The Usual Suspects

by Maurice Broaddus

  “You?”

  “Let’s not get crazy now.” Mr. Blackmon closes his notebook and fiddles with his water bottle. “But even if you can’t trust anyone grown, you do have something else going for you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’re smart. Try and hide it all you want behind being cool or bored, but you are. So be smarter than your problem. Whatever, or whoever, it is. If they’re bigger, don’t come at them direct. Outmaneuver them.”

  “And if they’re smarter?”

  “Use your weakness as a strength. And don’t let them see you coming at all.”

  With everything that’s gone down, I’m so deep in my feels I can’t think straight. But I have to if I’m going to solve this. Moms got me into reading Walter Mosley’s Easy Rawlins books. I’ve started a list of guiding principles: think objectively and follow the evidence; think creatively and about every possibility; and never fall in love with your favorite theory. They help me begin to sift through the puzzle pieces so that they make sense:

  •Marcel probably knows who did it but enjoys watching my head spin too much to say anything. A gun isn’t her kind of play. It risks her getting her hands dirty.

  •I don’t care what Marcel insinuates, I can’t see Nehemiah, Twon, or Rodrigo doing this.

  •Pierce is a wild card, but this doesn’t seem like a move he’d make.

  •RaShawn has a motive, a couple in fact. He might have been wanting to settle up with Nehemiah. Either that or wanting to fend off or even take over Marcel’s operations.

  •Which leaves Kutter. This is right in his wheelhouse. Especially if he wants to take his menace routine to the next level.

  It’s already Wednesday and I can’t help but think that I’m still missing a key piece of the puzzle. I could use a witness of some sort.

  The stress must be getting to me. I have a headache that feels like construction workers ripping up my skull with jackhammers, so I stop by the nurse’s office to grab an aspirin. I wait behind the counter walling off Mrs. Carson from the students. Mrs. Fitzgerald enters from the rear shadowed by a set of parents whose faces are somewhere between worried and angry. She holds the door to her office open to let the parents go in first. Rather than locked-in lasers, her eyes have a faraway look to them. She moves like all her muscles are sore. With a deep inhale and slow exhale, she closes the door behind her.

  “Mrs. Fitzgerald looks tired,” I say.

  “Yeah, you’d think the gun was found here at the school. Her last few days have been a nonstop whirlwind of meetings, phone calls, and parent conferences. Parents wanting to make sure their kids are safe.” Her eyes meet mine. Not quite blaming me but making sure that her words land firmly. She lowers her eyes like she can’t stand to look at me. Maybe I’m reading into things.

  My head throbs even more.

  I try to ride out my day until my favorite part, Discovery Time, a time to choose our own activity. I always pick the playground. Without the rest of middle school out there, I walk the line. It’s a favorite punishment of teachers: have a kid walk the painted line surrounding the basketball court while everyone else enjoys recess. It drives kids nuts being forced to walk while watching their friends have fun.

  It was different if I wanted to do it. Walking is peaceful. Relaxing. It takes me out of my day, right before the chaos of the end-of-school routine, and it gives me time with my thoughts before I have to go back to my neighborhood. I drag myself to the classroom door as the clock winds its way to 3:00 p.m. Here I am with my chief suspect, Kutter, dogging me, setting us up to go down for his stuff in only a couple of days.

  Once I return to class, the Special Ed class lines up behind me. Absently toying with the pencil sharpener, I brace against the wall and wait for Mrs. Horner to dismiss us. Her last act of the day, it reminds us that she holds the final bit of power over us. It doesn’t matter to me since I’m not in a hurry to roam the halls.

  Mrs. Horner motions toward the door. Mr. Blackmon marches us out the door. Most times he barely shadows us, respecting that we are middle schoolers and can find our own buses. We enjoy our increased sense of independence, looking forward to it since we dreamed about it when we were in lower school.

  “You all right, Thelonius?” Mr. Blackmon asks.

  “I’m cool. Why?”

  “Normally you’d be almost racing out of this joint. Jumping, trying to touch every arch and overhang between here and outside.”

