This Is My America

by Kim Johnson

  “I can’t talk about it.”

  Mandy flicks her eyes. There’s fear there.

  “If you know who killed Angela, you have to say something.”

  “I don’t know who killed Angela.”

  “But you don’t think it’s my brother.” I hold my breath, hoping she agrees.

  “Jamal wouldn’t hurt Angela. I don’t think he’s the type to let anything ruffle his feathers. If she was arguing, it was always with Chris.”

  My chest explodes in relief. If Angela’s own best friend doesn’t believe it, then maybe Jamal stands a chance.

  “What was she working on?” I croak out. “I can help.”

  “How can you help? You’re talking to me, which means you know nothing more than I do.”

  “Angela had a micro SD card with photos from Tuesday nights at the Pike. Angela was out there on Tuesday—”

  “You found them?” Mandy whispers, leaning toward me. I stay silent. I need Mandy to let something slip. “I couldn’t find them anywhere.”

  “Was that why you were cleaning out her desk, putting things in a backpack?”

  “If they knew you had them, you could be in danger, Tracy.” Mandy grabs my arm. “You have to stop looking around. Angela is dead because of those photos from the Pike.”

  “I don’t get it. Why because of the photos?”

  I don’t share that Beverly has them now.

  “Not because of the photos—what she uncovered.”

  “Who trashed the classroom?”

  “I don’t know. Just that you didn’t. It’s not your style. But someone wanted to make it look like you did it. I just wasn’t going to let them get away with that.”

  I give her a nod of thanks. “Who do you think killed Angela?”

  “I don’t know.” Mandy looks away, toward her house.

  Something catches her attention, and I hear shouts from inside. It jolts us both.

  “What’s going on?” I jump off the swing.

  “I wish they’d all just leave.” Mandy shakes her head. “My parents wanted me to have this more than I did. They think it will distract me.”

  The noise gets louder. Yelling, cursing. We run across her yard and into the house, following the sounds of the fight. The crowd is gathered in the living room. As I get closer, I see Cuddy and Demarcus shoving guys out of the way. The crowd chants, “Fight. Fight. Fight.”

  I touch my face when I see Quincy pinned in a corner with Scott.

  I step closer to the chaos.

  CRASH AND BURN

  Quincy and Scott are shoving each other, throwing punches when they can reach. With each movement, Quincy is off balance, but so is Scott, since he’s clearly drunk. Dean cuts past me, and some of Scott’s friends think he’s there to help Scott, but he’s not. He pushes Scott off to give Quincy space.

  Scott sees me, and the anger in his eyes makes me take a step back. He’s thin, but drunk he’s scrappy and doesn’t seem to mind the punches from Quincy. Like he’s numb to the pain he’ll feel tomorrow.

  “Get the fuck out.” He charges at me. “You don’t belong here.”

  I try to dip away, but the crowd is pressing in on me, shoving me back toward Scott. He rips at my arm, and I feel my socket pull. Then he’s yelling at me. My heart races, and I try to back up, but the crowd is locked up tight. Keeping my friends from being able to help me.

  “We can’t get Jamal, so how about you pay?” Scott says low and deadly as he grips my arm.

  My chin trembles, trying to form words, but all I can let out is a weird, throaty sound. I look back, hoping to spot an escape. A place to catch my breath and think. Far away from here.

  Quincy frees up from the crowd and jumps at Scott. Cuddy and Demarcus join him. The mob finally opens up to avoid the blows. Chris makes his way through the crowd, my first time seeing him. Dean shoulders his way in front, blocking Chris from joining in.

  “Cool it, man,” Dean says.

  “Get the fuck out,” Chris says. “You people, get the fuck out. I’m calling the police.”

  More track team members help Demarcus, me, and Quincy get out. People start trying to calm down the room, but my being here caused a ripple of tension across groups on different sides. I look to Mandy, who avoids eye contact. Only Black folks start exiting the party. A group of white guys circle, to make sure we don’t turn back.

