds:

one to the left of the door,

one to the right.

Two dressers:

one in front of the bed to the left of the door, one in front of the bed to the right.

In the middle, a small TV.

Shawn’s side was the left:

perfect, almost.

Mine, the right:

pigsty, mostly.

Shawn’s wall had:

a poster of Tupac,

a poster of Biggie.

My wall had:

an anagram I wrote in messed-up scribble with a pencil in case Mom made me

erase it:

SCARE = CARES.

ANAGRAM

is when you take a word

and rearrange the letters

to make another word.

And sometimes the words

are still somehow connected

ex: CANOE = OCEAN.

Same letters,

different words,

somehow still make

sense together,

like brothers.

THE MIDDLE DRAWER

was the only thing ever out of place on Shawn’s side of the room,

like a random, jagged tooth

in a perfect mouth,

jammed tight between the

top drawer of shirts

folded into neat rectangles

stacked like project floors,

and the bottom drawer of socks

and underwear.

Off track. Stuck. Forced in at an angle.

Seemed like the middle drawer

was jacked up on purpose

to keep me and Mom out

and Shawn’s gun in.

I WON’T PRETEND THAT SHAWN

was the kind of guy

who was home by curfew.

The kind of guy

who called and checked in

about where he was,

who he was with,

what he was doing.

He wasn’t.

Not after eighteen,

which was when our mother

took her hands off him,

pressed them together, and

began to pray

that he wouldn’t go to jail

that he wouldn’t get Leticia pregnant that he wouldn’t   die.

MY MOTHER USED TO SAY, I know you’re young,

gotta get it out,

but just remember, when

you’re walking in the nighttime, make sure the nighttime

ain’t walking into you.

But Shawn

probably had his

headphones on.

Tupac or Biggie.

SO USUALLY

I ended up going to bed

at night, curled up

on my side of the room,

eventually falling asleep staring

at the half-empty bottles of cologne on top of Shawn’s dresser.

And the jacked-up middle drawer.

Alone.

BUT I NEVER TOUCHED NOTHING

because it’s no fun

hiding from headlocks

half the night,

which is why I never touched nothing of his

no more.

IT USED TO BE DIFFERENT.

When I was twelve and he was sixteen we would talk trash till one of us passed out.

He would tell me about girls, and I would tell him about pretend girls, who he pretended were real, too, just to make me feel good. He would tell me stories about how the best rappers ever were Biggie and Tupac, but I always wondered if that was just because they were dead. People always love people more when they’re dead.

AND WHEN I WAS THIRTEEN

Shawn welcomed me into teenage life with a spritz of his almost-grown cologne, said my girlfriend—

my first girlfriend—

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,

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

the only big brother

Shawn had ever had.

Shawn knew Buck

better than I did,

knew Buck longer than

we’d known our dad.

I TAKE IT BACK.

I was scared.

What if he had come

to get me,

to take me

with him?

What if he had come

to catch

my breath?

ANAGRAM NO. 1

ALIVE = A VEIL

09:08:05 a.m.

CATCHING MY BREATH, I ASKED,

So why you here?

I wiped

the corners

of my mouth, thought,

Please don’t say

you’ve come to

take me.

Please don’t say

I’m dead.

Please.

Actually,

he said,

doing the bus-stop

lean back again,

I came to check

on my gun.

MY RESPONSE

. . .

Then, finally,

in an almost-whisper, he added,

Your tail is showing.

I PUT MY HAND BEHIND MY BACK, felt the imprint

of the piece, like

another piece

of me,

an extra vertebra,

some more

backbone.

THOUGHT ABOUT MOVING IT

to the front,

but Shawn used to always say

dogs,

even snarling ones,

tuck their tails between their legs, a sign of fear.

A signal of

bluff.

I REMEMBER

when I gave

that thing to Shawn,

Buck said,

He was around your age.

Told him he could hold it for me.

Taught him how to use it too.

Taught him The Rules.

Made him promise to put it

somewhere you couldn’t get it.

and I replied

with as much

tough in

my voice as

I could.

But I got it.

AND I’M GLAD I FOUND IT, because I’m gonna need it,

I explained.

Shawn’s dead now.

No need to tiptoe around it.

Plus, I figured Buck already knew.

Figured dead know dead stuff.

Damn.

(Dumb thing to think.)

Happened last night.

Followed him from the store.

Caught him slippin’,

gave him two to the chest

right outside our building,

I said,

anger sour in the back

of my throat.

But I know it was the

Dark Suns. Riggs and

them. Had to be.

Buck folded his arms.

I see,

he said,

shaking his head,

his mouth fading

into frown.

So what you ’bout to do?

My eyes turned

to razor blades.

I’m about to do what

I gotta do. What you

woulda done.

I squared.

Follow The Rules.

09:08:08 a.m.

THE ELEVATOR RUMBLED

and vibrated

and knocked

around like the middle drawer,

like something off track.

Scared the hell outta me.

What’s taking

this stupid

thing so long?

I asked,

pounding the door

as hard

as my heart was

pounding inside me.

This rickety thing

has always moved slow,

Buck said,

grinning.

Yeah, but this

is ridiculous,

I replied,

palms wetting.

Might as well relax,

Buck said.

It’s a long

way

down.

MAYBE HE DIDN’T HEAR ME

or didn’t take me seriously.

Old people always do that.

Always try to act like what I’m saying ain’t true.

Always try to act like I’m not forreal.

But I was forreal.

So forreal.

RELAX?!

I snapped.

Relax?

I ain’t got time to relax!

I got work to do.

A job to do.

Business to handle,

I said,

feeling myself,

my macho

between

my shaky legs,

masking

my jumpy heart.

BUCK LAUGHED, AND

laughter,

when it’s loud

and heavy

and aimed

at you,

I think

can feel just

as bad as

a bullet’s

bang.

YOU GOT WORK TO DO?

A job to do?

Buck teased,

wiping laugh-tears

from his eyes.

Right, right. You gon’ follow

The Rules, huh?

Yeah, that’s right,

I said,

opening my stance

to let him know this

wasn’t a game,

that I was forreal.

Buck pressed

his finger to my chest

like he was pushing an

elevator button.

The L button.

But you ain’t

got it in you, Will,

he said,

cocky.

Your brother did, but you—

you don’t.

HE ASKED ME

if I had even checked

to see if the gun was

loaded.

I hadn’t.

And now almost shot

myself trying

to figure out

how to.

GIVE IT TO ME

before

you hurt yourself.

Buck clicked something.

The clip slid from the grip

like a metal candy bar.

Fourteen slugs.

One in the hole.

Fifteen total,

he said,

slamming

the clip back in.

How many

should there be?

I asked.

Sixteen.

But, whatever.

09:08:11 a.m.

HE HELD THE GUN OUT.

I grabbed it,

but Buck wouldn’t let go.

I yanked and yanked,

pulled and pulled,

but he

resisted and resisted,

laughed and laughed,

Bucked and bucked.

BUCK FINALLY LET GO

and I stumbled into the corner,

slamming against the wall

like a clown.

You don’t got it in you,

he repeated

over and over again

under his un-breath

while sliding a pack

of cigarettes from

his pocket.

Tossed one in his mouth,

struck a match that sounded

like a finger snap.

Then the elevator came to a stop.

I HAD HALF A SECOND

to

get a grip,

grab the grip,

tuck the gun,

turn around,

ignore Buck,

catch my breath,

stand up straight,

act normal

act natural

act like

the only rules

that matter

are the ones

for the elevator.

A GIRL STEPPED IN.

Stood beside me.

Around my age.

Fine as heaven.

Flower dress.

Low heels.

Light makeup,

lip gloss,

cheek stuff.

Perfume,

sweet,

fresh,

cutting

through the cigarette smoke.