  “Just tired, I guess.” Me and Nehemiah are like brothers. With so many people in our lives who let us down, we swore we’d be there for each other. Words are easy, I guess. When they got tested, really tested, I froze. Abandoned him, our friendship, like everyone else did. The guilt slows my steps. I walk in Mr. Blackmon’s shadow, but not really alongside him. I don’t bother to high-five any of my boys, not that anyone offers a hand. I don’t clown anyone, don’t try to push up on any of the girls. I scan the hallways, not sure what I was searching for. No, that’s a lie. I watch for Marcel’s grin. Or Kutter’s threatening approach. Or any crowd of kids. Even mild-mannered folks gain courage in a pack, like a group of hyenas. Not quite in full creep mode, I skulk along. Not scared, there’s a difference. I don’t want it to appear like I am hiding. I’m not going to give them that satisfaction. Not my fear. “You all right? You normally don’t walk us all the way down to the buses?”

  “I just want to make sure there are no more . . . misunderstandings. Like with what happened on the basketball court.”

  Misunderstandings. So that’s what the cool kids are calling it.

  “Who you like now?” A girl’s high-pitched accusation rises above the chatter of the hallway. My ears perk up at the familiar voice. Kids shove their way to the rear of the school, where the buses line up like goldfish waiting to be fed. I match a face to the voice and find the twins. I uptick my chin to Mr. Blackmon and head toward them.

  “Nobody,” Tafrica protests with a little too much strength.

  “Lies and deceit!” Wisdom yells. “Then why you walking like that?”

  “Like what?” Tafrica stops midstep.

  “Like you trying to mop the floor with your behind. Look at you, swinging that thing.”

  “Girl, you fried.” Tafrica begins walking again, her butt having a modest twitch with each step. It’s hard to not notice once that level of attention has been drawn to it.

  “I didn’t say it. I’m just repeating what I heard,” Wisdom says.

  “Who said it?”

  “Deja.” Wisdom mutters half under her breath like she doesn’t want to give up her source. Thing is, she’s compelled to tell you how she knows things so that you know her information is solid.

  “Which Deja? Tall Deja? Skinny Deja? Deja the Queen? Cockeyed Deja . . .”

  “That’s mean. No one calls her cockeyed Deja.”

  “But you knew exactly who I was talking about, didn’t you?” Tafrica says.

  Pausing on the bus steps, I glimpse Kutter. The boy forms a gun with his fingers to shoot at me. Careful not to meet anyone else’s eyes, I slip into the bus and skulk behind the twins. No one joins me on the bench. The twins continue chatting away. A folded piece of paper colored with hearts and stuff sticks out of Wisdom’s planner. They’ve been passing notes. Wisdom’s a little paranoid: she never throws notes in the trash. From what I hear she either takes them home to throw away or stores them in a keepsake box. I dip my head forward as if trying to hear better, but stumble into them. They don’t notice me palming the note.

  “Why you in our mouths?” Tafrica rears up on me. Wisdom mirrors her neck swivel.

  “I’m not. I’m just listening,” I say, withdrawing before my exposed head makes too much of a tempting target for hungry lionesses.

  “Like we your personal show or something.” Tafrica’s voice rises with a hint of disdain. Not directed at me, only enough to mount a fake protest.

  “You’re everyone’s personal show. That’s the way you like it,” I say tentativel
y, hoping to navigate this minefield.

  “Wouldn’t have it any other way.” Tafrica relaxes in her seat, satisfied.

  “We need to be up on YouTube. Have our own channel,” Wisdom says.

  “Mm-hmm. We’d be famous.”

  “Million hits easy. Go viral.”

  “Triple OG low-key to the max,” they say and slap hands.

  With them distracting each other, I have a chance to read the note. They start off asking the same questions I have been about who brought the gun to school, except they talk about “that one,” someone they suspect. I underestimate how exhausting it can be keeping up with the back-and-forth of the twins. I rub my neck. Tafrica was the harsher of the two, but has the ability to read people like a magazine. Wisdom is more plugged into what folks are saying, but left to her own devices is all rainbows and bunnies. I don’t even know what I need to ask them, much less how to go about it. Tafrica lightly elbows Wisdom in the side and nods in my direction. I stuff the note into my pocket before I can read much more.