  Scott tugs on Chris’s arm, but he pulls back. They say a few words that don’t look friendly. Like they’ve been beefing, too.

  On my way out, I whisper to Dean to stay. He’s torn, but he knows what’s up. People will be talking, and it could lead to more information.

  On the steps, Tasha’s by my side, coming from nowhere. She must’ve been waiting outside.

  “I was looking for you. Hoped you’d already left. That was stupid, Tracy.”

  “I know.” But Tasha’s not fully mad, because she’s holding my hand, shaking as we rush to get away from the party.

  “You okay?” Quincy reaches for me. Tasha drops my hand.

  Quincy touches my face, then goes over my wrist that’ll surely bruise.

  “I’m gonna kill him.”

  I shake my head. “He’s not worth it.”

  “I can take you home,” Quincy says.

  I’m about to tell him I can ride with Tasha, until I realize he offered because Tasha’s leaving without me.

  “Tasha!” I yell after her. She turns back, giving me a hard look, then opens her car door.

  “Tasha!” I run to catch up, my feet pounding, and climb into her car.

  “Why you riding with me?”

  “Tasha. It’s been us, together, always.” She’s hurt about Quincy, obviously. I can’t let that push our friendship aside. It’s clear Quincy’s back in my life, but she’s taking it the wrong way.

  “It sure don’t seem like it,” Tasha says. “Since when have you been feeling Quincy?”

  “We have history, Tasha.” She’s never really known our history; no one has. Not what we’ve been through. All the things that are unspoken. But I also need Tasha. Tasha needs me.

  “You know you’re the reason that fight started. He could’ve been hurt.”

  “Quincy’s been helping me with my brother. There’s so much going on you don’t know, but it’s not like I’m trying to keep it from you. We been through a lot, too. And you’re mad, so yeah. I’m going with your stubborn ass.”

  Tasha isn’t happy I joined her, but she also doesn’t kick me out.

  We drive past Quincy’s Impala, where he’s leaning back on his car, nursing his leg and giving us a nod, but I look away. Won’t let Tasha see how badly I wanted to ride with Quincy.

  WE GOT A SITUATION

  On Sunday after church, I head to see Dean at work. Dean rings up a customer, then joins me in the corner where I have my favorite view to the street. Steve is out doing interviews, so I don’t mind waiting for him at Evans Antiques. I’ve got my laptop pulled up, searching online for anything around the dates the photos at the Pike were taken and catching up with what I missed after we were all kicked out of Mandy’s party—at least all the Black kids.

  “Party didn’t last much longer,” Dean says. “Everybody knows I’m cool with you, so no one said much to me.”

  “What about Mandy?”

  “She kept to herself. Seemed relieved when everyone started leaving. Scott and Chris stuck around, helping her clean up, but she was jumpy with them.”

  “Mandy doesn’t think Jamal had anything to do with killing Angela. She thinks the micro SD card got her in trouble, and all the questions she was asking.”

  “You find anything on there?”

  “No.” I share a copy of the photos out at the Pike. “Does this spur anything?”

  Dean shrugs. “Just a bunch of guys
out drinking. The only thing weird is they’re from different cliques. Don’t usually see them all together.”

  Dean gets up to help the next person in line. What Dean doesn’t say is that they do have something in common—they’re all white. Just like how the party last night was pretty much segregated. He can’t see it, but the absence of color is striking to me. It also gives me a thought. I search online, up and around a few days before the photo was taken.

  Eventually, I see one small reference to a Black Lives Matter peace rally against a hate group planning on marching an hour away. It ended up being a mob of around forty guys. A girl who was part of the peaceful march was shot by a stray bullet that hit the crowd.

  I covered the march in “Tracy’s Corner.” It started a debate in history class when white kids asked why it’s not racist to say Black Lives Matter but a problem to say White Lives Matter or Blue Lives Matter. What they don’t get is that those lives have always mattered. Ours are treated like we’re less than equal. Like we don’t deserve the same respect. A school shooter can come out alive but a Black kid in handcuffs on the ground can be shot, unchecked. An AK-47 in a white hand has more rights than a Black kid with Skittles.