SHE CHECKED TO MAKE SURE

L was lit.

And I was

walking my eyes

up her legs,

the ruffle and fold

of her flower

dress, her

arms, her

neck, her

cheek, her

hair.

Then

the bus-stop

lean back

to get a glimpse

of the world.

But the metal barrel

dug into my back,

making me wince,

making me obvious

and wack.

09:08:12 a.m.

I DIDN’T KNOW

smoking

was allowed

in elevators,

she said,

her small talk smacking

with sarcasm.

But I was too shook

to notice.

You . . . can see that?

I replied

all goofy,

my game no good

around ghosts.

I wondered if she

thought it was me

lighting up

before she

got on

since she couldn’t see

Buck in the corner

puffing out,

making faces like,

Get on

with it.

Uh . . . of course.

It’s everywhere,

she said,

pinching

back a cough.

She fanned smoke

from her face,

thumbed to Buck,

who shook his head and

blew vanishing halos.

She could see him.

She could see him?

She could see him!

Then

she turned to me

and added,

I didn’t know

guns

were allowed

in elevators either.

SHE COULD SEE

Buck?

But how?

I thought he was

only my ghost,

only my grand

imagination.

But

when she

could see him,

could smell his funky

cigarette,

I knew for a fact

this was real.

AT THIS POINT

you probably

already don’t

believe me

or think I’m nuts.

And maybe I am.

But I swear

this is all

true.

Swear.

I JOINED IN,

fanning the smoke,

shaking her comment

about the gun,

looking at Buck

all crazy.

But he ain’t care.

Just leaned back and

took another pull on the cig,

burning but not burning down.

Still long.

Fire.

Smoke.

But no ash.

SHE BRUSHED HER HAND AGAINST MINE

to get my attention,

which on any other

occasion would’ve

been the perfect

open for me to flirt

or at least try to do

my best impression of Shawn,

which was

his best impression of Buck.

BUT THERE WAS A GHOST

IN THE ELEVATOR

so,

no-

go.

PLUS

it’s hard to think about

kissing and killing

at the same time.

SHE ASKED,

What you need

it for anyway?

And when I

looked confused

(pretended to

look confused),

she ticked

tongue to teeth

and clarified,

The gun.

09:08:15 a.m.

THE NEXT EXCHANGE WAS A SIMPLE ONE.

I don’t mean no harm,

but that ain’t something

you just ask someone

you don’t even know,

I said,

still trying to

play cool.

The girl nodded,

replied,

You’re right.

So right.

BUT THEN

she put her hand on my shoulder,

her perfume floating from her wrist to just under my nostrils, said,

But

I do

know

you,

Will.

I WON’T FRONT.

I was a little excited.

I know I just said flirting

on an elevator with

a ghost on it was a

no-

go,

but we wouldn’t be

on this elevator forever.

And Shawn always said

if a girl says she knows you

but you ain’t never met her

then she’s been

watching you.

Clockin’ you.

Checkin’ you.

Buck probably taught him that.

I hoped it was true.

FROM WHERE?

is what I came with next,

loading up my flirts.

Where you know me from?

The girl smiled.

With her eyes.

From the playground,

she said.

Monkey bars.

VERY FUNNY,

I said,

picking up on

her trying to play me.

I ain’t no monkey.

I never said you were,

she replied.

I’m being serious.

Well, then you got the

wrong guy because I’m too

old to be hanging

at playgrounds.

Yeah, but I knew you

when you weren’t.

SHE OPENED HER PURSE, dug around,

pulled out a wallet,

unfolded it,

turned it toward

me to flash a photo

like white people

on movies when they

want to show off their kids.

But I wasn’t trying to see no kids.

But there they were.

There we were.

ME AND MY FRIEND DANI as kids.

Eight

years old.

No-knee’d jeans and

hand-me-down T-shirt

from Shawn.

Flower dress,

shorts underneath

for Dani,

who hung from a monkey bar

tongue hanging from her mouth

like pink candy.

The sun shining in my eyes.

The sunshine in hers.

09:08:18 a.m.

YOU REMEMBER THIS?

the girl asked,

folding

snapping

the wallet shut.

Of course,

I said,

wondering how she

knew Dani.

It was one of the best

and worst days of my life.

You remember, on this day,

she paused,

cocking her

head to the side,

hands on hips,

butterflied arms,

and continued,

I kissed you?

MY EYES GOT BIG.

Dani?

This was Dani. Dani.

Standing in front of me.

The flower dress

the same.

Her face

eight years older than

eight years old

but still

the same.

YEAH, I REMEMBER.

I remember.

I remember that.

I remember this.

And then . . .

I got hung up.

And then . . .

Gunshots,

she said.

Gunshots.

GUNSHOTS

like firecrackers

coming from everywhere.

Dani said her body burned

and all she wanted to do was

jump outside of herself,

swing to somewhere else

like we pretended to do

on monkey bars.

AND NOW I WANNA THROW UP, Buck baited.

He heh-heh-heh’d,

the cigarette dangling,

bouncing with each word

like a fishing pole

with fish on bait,

with hook through head.

I TOLD DANI

how I remember

Shawn screaming for us to

get down.

How he lay on top of us,

covering us, smashing us

into the dirt.

I told her how I remember

staring at her the whole

time.

Her eyes wide, the brightness

dimming. Her mouth, open.

Bubble gum

and blood.

I SWEAR SOMETIMES

it feels like God

be flashing photos

of his children,

awkward,

amazing,

tucked in his wallet

for the world

to see.

But the world

don’t wanna see

no kids,

and God ain’t

no pushy parent

so he just folds

and snaps

us shut.

WHEN THEY SAID

you were gone,

I cried all night,

I confessed.

And the next morning,

over hard-boiled eggs

and sugar cereal,

Shawn taught me

Rule Number One—

no crying.

THE WAY I FELT

when Dani was killed

was a first.

Never felt nothing like it.

I stood in the shower

the next morning

after Shawn taught me

the first rule,

no crying,

feeling like

I wanted to scratch

my skin off scratch

my eyes out punch

through something,

a wall,

a face,

anything,

so something else

could have

a hole.

ANAGRAM NO. 2

FEEL = FLEE

IT’S COOL

to see you, Dani,

I said,

feeling funny

but meaning

every word.

She grew up

gorgeous.

At least

she would’ve.

Good to see

you too, Will.

She grinned.

But you still haven’t

answered my question.

WHAT YOU NEED

a gun for?

09:08:20 a.m.

MY FACE

tightened

hardened.

They killed Shawn last night.

Who killed Shawn?

Shouldn’t you already know?

Just tell me who killed him, Will.

The Dark Suns. You remember

Riggs, used to live around here?

Think it was him. Had to be?

Had

to

be.

DANI WAS KILLED

before she ever learned

The Rules.

So I explained them to

her so she wouldn’t think

less of me for following

them

like I was just another

block boy on one

looking to off one.

So that she knew I had

purpose

and that this was about

family

and had I known

The Rules when we

were kids I would’ve

done the same thing

for her.

THEN DANI ASKED,

What

if

you

miss?

BUT

I won’t,

I said.

But what if you do?

she asked.

I won’t,

I said.

But how you know?

she asked.

I just know,

I said.

But you ever even shot a gun?

she asked.

Don’t matter,

I said.

Don’t matter.

DANI WAS DISAPPOINTED.

Slapped her

hands to her face,

tried to wipe

away worry.

But she couldn’t.

And I couldn’t

expect her to.

I LOOKED BACK AT BUCK

for a bailout,

some help,

something,

but he said

nothing.

Just slid the

cigarettes

from his pocket

and extended it

to Dani.

BUCK OFFERED,

Smoke?

I guess this

was his way

of diffusing the

situation.

Thank you,

Dani said,

wiggling one

from the box.

You smoke?

I asked.