  Wisdom squints, then crinkles her nose, almost making a stink face. “Look at you being all mopey.”

  “He probably wore out. All that ‘not being there for your boy’ can wear a body out,” Tafrica says.

  “I’m out.” I scoop up my stuff as the bus nears the first drop-off. Two stops before mine, near the entrance of my housing addition. Me and Nehemiah sometimes step off here to race the bus to my house. I throw two fingers in a peace sign. “Deuces.”

  “This ain’t your stop,” Wisdom says.

  “I could use the exercise,” I mutter without meeting either of their gazes.

  “Me, too.” A smile spreads across Tafrica’s face, like a shark who’s caught the scent of chum, and she gives a slight chin wag in my direction.

  Wisdom turns from her. “Yeah, you right. Some exercise might keep you from having so much behind to drag all over the place.”

  Ignoring them, I walk the aisle. The bus driver notes us disembarking, as if doing a mental catalog in case she has to make an incident report later. A half dozen sixth graders exit at the same spot. I raise my backpack to let them scurry off to their houses like rats caught in the light of the pantry. Soon it’s just me, Tafrica, and Wisdom with a long stretch of sidewalk to my place.

  “Saw what you did at recess,” Wisdom says.

  “What you didn’t do,” Tafrica corrects.

  “You don’t know what you saw,” I say, a little too defensively.

  “When it comes to that trifling boy, I suggest you break wide,” Tafrica says.

  “Nehemiah’s my dude,” I say.

  “Who’s talking about Nehemiah?” Wisdom says.

  “He fried.” Tafrica taps her head.

  “But he isn’t trifling.” Wisdom wags a scolding index finger at her.

  Tafrica rolls her eyes. “Well . . .”

  “He isn’t. You need to quit.”

  “Who you talking about, then?” I ask.

  “Kutter,” Tafrica says.

  “If you follow him, you heading right into trouble,” Wisdom says.

  “I’m trying to figure out why Kutter got it in for me,” I say.

  “Well, rumor has it,” Wisdom begins, “that you started nosing around other folks’ business. Like you’re trying to put together a case on them. You know how folks get out here about that.”

  “Them who?” I protest.

  “RaShawn. Kutter.” Wisdom pronounces the names all solemn, like she’s reciting a memorial for fallen friends. “Maybe a couple of others.”

  “You out here snitching on your peoples?” Tafrica blurts out and stops short to measure my response. “Makes it hard for us to trust you if you out here running game on your peoples.”

  “I. Ain’t. Snitching. On. No. One. And I’m about tired of having to defend myself. You know me. This whole neighborhood knows me. I’m as true as they come. I’m just out here, minding my own business, not in anybody’s mouth.” I half snarl, aiming the comment at Tafrica. We all have a code that we choose to live by. I’m no snitch, but I’m not going to hide whenever I see something wrong. One way or another, I’m going to figure out what happened and make sure the right person gets in trouble. “Just doing my do, chilling with Nehemiah. Next thing I know, suddenly I got beef with everyone. Got the principal bumping her gums at me. Mrs. Horner. Mr. Blackmon. You two. Kutter.”

  “No need to get all excited.” Tafrica backs down, sounding somewhat pleased with how heated I got.

  “You so combustible,” Wisdom echoes. “We just needed to hear you say it.”

  “And look you in the eye when you did it.” Tafrica starts walking again.

  “I know who’s behind all my troubles,” I announce.

  “Who?” Wisdom asks.

  “Marcel.”

  Tafrica sucks her teeth. Then spits.

  “Hate much?” I ask.

  “We just don’t have much love for Marcel.” Wisdom hitches her backpack higher on her shoulder. One of her blond braids falls into her face and she brushes it back.

  “She too wretched. Thinking she better than everyone else,” Tafrica snaps. “She walk like she bowlegged and pigeon-toed.”

  “Bowlegged and pigeon-toed? That don’t make no sense,” I say.

  Tafrica squats down to imitate her version of Marcel’s walk. She circles us a few times, like a person with their knees on backward.

  “The way the park always be jumping, someone had to have seen something,” I say.

