The Usual Suspects

by Maurice Broaddus

  Under the glare of the forty-two-inch flat-screen, bought with their tax-refund check, Rhianna’s boyfriend shifts on the other couch. Sprawled out, and too tall for the sofa, he tries to make himself comfortable.

  “What’s up with that?” I whisper.

  “Man, I don’t even know. I don’t bother to learn their names anymore. You know what he had me do?”

  “What?”

  “Pee in a cup for him.”

  My eyes widen in disbelief. “For real?”

  “Yeah. Talking about how he was up for a job and didn’t want them to bounce him if they did a drop on him and he came up dirty.”

  “You do it?”

  “Charged him twenty dollars.”

  “Won’t the tests show that he ain’t been through puberty yet?”

  “Can they test for that?” Nehemiah’s voice rises with sudden worry.

  I shrug. That’s the sort of stuff that Moms doesn’t want me around. “Hood nonsense” she calls it. I don’t know. It’s just folks doing their best in a rigid system.

  Rhianna brings in a tray of pizza slices and French fries. We quit talking as soon as she walks in. “What were you boys talking about?”

  “None ya.” Nehemiah smiles.

  “What?” Rhianna sets the tray down in front of us, freeing her arms.

  “None ya business.”

  “Boy, don’t make me remind you who you talking to.” Rhianna stops in her tracks and narrows her eyes at him, a warning that he neared a line he better not cross.

  Nehemiah flinches. “I was just playing.”

  “Me, too.” Her frown broadens into a warm smile. She presses his head to her chest and kisses the top of it. “I’ll leave you boys to your boy business.”

  I pick the pepperonis from my pizza and stack them next to it. I eat the remaining cheese slice with gusto. Leaving the crust, I pop the pepperoni bits into my mouth one at a time. Nehemiah eats with his elbows out like he’s guarding his plate, gobbling his food as fast as he can shovel it into his mouth. Without asking, he grabs the crusts from my plate.

  “Act like you’ve seen a meal before,” Mrs. Johnson yells from the kitchen. “You ain’t in prison. Yet.”

  Nehemiah leans forward, as if somehow he was out of his grandmother’s earshot, and speaks in a conspiratorial whisper. “What did I miss in school?”

  “It’s like the entire vibe at the school flipped on me.” I explain about the snitch rumors, emphasizing that they fell on me alone. How I spent the rest of the day ducking folks, spinning it like I was some secret agent wrongly accused, having to dodge assassins at every turn. Nehemiah takes it all in. He taps his chin thoughtfully with my pizza crust.

  “So where are we at?” he asks. “My money’s on RaShawn. The gun was found by his spot. And assuming he wasn’t that level mad at me, he still might think he needs it.”

  “What about Kutter?”

  Nehemiah cradles his wrist at the sound of the name. I hang on the seat arm. “He always wanting to show everyone how thug he is. Like it’s some Boy Scout badge or something. Marcel tried to get in my head, telling me to watch those closest to me.”

  “Who? Rodrigo? Twon?” Nehemiah shakes his head. “Nah, I don’t see it.”

  “That’s what I’m saying.” I ease back into the couch.

  “What if we’re going about it all wrong?” Nehemiah sits up with a sudden thought.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What if it wasn’t a student at all?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “When I was in the nurse’s office, a delivery dude buzzed the office to get in. How many people come through, drop stuff off. Mailmen. Parents. Shoot, RaShawn’s sister if he forgets his lunch.”

  “I . . . hadn’t thought about that.” Think creatively and about every possibility. The possibility resets the game. A whole new pool of suspects springs to mind. “The twins wanted me to talk to Jaron.”

  “You want to go near anywhere they send you?”

  “Maybe he’s some kind of witness. If he ain’t come forward, it’s ’cause he’s scared.”

  “That makes sense. He don’t want to be labeled a snitch. Or definitely would be afraid of pointing the finger at a teacher.”

  “Either way.” I lick my fingers. “I don’t know Jaron except to mess with.”

  “He all right. He’s been tripping lately. Like he’s two people and you never know which one you’ll meet from day to day.”

  “I was thinking we try to talk to him tomorrow. You know the dude. He might still feel some sort of way about me after the music room thing.” I turn away and mumble, “Not that I blame him.”

  Nehemiah stabs at his last bits of pizza. He refuses to make eye contact with me.