You shoot?

she shot back,

slipping it between

shiny lips,

leaning forward

for the light.

Buck struck

a match.

And again

the elevator came to a stop.

THE ELEVATOR,

a smoke box,

gray and thick.

Buck and Dani

puffed and blew

everlasting cigs.

Thought when the

doors opened the

smoke would rush out.

But instead it

became a still cloud

trapped in a steel cube.

CIGARETTE SMOKE

ain’t supposed to be

no wool blanket,

ain’t supposed to be

no blizzard, no

snowy TV.

Smoke   like spirit

can be thick but

ain’t supposed to be

nothing solid

enough to hold me.

I FANNED AND COUGHED, expecting whoever was waiting

to wait for the next one.

Who wants to get on an elevator

full of smoke?

What if it wasn’t really

full of smoke?

Still,

who wants to get on an elevator

with a kid buggin’?

Swatting and choking on

the invisible thick.

They’d probably think

what you probably think

right now.

I TOOK A STEP BACK

to make room

for the silhouette to

move through fog,

to step in.

Dani and Buck

stood behind me,

close enough to feel

but I felt no breath.

09:08:22 a.m.

TWO LARGE HANDS,

the largest I’d ever seen,

rushed through the cloud

hard and fast,

snatched fistfuls of my shirt,

yoking me by the neck,

holding me there until

the elevator door closed.

Could barely breathe

already and could breathe

less and could see nothing

behind this blanket

of gray.

THEN IN ONE SWIFT MOTION

the hands released me and

slapped me into a headlock,

the kind that Shawn used to

put me in, the kind that all little brothers hate.

I COULD HEAR LAUGHING

like being held under water

by playful waves

crashing down on my head

laughing laughing

laughing me under.

How do you tell water

ain’t nothing funny

about drowning?

WHEN I WAS FINALLY LET UP

I looked

for Buck,

for Dani,

for help.

They moved

to the corner,

chuckling,

blurry,

puffing

away.

WHAT THE HELL?

I

yelped,

one hand on my neck,

one hand on my tucked

untucked

tail.

WHAT YOU REACHIN’ FOR

and why you reachin’ for it?

the asshole

who tried to mash

the apple in my neck

into sauce

taunted.

Nephew

Nephew

Nephew

Nephew?

Nephew,

he chanted,

After all this time

you ain’t learned to

fight back yet?

THERE ARE

so many pictures

of Uncle Mark in

our house.

Hanging on the wall,

hanging on the block, posing

with my father, his shorter

younger brother.

Dressed blade sharp.

Suits, jewelry.

Cigarette tucked

behind ear.

Camera ready.

Fly.

Like Shawn.

Foreshadowing the flash.

UNCLE MARK?

I let my hand fall

to my side

swallowed hard.

Am I going insane?

Come here, kid,

Uncle Mark said.

Lemme look at ya.

I stepped closer.

Taller than me.

Taller than everyone.

Six foot four,

Six foot five.

(Six feet deep.)

Rested his hands

on my shoulders,

the weight of him

bending me

at the knees.

Look like your damn daddy,

he said.

Just like him.

MY MOTHER TOLD ME TWO STORIES ABOUT UNCLE

MARK.

NO. 1

He videotaped everything

with a camera his mother,

my grandmother, bought him

for his eighteenth birthday:

dance battles,

gang fights,

block parties.

But he dreamed of making a movie.

SCRIPT IDEA:

BOY: Mickey. No game. No girls. Meets GIRL: Jesse, the young girlfriend of BOY: Mickey’s landlord.

GIRL: Jesse teaches

BOY: Mickey everything he needs to know about GIRL: How to impress them. How to treat them. But BOY: Mickey uses what he learns to get GIRL: Jesse to fall in love with him, but her boyfriend, BOY: Mickey’s landlord, finds out and kicks him and GIRL: Jesse out of the building.

So they’re in love,

but they’re homeless,

but they’re happy.

Right.

CASTING OF THE WORST, STUPIDEST MOVIE EVER

BOY: Mickey to be played by Uncle Mark’s little brother, my father,

Mikey.

GIRL: Jesse to be played by the younger sister of a girl Uncle Mark used to date,

Shari,

my mother.

UNCLE MARK PULLED ME IN

for a hug,

but how you

hug what’s haunting you?

AND YOU KNOW

it’s weird to know

a person you don’t know

and at the same time

not know

a person you know,

you know?

09:08:25 a.m.

WHY YOU HERE?

I asked Uncle Mark,

taking my turn,

my time,

looking him up

and down.

Sadness

split his face

like cold breeze

on chapped lip

after attempting

to smile.

I guess he expected me

to be excited to see him.

And I was, sorta,

but still.

WITH HIS HAND

he brushed down the front

of his shirt,

smoothing out wrinkles,

straightening himself out.

Pants stopped

just at the top of his

dress shoes,

dress shoes tied

in perfect bows,

leather shiny,

uncreased

like he ain’t

been walking.

Brushed and brushed

down his chest

to stomach,

down his thighs,

then squatting,

dipped a finger in

his mouth and scrubbed

the toe of his shoe,

a smudge

not there.

A BETTER QUESTION, he said,

eyes up at me

is, why are you here?

RANDOM THOUGHT NO. 2

Always

always

always

be skeptical of a person

who answers a question

by asking a question.

Usually

usually

usually

it’s a setup.

ANAGRAM NO. 3

COOL = LOCO

WHAT YOU MEAN?

I asked,

trying to avoid

having to talk about

the coldness

in my heart

and the heater

in my waist.

WHAT DO I MEAN?

He stood up.

What do I mean?

he repeated,

putting

hands together,

fingertips touching,

cracking what sounded

like all the knuckles

in the world.

Listen, kid,

don’t play me and

don’t play with me.

It’s best you

turn it loose before

I tighten you up.

OKAY, OKAY,

I begged,

trying to hold him off,

trying to avoid being

knotted up again.

Look,

they killed Shawn

last night, Uncle Mark.

And . . .

And today

you woke up ready

to make things

right, right?

I nodded.

And the reason why

is because for the

first time in your life,

you realize, or at least

you think you could

kill someone,

right?

I nodded.

RIGHT?

he said,

louder.

Right.

BUT TO EXPLAIN MYSELF

I said,

The Rules are

the rules.

UNCLE MARK HUFFED

closed his eyes.

I wondered if he

was thinking

about The Rules.

He knew them

like I knew them.

Passed to him.

Passed them to his little brother.

Passed to my older brother.

Passed to me.

The Rules

have always ruled.

Past present future forever.

UNCLE MARK SQUEEZED HIS LIPS

like he was trying

to rip them off.

Then opened

his eyes.

Okay, Will,

he said,

all serious.

Let’s set the scene.

What you mean,

set the scene?

I mean, let’s play it out,

how this whole thing is gon’

go down. Play it out

like a movie,

Uncle Mark explained.

We’ll go back and forth.

I’ll start, from the top.

THE SCENE

Will stands over dead brother, Shawn.

Two holes in his chest. Blood all over the ground.

Will takes his mother inside.

She cries. He looks for his brother’s gun.

Will finds the gun. Lies down and thinks about The Rules. No crying. No snitching.

And always get revenge.

The next day, he decides to find who he knows killed his brother.

A guy named Riggs.

Will gets in the elevator. Goes down to the lobby. Walks outside, past his brother’s blood on the concrete.

He continues for nine blocks,

gets to Riggs’s house, sees Riggs, pulls the gun out, and . . .

I GOT STUCK

Couldn’t say

nothing else. Couldn’t say

it. Hoped Uncle Mark would say,

cut.

BUT HE DIDN’T (the scene, continued) Go ’head. Finish it.

Up until that point

things were running

smoothly, but this

stupid last part

got me caught up.

Finish it!