  I search through social media tags, scrolling until an image jolts me. A guy with a Texas A&M hat with the number 27 on the side. Chris. His mouth opened wide, yelling at the anti-racist protesters, Blue Lives Matter flag in his hand. Right next to him, much clearer now, is Scott with his varsity jacket on, TRACK & FIELD on his shoulder.

  I get up to show Dean.

  Through the window of Evans Antiques, I see a guy get out of his SUV. He’s dressed in a crisp blue shirt, gray slacks, and shoes too shiny for Texas. I strain to see his face, but his hat and sunglasses are a good cover from this distance. He strikes me as familiar, maybe from around town. He doesn’t head into the Evanses’ store. Instead, he makes his way down the alley.

  “I think that’s the guy who had binoculars watching Steve,” I call out to Dean.

  “You sure?” Dean comes over and puts a hand on my shoulder, looking over me to see the guy, but he’s too late.

  “What else is down the alley?” I ask.

  “Garbage. It’s a dead end.” Dean pauses, then looks at me. “And the stairs to Steve’s office.”

  I’m certain it’s no coincidence that he’s here as soon as Steve’s gone.

  I pull out my cell and call Steve. “Did you lock the office?”

  “Why, you need to get in?” Steve asks.

  “No. The guy in the white SUV went down the alley behind Mr. Evans’s store. All that’s there—”

  “Call the cops and stay away,” Steve says. “I had his plates run. He’s not someone we want near our case files.”

  I hang up the phone and dial 911 while repeating to Dean what Steve said. His brows furrow and his jaw clenches, and then he swiftly moves past me as I talk to the 911 operator.

  “Dad!” Dean yells, then hops over to the counter, enters a passcode on the gun safe, and pulls out a shotgun. He grabs a handful of shells and grips them, two by two, locking the gun back in place.

  “What are you doing?” I block Dean from moving, my hands trembling.

  “Stay here.” Dean points his finger at me in such a demanding way I almost slink back.

  “Dean. No.” I’m hyperventilating, wanting Dean to stop and wait for the cops.

  He doesn’t stop; he jogs out the front door carrying the shotgun. I quickly give the store address to the operator and chase after Dean. When I step outside, an alarm goes off upstairs. I breathe out a sigh of relief that this’ll scare him off. But it doesn’t stop him.

  “Dean, it’s not worth it,” I yell after him, and run out to the alley.

  Dean is halfway up the outside staircase to the office on the second floor, gripping the banister as he looks down at me. I’m shaking in place. He takes one step up, looks at me again, and stops. Mr. Evans runs out the door, followed by Mrs. Evans.

  She’s not going to like this.

  “What is going on?” Mr. Evans quickly makes his way to Dean.

  “Someone’s breaking into the office upstairs.” I avoid eye contact so I don’t have to be the one to explain more to Mrs. Evans.

  “Get downstairs, Dean,” Mr. Evans’s voice booms.

  Mr. Evans is a few inches shorter than Dean, but he makes up for it with his commanding presence. Dean’s foot hovers over the next step up, pausing. Then he backs down and meets us in the alley. He keeps watch on the door, expecting the guy to come down any second.

  Mr. Evans grabs the shotgun from Dean and posts with it at the bottom of the stairs. This is the only exit and entrance to the loft. We watch from afar. Nothing is moving Mr. Evans out of his place, his boots firmly on the ground.

  Mrs. Evans has her I-told-you-so face on, with eyebrows raised. This will be trouble for Dean. I mouth, Sorry, to him.

  A police car arrives, then another. They park between the alley and the front of the store, and then meet Mr. Evans at the stairs. He must have turned off the blaring alarm, because it’s finally silent. After ten minutes, officers go in and out. The guy is nowhere to be found. Either he hopped the fence and never made it upstairs, or he scaled down one of the windows from the back room of the office.