  For some reason, Tafrica gets it in her head that Marcel’s walk resembles a duck. So she lowers even more, tucks her arms in, and flaps them while quacking. Wisdom ignores Tafrica as best she can, waiting until she waddles almost out of earshot. “Someone did see something.” Wisdom avoids my eyes. “You know who you need to talk to?”

  Tafrica quacks.

  “Who?” I ask.

  “Jaron.”

  “Why Jaron?”

  Tafrica quacks twice.

  “That’s on you. Assuming you really aren’t out here snitching.” Wisdom swats Tafrica on her passing behind. “Quit it. You too foolish.”

  “Stanky booty,” Tafrica says.

  “You fried, too.”

  Having instantly lost interest in me, the girls dart off, caught up in their own arguments. I mull the name over. Jaron. Judging from the jarring shoulder bump at recess, Jaron has no love for me. He may be still too raw from music class a couple days ago. But Jaron and Nehemiah were boys from way back, and I realize that I can’t do this alone.

  I need my brother by my side.

  I remember how I first met Nehemiah.

  It was back in second grade. Me and Moms had just moved to town. I was new to the school and new to the bus, so I stayed to myself a lot. I purposely chose the seat above the wheel. It shortened the seat, leaving no room for anyone to sit next to me. The constant rumble allowed me to drift in my own thoughts. A couple of middle schoolers kept kicking the back of my seat. They started jeering and cracking jokes, just in case I hadn’t noticed their antics. I didn’t need to turn around to know who was doing it. Their brand of obnoxious was its own fingerprint.

  Tim Jackson and Jeff Eastridge. They exited a stop before mine, all hyped up.

  “This isn’t your stop,” Mr. Miller, our then bus driver, said to Tim in his gravelly rumble of a voice. He had his gray-tinged black hair tucked under a baseball cap most of the time. He seldom spoke, much less shouted, even when Tim and Jeff had worked everyone into a near mob.

  “My mom told me to stay with Jeff until she got home from work, Mr. Miller,” Tim said, his fake innocence fooling no one. Blue eyes within wrinkled sockets glanced back at me, but Mr. Miller let them exit anyway. The bus slowly lurched forward. The two immediately ducked behind the bushes and ran for the next stop, only two blocks away.

  The bus slowed down as it neared my house. I drew in a sharp breath, ready to race the final gauntlet to my house. My chest tightened. A familiar dull ache began in the
pit of my stomach. My heartbeat climbed into my throat. I tried to swallow, but my throat squeezed shut. The boys managed to keep a lead on the bus, since it had to brake at each stop sign. The bus slowed for the last drop-off. My house.

  “Mr. Miller’s a caterpillar. Mr. Miller’s a caterpillar,” Tim and Jeff chanted.

  The stragglers stepping off the bus joined in the pair’s taunting. Everyone except me.

  The chorus slowly stopped when the bus drove off. Tim and Jeff cornered me. The cartoony grins of their mouths grew so large, reminding me of hungry clowns, because they pressed in so close.

  “Hey, lookee here, Jeff,” Tim said. “It’s our friend, Spear Chucker.” Tim stood a full foot taller than me. His red hair shone to near orange in the sunshine. Freckles dotted his face so thickly at times, he wasn’t too much lighter than me.

  “Yeah, Spear Chucker.” Jeff was my height and hadn’t lost his baby fat. His chubbiness made him all the more ridiculous when he tried his tough guy routine. Thing was, he was actually tolerable when he wasn’t around Tim.

  “So, Spear Chucker, why don’t you just go back to Africa?” Tim says.

  “Yeah, Africa.” For them, Africa meant the other side of town.

  I calculated the distance to my home. It was a seven-house dash, but they’d never let me escape with a straight shot. A creek divided our neighborhood addition in two and ran through my backyard. A thick stand of trees separated the properties. Great for hiding, but if I got caught back there, no one could see them beat the snot out of me. Fueled by fear, I gambled that I could cut through the edge of the trees and jump the narrow part of the creek to make it to my back porch before they could reach me.

  As Moms often says, I suffer from “big mouth, small behind syndrome.” Luckily for me, my speed made up for the checks my mouth couldn’t cash.