Uncle Mark demanded.

Dani whimpered.

Buck razzed.

Okay, okay,

I said,

trying to calm

Uncle Mark down.

Will pulls the gun out,

and . . .

I stalled.

And . . . and . . .

MY MOUTH

dried out,

words phlegm

trapped in my throat,

like an allergic reaction

to the thought

of it all.

THE SCENE (completed) And . . .

And shoots.

Uncle Buck

finished it for me,

said it slowly,

dragging out the

shhhhhhhhhhhh.

Then I could

finally

painfully

hack it up.

And shoots.

FOR THE RECORD,

this movie

would’ve been better

than that stupid one

he was trying to make

when he was alive

that’s for sure.

Maybe not as happy.

But definitely better.

STORY NO. 2 ABOUT UNCLE MARK

Uncle Mark lost the camera

his mother got him,

the one he recorded

dance battles,

and gang fights,

and block parties,

and the beginning of his

corny-ass movie on.

Couldn’t afford another one.

OPTIONS:

Could’ve asked Grandma again,

but that would’ve been pointless.

Could’ve stolen one,

but he wasn’t ’bout to be sweating, so he wasn’t ’bout to be running.

Could’ve gotten a job,

but working was another one of those things Uncle Mark just wasn’t ’bout to be doing.

So he did

what a lot of people do

around here.

HIS PLAN

To sell for one day.

One day.

Uncle Mark

took a corner,

pockets full

of rocks to

become rolls,

future finance,

and in an hour

had enough

money to buy

a new camera.

But decided

to stick at it

just through

the end of the day.

That’s all.

Just through

the end

of

the

day.

I’M SURE

you

know

where

this

is

going.

HE HELD THAT CORNER

for a day,

for a week,

for a month,

full-out

pusher,

money-making

pretty boy,

target

for a ruthless

young hustler

whose name

Mom can never

remember.

THAT GUY TOOK THE CORNER

from Uncle Mark.

Snatched it right from

under him.

And it wasn’t peaceful.

Everybody

ran ducked hid tucked

themselves tight

blew their own eardrums

gouged their own eyes.

Did what they’d all

been trained to.

Pretended like yellow tape

was some kind of

neighborhood flag

that don’t nobody wave

but always be flapping

in the wind.

UNCLE MARK SHOULD’VE

just bought his camera

and shot his stupid movie

after the first day.

Unfortunately,

he never shot nothing

ever again.

But my father did.

ANAGRAM NO. 4

CINEMA = ICEMAN

RANDOM THOUGHT NO. 3

Not sure

what an iceman is,

but it makes me think

of bad dudes.

Cold-blooded.

09:08:31 a.m.

SO ANYWAY, AFTER I SAID IT,

and shoots,

it was like the words

came out and at the same

time went in.

Went down

into me and

chewed on everything

inside as if

I had somehow

swallowed

my own teeth

and they were

sharper than

I’d ever known.

MEANWHILE,

Uncle Mark

reached into his

shirt pocket,

pulled out two

cigarettes.

Great.

More smoke.

I hoped

the second one

wasn’t for me.

I don’t smoke.

Shit is gross.

Plus, people

who living,

who real,

like me

ain’t allowed

to smoke

in elevators.

AND WHAT HAPPENS NEXT IN THIS MOVIE?

Uncle Mark asked,

tucking one cig

behind his ear,

booger-rolling the other

between his fingers.

Nothing.

That’s it. The end.

I shrugged.

He positioned the cig

in the corner of his mouth,

patted his pockets

for fire.

The end?

he murmured,

looking at Buck,

motioning for a light.

It’s never the end,

Uncle Mark said,

all chuckle, chuckle.

He leaned toward Buck.

Never.

Buck struck a match.

And the elevator came to a stop, again.

THIS TIME

there was no smoke

blocking the door,

even though there were

three people—

I guess, people—

in the elevator,

smoking.

I know

it don’t make sense,

but stay with me.

AND THERE HE WAS, clear as day

as the door

slid open.

Recognized

him instantly.

Been waiting

for him since

I was three.

Mikey Holloman.

My father.

09:08:32 a.m.

MY POP

stepped in the elevator,

stood right in front of me,

stared

as if looking

at his own reflection,

as if he’d stepped into

a time machine.

Moments

later spread his arms,

welcomed me into

a lifetime’s worth

of squeeze.

IS IT POSSIBLE

for a hug

to peel back skin

of time,

the toughened

and raw bits,

the irritated

and irritating

dry spots,

the parts that bleed?

POP PULLED AWAY,

noticed his brother,

gave Uncle Mark

a firm handshake,

yanked him in

for a half hug

just like on

all the pictures.

No sound in the

elevator except

hands popping

together and

the muted thud

of pats on backs.

I HAVE NO MEMORIES

of my father.

Shawn always tried to get me to

remember things like

Pop dressing up as Michael Jackson for Halloween and, after trick-or-treating, riding us up and down on this elevator, doing his best moonwalk but

not enough space to go nowhere,

slamming into walls.

Shawn swore I laughed

so hard I farted,

stunk up the whole elevator,

even peed myself.

I was only three.

And I don’t remember that.

I’ve always wanted to,

but I don’t.

I so don’t.

A BROKEN HEART

killed my dad.

That’s what my mother

always said.

And as a kid

I always figured

his heart

was forreal broken

like an arm

or a toy

or the middle drawer.

BUT THAT’S NOT WHAT SHAWN SAID.

Shawn always said

our dad was killed

for killing the man

who killed our uncle.

Said he was at a pay

phone, probably talking

to Mom, when a guy

walked up on him,

put pistol to head,

asked him if he knew a

guy who went by Gee.

Don’t know what Pop said.

But that was the end

of that story.

I ALWAYS USED TO ASK

Shawn how he knew that.

Especially the whole

Gee thing.

He said

Buck told him.

Said that was

Buck’s corner.

It was then that Buck

started looking out

for Shawn, who at

the time

was only seven.

Buck was sixteen.

But I don’t remember

none of this

either.

HI, WILL.

My father’s voice

brand-new to me.

Deep.

Some scratch

on the tail of each word.

How I figured

Shawn’s would’ve

sounded

someday.

HOW YOU BEEN?

Weird talking to my dad

like he was a stranger

even though we hugged

like family.

A’ight, I guess,

I said,

unsure of what else to say.

How do you small-talk your father

when “dad” is a language so foreign that whenever you try to say it,

it feels like you got a third lip

and a second tongue?

I WANTED TO UNLOAD, just tell him

about Shawn,

and how Mom

cried and drank

and scratched

herself to sleep,

how I was feeling,

The Rules,

all that.

Wanted to

tell him everything

in that stuffy elevator,

but held back

because

Buck,

Dani, and

Uncle Mark

were watching

with warm,

weird faces.

I ALREADY KNOW,

Pop said,

taking a

deep breath.

I know,

I know,

I know.

Sadness

and love

in his voice.

I replied,

choking down me

choking up,

I don’t know,

I don’t know,

I don’t know

what to do.

I WIPED MY FACE

with the back of my hand,

knuckles rolling over my eyes

to catch water before it

came down.

No crying.

Not in front of Pop.

Not in front of Dani.

Not in front of none

of these people.

Not in front of no one.

Never.

WHAT YOU THINK YOU SHOULD DO?

he asked.

Follow The Rules,

I said

just like I told

everybody else.

Just like you did.

POP GAVE UNCLE MARK

a look when Uncle Mark

asked if I had ever heard

my father’s story.

Of course,

I said.

He was killed

at a pay phone.

Worry washed

over Pop’s face.

Opened his

mouth to speak

but changed

his mind,

then changed

his mind

again.

That’s not the story

we talking about.

What you know

is how I was killed,

Pop explained.

But you don’t know . . .