  Dean leads his mom and me upstairs, where we meet Mr. Evans and three officers. One of them is Officer Clyde, the silver-haired officer from the Pike.

  At first glance the room looks the same, except a window’s open. The closed file boxes in the back have been tampered with. I know for a fact they were sealed, since I taped them shut myself.

  The officers walk around. I study them. Watch how they open up the boxes, sifting through and pulling files out. I make a noise with my throat to catch their attention. Mrs. Evans is also examining the loft. Her mouth is tight, disapproval on her lips. When she heads back downstairs, I can’t help but feel relief that we won’t have to tiptoe around her anymore.

  “What you say your name was?” Mr. Evans steps up.

  “Clyde,” the silver-haired officer responds. “Not sure what we’re looking for. You saw an intruder?”

  I hope he doesn’t recognize me, but my hopes are dashed when I feel his recognition laser in on me.

  “Yes, sir,” I say. “This is the second time we’ve caught him out here. The first time with binoculars looking up into the office when I was helping the tenant move in. We’ve got a license plate from before.”

  I grab a photocopy of the SUV’s license plate and hand it to Officer Clyde. The other officers continue rifling through the boxes. Another officer stands in front of the massive board that Steve’s been working on. They take photos of the boxes, pulling out files and reading through Steve’s notes. Then they take a photo of Steve’s board. They don’t seem too concerned about a robbery.

  “Well, I don’t think there are any valuables here,” Mr. Evans says, beginning to usher the officers out. “But I’ll be sure to check in with my tenant. I’ll be in contact if he identifies anything missing.”

  “Didn’t know you had a tenant,” Officer Clyde says.

  “Yip. Things been slow, so thought I’d try and make a little more money.”

  “You filed the appropriate paperwork to rent a space? You know how the city is about pop-up establishments. You never can be too careful who you bring into town.”

  “I’ve got the paperwork. Nothing to worry about here, Officer Clyde,” Mr. Evans says.

  The cops finally exit, and Mr. Evans shuts the door behind them.

  “What do you think?” Mr. Evans asks us.

  “That was weird, right?” I say. “The break-in? The cops?”

  “Small town. Folks don’t like new people coming in and being nosy,” Mr. Evans says.

  There’s being nosy, and there’s conspiring against the investigation. Someone was l
ooking for something. The question is, what?

  * * *

  Two hours later, Dean and I jolt at the sound of the key jingling in the door. Steve carries his briefcase in with a weary look of exhaustion.

  “What took so long?” I ask.

  “Interviewee was an hour late. Some emergency.”

  “Coincidence a break-in occurred in the daytime?” I ask.

  “Not sure I believe in those anymore,” Steve says. “It’s time we take precautions.”

  “I agree,” Dean says.

  I think about how quickly Dean pulled out the shotgun. I don’t like the way this is going.

  “All right, what happened?” Steve asks.

  We walk Steve through everything. From the moment the guy got out of his SUV, all the way through how the cops seemed more interested in searching Steve’s office than looking for a burglar. When we’re done, we point out all the boxes the cops focused on. Steve checks each one.

  “Did they take anything?”

  “I didn’t see,” I say. “They were more poking around.”

  “Yeah. I didn’t see them take anything, either,” Dean says.

  Steve looks over at the security alarm that apparently only makes noise and doesn’t actually stop intruders.

  “I’ve got an order in for a new system,” Dean says. “This time I’ll install it myself.”

  “Thanks,” Steve says. “How long before you say he was out of sight?”

  “He went down the alley right before we called you,” I say. “Two minutes or so before Dean had a shotgun and was down there.”

  “Three minutes, tops,” Dean adds.

  “It’s possible he could break in that fast and grab something, but highly unlikely,” Steve says. “I have a hard time getting in the door, let alone orienting myself around the files.”

  “What do you think he was after?”

  Steve scans the boxes and the case files and then the lists on the board of all the case names he’s considering taking on. “I’ll have to look through everything to know for sure what might be missing. Innocence X has a reputation for revealing botched cases, dirty cops, politicians, and bad cover-ups.”