You just don’t know . . .

09:08:35 a.m.

WHEN MARK WAS SHOT

I was shattered. Shifted.

Never the same again.

Like shards of my own heart

shivving me on the inside,

just like your mama told you.

You and Shawn were little

and I couldn’t just come home

and be a daddy and a husband

when I couldn’t be a brother

no more.

Not after what happened.

And how it happened.

But I didn’t cry. Didn’t snitch.

Knew exactly who killed Mark.

Knew I could get him.

The Rules.

Taught to me

by Mark.

Taught to him

by our pop.

That night

I walked two blocks to where

Mark used to move,

where dirt was done.

And waited and waited

until finally a dude came

from a building,

stepped to his corner

Mark’s corner

slapped a pack in

a customer’s clutch.

Money was exchanged

and I knew that was my guy,

the guy that shot my brother

dead in the street.

I made my move.

Hood over my head.

Gun from my waist

and by the time he saw me

I was already squeezing.

POP! POP! POP!

By the third

he was down,

but I gave him one more

just because I was angry.

So angry.

Like something

had gotten into me.

THAT SOMETHING

that my pop said

had gotten into him

must be

what my mom

meant by

the nighttime.

POP SAID

he took off running

so fast his sneakers

barely touched

concrete.

Said he took

the long way,

turned pistol into poof,

turned bang-bang into hush-hush.

WHEN I GOT HOME

I took a hot shower,

hot enough

to burn the skin

off my body,

he said.

Couldn’t kiss your mother,

couldn’t kiss you boys

good night.

Just lay naked

in the scummy bathtub,

the cold porcelain

keeping me from sleep

from nightmares.

BUT YOU DID WHAT YOU HAD TO DO, I said,

after listening to

my father admit

what I had already

known,

The Rules

are the rules.

UNCLE MARK AND MY FATHER

looked at me with hollow eyes

dancing somewhere between

guilt and grief,

which I couldn’t make sense of

until my father admitted

that he had killed

the wrong guy.

YOU AIN’T KILL GEE?

I asked,

confused.

No, I did,

Pop confirmed,

his voice crumbling.

But Gee didn’t kill Mark.

Gee was just some young kid

trying to be tough,

trying to make

a few friends,

a few bucks,

a flunky

for the guy who

killed Mark,

he explained.

Then

Then why

Then why you

kill him?

I asked.

I didn’t know

he wasn’t the right guy,

Pop said,

a tremble in

his throat.

I was sure that was Mark’s killer.

Had

to

be.

I LEANED

against the wall

next to Dani, thinking,

staring at my father who

wasn’t my father at all.

At least not like I had imagined him.

A man who moved with precision,

patience, purpose,

not no willy-nilly

buck-bucking off

at randoms

at random.

Spent my whole damn life

missing a misser.

That disappointed me.

And he stood on the

other side of the elevator

staring back at me,

wasn’t sure what he

was thinking.

Maybe that I was exactly how he had imagined.

Maybe that disappointed him.

RANDOM THOUGHT NO. 4

There’s this thing I used to see

kids at the playground do

with their dads.

They’d stand on their father’s feet, the dads holding the

kids by the arms, walking

stiff-legged like zombies.

The kids had to trust the fathers

to guide them because the fathers

could see what was coming

but the kids,

holding tight to their dads,

moved blindly

backward.

09:08:37 a.m.

THEN POP MADE THE FIRST MOVE.

A step forward.

I made the next.

Then he took another.

We met in the middle.

Again,

dove into each other.

This time the hug,

a mix of I miss you

and who are you

and I’m confused

and I’m cracking

and I don’t know what

the hell to do

or where the hell to go.

My father’s hand

gripped my back

as I did my best

to bury myself

in his armpit,

to get lost in the new

and strangely familiar feeling

of fatherhood.

AND THAT’S WHEN IT HAPPENED.

He pulled the gun

from my waistband.

And put it to my head.

I FREAKED OUT.

What you doin’?

I shrilled,

in shock.

What the hell you doin’!

Eye-to-eye,

a tear streaming

down his face.

Just one,

so it ain’t

really count.

Chest aching

like a weight

crushing me,

biscuit tight

against my temple.

He cocked it.

Sounded like

a door closing.

I CALLED OUT

for help

but couldn’t

see no one.

Not Uncle Mark,

or Dani,

or Buck,

or hear them,

or even smell

the dank

of tobacco turning to tar.

Like it was suddenly

just the two of us,

me and my dad,

both of us apparently

losing

our minds.

POP STOOD OVER ME, the gun pressed against

the side of my face.

Was the first time I had

ever had one to my head.

First time I had been that

close to death. To the end.

And at the hand of

Pop. Pop? Pop!

YOU WOULD THINK

I would be thinking

about whether or not

he could actually do it

since he wasn’t real.

But the hugs were real.

And the gun was real.

Weren’t no ghost bullets

in that clip.

Those were real bullets.

Fifteen total.

One for every year

of my life.

MY STOMACH

was aching,

the quaking world

in the bottom of it,

and it wasn’t long

before I could feel

myself splitting

apart.

A WARM SENSATION

ran through the lower

half of my body,

seeping

down my leg

into my sneakers.

Cigarette smoke

cut once again,

this time by the smell

of my own piss.

09:08:40 a.m.

THEN POP UNCOCKED THE GUN,

wrapped his arms around me

again,

squeezed tight like

I was some rag doll,

stuffed

the gun back into

my waistband.

I SCREAMED,

pushed him away,

yelled until my throat

stripped,

until my words became

sizzle.

Weak.

Wet.

Worried

about looking like

a punk-ass kid.

And my father

leaned against the wall,

staring,

chin up,

cocky,

quiet,

while I exploded.

AND LIKE OLD TIMES

Uncle Mark

came to his side

like a brother,

pulled the extra cig,

the one tucked

behind his ear,

handed it to

my father,

chest heaving.

Eyes on me,

he threw the cig

in his mouth.

Buck took his cue.

I backed into

a corner,

wished this

stupid elevator

would get to L ,

for this whole

thing to hurry up

and be done.

Buck struck

a match and the

elevator came

to a stop.

A STRANGER,

chubby,

light skin,

almost white,

the type that

turns red,

that burns,

dirty brown hair

curled up

on his head,

got in the elevator

like a normal guy.

Didn’t acknowledge

nobody.

No dead body.

No live body.

No smoke.

Normal.

SO I FIGURED

he was real.

Which

made me real

embarrassed

about the pee

but

made me real

happy

I wasn’t all

the way gone.

09:08:47 a.m.

THE THICK PALE DUDE

stood staring at his

blurry reflection in

the metal door

when Buck started

trying to get his

attention.

Yo,

Buck said.

Psst.

The guy didn’t

budge.

Yo, dude,

Buck called,

reaching

for his

shoulder.

THE MAN TURNED AROUND.

I know you.

Buck flashed his

big choppy grin.

Your name

Frick, right?

Only to people who

know me

know me,

the guy said,

reluctantly reaching

for Buck’s hand.

Remember me?

Buck said,

like a distant

relative at a

reunion.

Buck,

he said,

showing the back

of his T-shirt again.

Oh shit,

Buck?

Head cocked.

Buck?

Arms wide.

What’s good, man?

Nothing.

Is good.

At all.

THIS IS

Dani,

Mark,

Mikey,

and

you remember

Shawn?

This his little brother,

Will.

BEFORE FRICK COULD ANSWER, I asked Buck

how he knew

him,

what his connection

was to me,

what he was doing

in this spooky-ass

elevator.

09:08:50 a.m.

HOW DO I KNOW HIM?

Buck scoffed,

shaking his head.

This is the man

who murdered me.

WAIT.

Wait.

Wait . . . wait.

Hold up.

Hold

up.

Hold the hell

on.

On my brother,

on Shawn’s name,

You serious?

Wait . . .

Wha?

Wait, wait, wait.

. . .

What?

YOU HEARD ME RIGHT.

See, Frick here—

Buck paused.

Why they call you that, anyway?

he asked,

sidetracked.

It’s really Frank. Twin sister, Frances. Frick and Frack

came from my uncle.

Stupid shit old men call you

stick in the hood,

Frick explained.

Who you tellin’.

Matter fact because

of you—

Buck paused again,

turned back to me.

Because

of him, Will,

the only reason

people ’round here

know my government name

is from reading it on

my damn tombstone.

BUCK’S REAL NAME

was James.

I’ve only heard it one time.

Buck better

than James.

Buck short

for young-buck.

Nickname given

by stepfather as a joke

because Buck

couldn’t grow no facial hair.

Smooth baby face,

nothing rough

about it.

BUCK WAS TWO-SIDED.

Two dads,

step and real.

Step raised him:

a preacher,

a real preacher,

not scared of no one,

praying for anyone,

helping everyone.

Real run through him:

a bank robber,

would steal air from the world

if he could get his hands on it.

PEOPLE ALWAYS SAID

he was taught to do good

but doing bad

was in his blood.

And there’s that nighttime

Mom always be talking about.

It’ll snatch your teaching

from you,

put a gun in your hand,

a grumble in your gut,

and some sharp in your teeth.

BUT HE DIDN’T START THAT WAY.

At first Buck was

a small-time hustler,

dime bags on the corner.

Same old story

until my pop got popped

at the pay phone that night.

Then he became a big brother

to Shawn

and a robber to a bunch of

suburban neighborhoods

every morning

(he knew better than to

jack people around here)

and come back with

money (the most)

sneakers (the best)

and jewelry (which he loved to show off).

BACK TO FRICK.

I was shocked

when I heard that

this dude killed Buck.

Yeah,

Buck said,

hand on

Frick’s shoulder

all buddy-buddy.

This the guy.

He glanced

at me.

Shawn never

told you that story?

HE NEVER REALLY TALKED ABOUT IT, I said.

Shawn just said

you were shot

and that he knew

who did it,

I explained,

remembering that time.

Shawn’s face a candle,

melted wax,

flame flickering out.

I remember the cops

banging on our door

to question him,

to tell him they heard

he was close to James—

that was the one time

I heard Buck’s real name—

and to ask him

if he knew who might’ve

done it,

killed him,

shot him

twice

in the stomach,

in the street.

SHAWN AIN’T SAY NOTHING

to the cops,

to no one,

just locked

himself

in his room

for hours

and the next

day I caught him

sitting on his

bed pushing

bullets into

gun clip.

09:08:54 a.m.

WELL, LET ME TELL YOU,

Buck said.

We were hanging out at the court sharing a bottle of something cheap and strong just before it went down, Buck said.

Shawn was telling me how he had gotten into a little scuffle, nothing major, with one of the dudes from the Dark Suns,

Buck said.

Said he had to get your mother some kind of soap she uses that he could only get from the store down by where they hang out.

A DUMB THING TO SAY

would’ve been to

tell Buck how important

that soap was

that it stopped Mom from

scraping loose a river

of wounds.

But instead

I just said,

Riggs.

I’M NOT SURE WHAT HIS NAME IS, Buck said.

Said Shawn

said he was

going to the

store when

the dude      Riggs

ran up on

him talking

all this shit.

Said it was

nothing

serious, just

poppin’ off

at the mouth

about how he

was a Dark Sun

and how Shawn

ain’t belong

around there.

Said Shawn

was in his

feelings

all huff-huff

explaining to

Buck how he

had grown up

with the kid      Riggs

and how the

kid was brand-new.

Buck said

he told Shawn

to let it roll off,

but he couldn’t

because that’s

just how he was.

All emotional

all the time,

Buck said.

WHILE HE’S GOING ON ABOUT THIS DUDE, I’m trying to show him this chain I just got from some kid out in the burbs. Didn’t even snatch it.

I just growled a little bit and asked for it and the sucka just took it right off and handed it to me.

Ain’t even snatch it,

Buck said,

thinking back on that day

like he still couldn’t

believe it.

But what does that have to with my brother and this guy?

I said,

pointing to Frick.

Hold on.

I’m gettin’ to that.

SO BECAUSE SHAWN WAS

tripping so hard about this dude, I gave him the gold chain,

Buck said,

proud.

A gift.

His first one.

Then Shawn left

the basketball court.

And that’s when I came,

Frick chimed in,

a big smile

on his face

like he had just

won some

kind of award.

HOW TO BECOME A DARK SUN

1 TURF:

nine blocks from where I live.

2 THE SHINING:

a cigarette burn under the right eye.

3 DARK DEED:

robbing someone,

beating someone

or the worst,

killing someone.

Note: Apparently, you also gotta be corny.

I WAS ASSIGNED

my Dark Deed

for initiation,

Frick explained.

And it was to kill Buck?

No,

he said.

Funny thing is,

I was just supposed

to rob him.

I didn’t think it was

a funny thing at all.

Everybody knew

Buck was always flossin’,

always flashy. But nobody

would touch him because

of his pops. Both of them.

Real and step.

GANGSTAS

always respect

older

(original)

gangstas

(OGs)

and preachers

who act like

gangstas.

FRICK SAID

his plan was to

jack the jack-boy.

Said he knew Buck

would be at the court

so he ran up on him,

pulled the hammer,

and got laughed at.

BUCK SAID

he couldn’t get got

by a dude who he could

tell was as soft as the

suburban joker he’d

just jacked.

Everybody in the

elevator laughed.

Except me.

09:08:58 a.m.

WHATEVER, MAN,

Frick said.

I was just trying to

earn my stripes.

Can’t knock me for that.

He turned around,

caught eyes with

Pop and Uncle Mark.

They nodded in agreement.

No judgment over here,

Uncle Mark said,

throwing his hands up.

Anyway, this crazy fool,

Buck, swings at me.

Just tries to take me

even though I had a boom stick!

Frick looked

at Buck, shook

his head, then cut

his eyes to me.

I got scared.

So I pulled

the trigger.

BUCK BENT

his pinky and ring

finger back,

turned his

hand into

a gun.

Bang-

bang.

AGAIN

What does this have to do

with Shawn?

I asked.

Shawn stuck to The Rules,

Frick replied.

You mean.

I swallowed.

You mean he . . . he . . .

I struggled

to get it out.

Now Buck put

the finger gun

against Frick’s

chest and repeated,

Bang-bang.

ACTUALLY,

he only pulled the

trigger once, so it

was more like,

Bang,

Frick corrected.

Fifteen

bullets.

TOOK ME OUT

before I ever even

got my Shining,

Frick said.

Rubbed just under

his right eye

like it still

rubbed him

the wrong way.

FRICK YANKED HIS COLLAR DOWN.

See this?

he asked,

exposing a hole

in his chest,

dime-sized,

disgusting,

bloody

but not

bleeding.

Your brother’s

fingerprints are in

there somewhere.

Buck Ha’d!

Replied

before I had

a chance.

And I bet

it’s his

middle finger!

WHEN THE JOKE WAS OVER

I asked how Shawn

could’ve known Frick

was the guy who killed Buck.

Buck said there was only

one other person at the

court that night,

always there

all the time,

a young kid

running back and forth

trying to dunk.

Not shoot.

Said he thinks

I might’ve known him.

Tony.

And he wasn’t trying to dunk.

He was trying to

fly.

TONY TALKING

ain’t the same as snitching.

Snitching is bumping gums

to badges, but

Tony ain’t run to no cops

or cry to no cameras,

nothing like that.

Tony talking

was laying claim,

loyalty,

an allegiance to

the asphalt around

here, an attempt

to grow taller

get bigger

one way or another.

09:09:03 a.m.

NOW LET ME ASK YOU

how you know

this kid Riggs got your brother?

Buck fired back.

Because he clearly got revenge for Shawn taking out this guy, I pointed

to Frick.

Frick, you know

a kid named Riggs?

Dani asked

out of nowhere,

her voice

floating over

my shoulder.

Little dude.

Big mouth.

Dark Sun.

I figured

the description

might help.

Frick looked at me,

confused.

Who?

ANAGRAM NO. 6

I wish I knew

an anagram

for POSER.

FRICK LOOKED

at me like I was crazy,

shrugged his shoulders,

and turned around

and faced the door.

Couldn’t see

his reflection.

Couldn’t see

any of their

reflections.

Just mine,

blurred.

FRICK HAD

his own cigarettes

and

his own matches.

Finally

Finally

Finally

the elevator came to a stop.

WHEN THE ELEVATOR DOOR OPENED

no one was there.

So I reached over and pushed

the L button

again and again and

again and again.

Because that’s what you do

when you want the door

to close faster.

Another one of those

elevator rules.

COME ON,

I huffed

under my breath,

impatient,

pissy,

pissed off,

scared,

scarred,

and straight-up

uncomfortable being

crammed in this

stupid

steel

box,

this vertical coffin,

another second.

UNCLE MARK CHUCKLED.

You would never survive

in prison, nephew.

FINALLY

the elevator door

began closing.

I exhaled,

happy we were

almost there.

One floor to go.

And just before

it was shut,

before the door clicked

in place,

four fingers slipped in

just barely catching it.

The elevator door

began opening

again.

09:09:07 a.m.

HIM.

Shawn.

Stepped into the smoky box

wearing exactly what he wore

the night before:

blue jeans,

T-shirt,

gold chain.

But not his alive outfit.

His dead one.

The one that came

with bloodstains.

EVERYBODY

was so happy

to see him.

Shawn!

Buck yelped,

reaching out

for him.

They slapped hands.

Buck fiddled with

the gold chain around

Shawn’s neck.

Moved the clasp

to the back.

Shawn looked at Dani.

Look at you!

he said,

taking her hand,

spinning her around.

Uncle Mark

gave him a light

tap in the ribs.

Big man!

he said

proudly.

Shawn turned,

gave him a hug,

caught a glimpse

of our father.

Pop!

he said,

natural,

his face

beaming.

Our father

wrapped his arms

around Shawn,

cocooning him.

Then pulled away,

shook hands

like men,

like partners.

ALL

the un-alive/un-dead

lined up along the wall

puffing their cigs,

smiling

as Shawn

finally

finally

faced

me.

WHEN WE WERE KIDS

I would follow Shawn

around the apartment

making the strangest

noise with my mouth.

Hard to explain the sound.

Burpy but not a burp.

Like burp mixed

with yawn mixed

with hum.

Something like that.

For twenty minutes straight.

From bedroom

to kitchen

to living room

back to bedroom.

To punish me,

he would wait for me to finish,

to run out of steam,

to let it go,

to get tired

of being immature.

And then,

to my surprise,

he wouldn’t say a word to me

for the rest

of the day.

I LOOKED AT SHAWN.

He looked at me.

Shawn,

I said.

But he said

nothing.

I repeated,

Shawn?

Nothing.

I STEPPED TOWARD HIM, hugged him.

He didn’t hug back.

Just stood there,

awkward,

a middle drawer

of a man.

I ASKED HIM

why he wouldn’t say nothing,

why he was ignoring me,

but still,

nothing,

not a word,

not even a smile.

I TOLD HIM

about the

drawer,

the gun,

that I did

like he told me,

like Buck told him,

like our grandfather told

our uncle, like our uncle

told our dad.

I followed The Rules.

At least the first two.

I hadn’t cried.

I hadn’t snitched.

EXPLAINED

that I was on my way to take

care of his killer,

follow through

with Rule Number Three.

Told him I knew it was Riggs.

Told him I thought it was Riggs,

then told him I knew it was Riggs

again.

CONFESSED

that I was scared,

that I needed

to know I was

doing the right thing.

THE RULES ARE THE RULES

I WAS BREAKING DOWN.

The tears were coming

and I did what I could

to hold them back.

Took my eyes off Shawn,

hoping to fight the crying

feeling by not looking.

But everywhere else

was everyone else,

cigarettes glowing

like a bunch of

L buttons.

09:09:08 a.m.

I LOOKED BACK AT SHAWN,

tears now pouring from his eyes

as he softly snotted and hiccuped

like a little kid,

tears pouring from his eyes

tears pouring from his eyes

tears pouring from his eyes.

I thought you said

no crying,

Shawn,

I said,

voice cracking,

one of my tears

bursting

free.

But only one

so it didn’t count.

No crying.

No crying.

No crying.

No crying.

AND EVEN THOUGH

his face was wet

with tears he wasn’t

supposed to cry

when he was alive,

I couldn’t see him

as anything less

than my brother,

my favorite,

my only.

AND THERE WAS A SOUND

like whatever makes

elevators work,

cables and cogs,

or whatever,

grinding,

rubbing metal on metal

like a machine moaning

but coming

from the mouth

from the belly

of Shawn.

He never said nothing to me.

Just made that painful

piercing sound,

as suddenly the

elevator came to a stop.

RANDOM THOUGHT NO. 5

The sound you hear

in your head,

the one people call

ears ringing,

sounds less like a bell,

and more like a flatline.

THERE WAS A MOMENT

before the door opened

when we all just stood there,

sickening

smoke thickening,

crowded in

this cell

this coffin

this elevator

quiet.

I LOOKED AROUND

only seeing the orange glow

of five cigarettes puncturing

the sheet of smoke

like headlights in

heavy fog.

Only five cigarettes.

Shawn hadn’t lit one,

became invisible

in the cloud.

And I felt like

the cigarette meant for him

was burning in

my stomach,

filling me with

stinging fire.

09:09:09 a.m.

I WANT OUT.

The door opened slowly,

the cloud of smoke

rushing out of the elevator,

rushing out of me

like an angry wave.

I caught my breath as

Buck,

Dani,

Uncle Mark,

Pop,

Frick,

and

Shawn

chased behind it.

The L button

no longer lit.

I stood alone

in the empty box,

face tight from

dried tears,

jeans soggy,

a loaded gun

still tucked in my

waistband.

Shawn

turned back toward me,

eyes dull from death

but shining from tears,

finally spoke

to me.

Just two words,

like a joke he’d

been saving.

YOU COMING?

Acknowledgments

I’d like to give special thanks to my agent, Elena Giovinazzo, who saw this work first and suggested I write it in verse; and to my editor, Caitlyn Dlouhy, who took it and helped me shape it into what it is now. The unwavering belief you both have shown me is nothing short of remarkable. Thank you. To my family, but more importantly, for this book, my friends, who have been with me in precarious situations where our humanity curdles and our ethics are put to the test. I couldn’t have written this without our childhoods. To the young men and women serving time in detention facilities: your stories, your testimonies matter. Your lives are often sacrificed by the failures of people twice your age. But you wil make it. You wil make it. Also, to the poets. Without poetry, especial y when I was younger, being a writer would’ve seemed like a futile attempt. The poets taught me the functionality and power of language. And lastly, to my dear friend, Randel Duncan. We miss you. Rest easy, brother.

About the Author

Author photograph by Jati Lindsay

Jason Reynolds is crazy. About stories.

Jason Reynolds is also tired. Of being around young people who are tired of feeling invisibl. So he writes books (a bunch ofbooks) and has even won some awards, but none of them are as important as a young person saying they feel seen.

The more that happens, the less tired Jason is.

But either way, he’ll still be crazy.

About stories.

About you.

Check him out at jasonwritesbooks.com

A CAITLYN DLOUHY BOOK

Simon & Schuster · New York

Visit us at simonandschuster.com/teen

Authors.simonandschuster.com/Jason-Reynolds

Also by Jason Reynolds WHEN I WAS THE GREATEST

THE BOY IN THE BLACK SUIT

ALL AMERICAN BOYS (with Brendan Kiely) AS BRAVE AS YOU

GHOST

PATINA

An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division • 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020 • www.SimonandSchuster.com • This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. • Text copyright © 2017 by Jason Reynolds • Jacket photographs copyright © 2017 by Getty Images • All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. •

Atheneum logo is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc. • For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-866-506-1949 or business@simonandschuster.com. • The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event, contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049

or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com. • The text for this book was set in Arno. • Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data • Names: Reynolds, Jason, author. Title: Long way down / Jason Reynolds. Description: First edition. |

New York : Atheneum, [2017] | “A Caitlyn Dlouhy Book.” | Summary: As Will, fifteen, sets out to avenge his brother Shawn’s fatal shooting, seven ghosts who knew Shawn board the elevator and reveal truths Will needs to know. • Identifiers: LCCN 2017001395 | ISBN 9781481438254 (hardback) ISBN 9781481438278

(eBook) Subjects: | CYAC: Murder—Fiction. | Revenge—Ficction. | Ghosts—

Fiction. | Brothers—Fiction. | Conduct of life—Fiction. • Classification: LCC

PZ7.R33593 Lon 2017 | DDC [Fic]—dc23 • LC record available at

https://lccn.loc.gov/2017001395

Document Outline

Dedication

Don’t Nobody

My Name Is

I’m Only William

I Don’t Know You

The Sadness

It’s so Hard to Say,

The Day before Yesterday

And Then There Were Shots

After the Shots

I’ve Never Been

No. 1: Screaming

And My Mom

No. 2: Sirens

No. 3: Questions

In Case You Ain’t Know

I’m Not Sure

When Bad things Happen

I Stood There

Random Thought

In His Hand

In That Bag

Maybe There’s Something Invisible

Beef

Then the Yellow Tape

Back on the Eighth Floor

I Felt like Crying

No. 1: Crying

No. 2: Snitching

No. 3: Revenge

The Invention of the Rules

Another Thing About the Rules

Our Bedroom: A Square, Yellowy Paint

Anagram

The Middle Drawer

I Won’t Pretend that Shawn

My Mother Used to Say,

So Usually

But I Never Touched Nothing

It Used to Be Different

And When I Was Thirteen

Shawn Thought That

Now the Cologne

Suddenly

The Middle Drawer Called to me

Nickname

Which Brings Me to Carlson Riggs

People said Riggs

Riggs and Shawn Were So-called Friends, But

A Penny Drop

No. 1: Turf

No. 1.1: Survival Tactics (Made Plain)

No. 2: Crime Shows

No. 3: . . .

I had Never Held a Gun.

A Noise from the Hallway

Sleep

I Woke Up

But I also Felt Guilty

I Wrapped My Fingers

In the Bathroom

I Stuck the Cannon

The Plan

In the Kitchen

The Yellow Light

At the Elevator

There’s a Strange Thing

A Guy Got On

L Stood for “Loser”

It’s Uncomfortable

I’ve Seen Girls

Do I Know You?

My Stomach Jumped

I Rubbed My Eyes

Yeah

I Did All the Wake-up Tricks

I Know What You Thinkin’

But No Need to Be Afraid

I Take It Back

Anagram No. 1

Catching My Breath, I Asked

My Response

I Put My Hand Behind My Back

Thought about Moving It

I Remember

And I’m Glad I Found It

The Elevator Rumbled

Maybe He Didn’t Hear Me

Relax?!

Buck Laughed, And

You Got Work to Do?

He Asked Me

Give It to Me

He Held the Gun Out

Buck Finally Let Go

I Had Half a Second

A Girl Stepped In

She Checked to Make Sure

I Didn’t Know

She Could See

At This Point

I Joined In

She Brushed Her Hand Against Mine

But There Was a Ghost in the Elevator

Plus

She Asked

The Next Exchange was a Simple One

But Then

I Won’t Front

From Where?

Very Funny

She Opened Her Purse

Me and My Friend Dani

You Remember This?

My Eyes Got Big

Yeah, I Remember

Gunshots

And Now I Wanna Throw Up

I Told Dani

I Swear Sometimes

When They Said

The Way I Felt

Anagram No. 2

It’s Cool

What You Need

My Face

Dani Was Killed

Then Dani Asked

But

Dani Was Disappointed

I Looked Back at Buck

Buck Offered

The Elevator

Cigarette Smoke

I Fanned and Coughed

I Took a Step Back

Two Large Hands

Then in One Swift Motion

I Could Hear Laughing

When I Was Finally Let Up

What the Hell?

What You Reachin’ For

There Are

Uncle Mark?

No. 1

Casting of the Worst, Stupidest Movie Ever

Uncle Mark Pulled Me In

And You Know

Why You Here?

With His Hand

A Better Question

Random Thought No. 2

Anagram No. 3

What You Mean?

What Do I Mean?

Okay, Okay

But to Explain Myself

Uncle Mark Huffed

Uncle Mark Squeezed His Lips

The Scene

I Got Stuck

But He Didn’t (the Scene, Continued)

My Mouth

The Scene (Completed)

For the Record

Story No. 2 About Uncle Mark

His Plan

I’m Sure

He Held That Corner

That Guy Took the Corner

Uncle Mark Should’ve

Anagram No. 4

Random Thought No. 3

So Anyway, After I Said It,

Meanwhile,

And What Happens Next in This Movie?

This Time

And There He Was

My Pop

Is It Possible

Pop Pulled Away

I Have No Memories

A Broken Heart

But That’s Not What Shawn Said

I Always Used to Ask

Hi, Will

How You Been?

I Wanted to Unload

I Already Know

I Wiped My Face

What You Think You Should Do?

Pop Gave Uncle Mark

When Mark Was Shot

That Something

Pop Said

When I Got Home

But You Did What You Had to Do

Uncle Mark and My Father

You Ain’t Kill Gee?

I Leaned

Random Thought No. 4

Then Pop Made the First Move

And That’s When It Happened

I Freaked Out

I Called Out

Pop Stood over Me

You Would Think

My Stomach

A Warm Sensation

Then Pop Uncocked the Gun

I Screamed

And Like Old Times

A Stranger

So I Figured

The Thick Pale Dude

The Man Turned Around

This Is

Before Frick Could Answer

How Do I Know Him?

Wait

You Heard Me Right

Buck’s Real Name

Buck Was Two-sided

People Always Said

But He Didn’t Start That Way

Back to Frick

He Never Really Talked About It

Shawn Ain’t Say Nothing

Well, Let Me Tell You

A Dumb Thing to Say

I’m Not Sure What His Name Is

While He’s Going on About this Dude

So Because Shawn Was

How to Become a Dark Sun

I Was Assigned

Gangstas

Frick Said

Buck Said

Whatever, Man

Buck Bent

Again

Actually

Took Me Out

Frick Yanked His Collar Down

When the Joke Was Over

Tony Talking

Now Let Me Ask You

Anagram No. 6

Frick Looked

Frick Had

When the Elevator Door Opened

Come on

Uncle Mark Chuckled

Finally

Him

Everybody

All

When We Were Kids

I Looked at Shawn

I Stepped Toward Him

I Asked Him

I Told Him

Explained

Confessed

The Rules Are the Rules

I Was Breaking Down

I Looked Back at Shawn

And Even Though

And There Was a Sound

Random Thought No. 5

There Was a Moment

I Looked Around

I Want Out

You Coming?

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Copyright