  “You are coming back tomorrow, right?” I press.

  Nehemiah raises his arm to examine his wrist. “Might as well. Don’t see what the point is, though. Ain’t nothing much for me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look around—this is all I got. This is all that’s waiting for me. I don’t believe much in tomorrows.”

  I twist away from him because meeting his eyes hurts me in the bottom of my stomach. I wish I was older or smarter and had all the right words to say.

  “All I know is that I can’t solve this without you.” I hold my hand out. For a heartbeat, Nehemiah just stares at it as if making up his mind. Then he grins. We clap our hands, fire our guns, and snap our fingers. “I guess I’ll have to believe in tomorrows enough for both of us.”

  “How did it go?” Moms asks when I walk through the door.

  “You mean over at Nehemiah’s?” I examine her, hoping to catch her out of breath or sweating from running after me. “It was okay.”

  “You know I’m not real fond of you going over there.”

  “But he’s my friend.”

  “I know, baby.” A hint of sadness fills Moms’s voice. “But there are . . . influences I want to keep you away from. Life shouldn’t have to be so real for you already.”

  “It’s real all the time for Nehemiah.”

  “And if I could, I’d keep him from those influences, too.” Moms hugs me. For a long time. Hard.

  “Are you going to let go?” I mumble from her chest.

  “In a minute. I got something to tell you, and you’re not going to like it.”

  “What is it?” My head mushes into her side and I can barely breathe. I try pulling away, but Moms grips me tighter in her now less-than-tender embrace.

  “Mr. Blackmon called. He wants to meet with the both of us in the morning to discuss your recent behavior.”

  I fidget in my seat, never quite finding a position I’m comfortable in. The Ed room seems different. Quiet. Too quiet. Neat. Alien. Every afternoon once the students depart for the buses, Mrs. Horner stays behind in order to straighten up and reset things for the next day. I did the same thing with my bedroom. Having everything in its place relaxes me and gives me a sense of control, even against the futility of a mess being made of it all over again the next day. Since Moms couldn’t drop her off before the meeting, Ahrion finds the box of Legos and quickly fixes the cleanliness and quiet problem.

  “Did you hear about yesterday?” Mr. Blackmon asks.

  “Bits. What I managed to drag out of him and piece together,” Moms says.

  “Good, so he doesn’t just do that with me.” When he puts that bass in his voice, it always sounds like he’s almost flirting. Mr. Blackmon flashes a toothy grin.

  “Every conversation is a battle.”

  “I’m right here, you know.” I’m bored of swiveling back and forth, so instead I position my chair between them. When grown folks start talking about me like I’m not in the room, more times than not, they are figuring out how to team up against me.

  Having built two cars, Ahrion revs her engines.

  “I just wanted to make sure everyone was brought up to speed. With all that’s been going on—the gun, the fight—things can get
forgotten. Slip through the cracks, as it were, if we don’t stay on top of them. I wanted to give us the time and space to talk about how some of these things may be affecting you.” Mr. Blackmon’s voice takes on that special quality, of his warning me that he’s about to invade our feels.

  “You the school counselor now?” I ask.

  “I just feel, and correct me if I’m wrong or out of line, Mrs. Mitchell”—Mr. Blackmon faces her before turning his attention back to me—“like you’re walking along a precipice, Thelonius.”

  “A what?”

  “Press piss,” Ahrion yells from the Lego pile.

  Mr. Blackmon stares at me. “A cliff’s edge.”

  “Why didn’t he just say cliff?” I ask Moms.

  “Thelonius.” Moms pats me twice on my thigh to settle me down.

  “It’s like you’re trying to walk as close to the edge as possible. I wanted you to see that you don’t have to go it alone,” Mr. Blackmon says.

  “What’s your deal?” I ask.

  “You’re really hung up on that,” Mr. Blackmon says.

  “Everybody has a deal.”

  “Some angle they must be working.” Mr. Blackmon says it like it’s a question.

  “Exactly.”

  “What’s mine, then?” Mr. Blackmon lowers his hands into his lap, daring me to come at him.

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”

  Mr. Blackmon scoots back in his chair and inhales deeply. He pivots back and forth for a moment. I recognize the body language. Mr. Blackmon’s trying to figure out the next way to approach me. “You’re a good kid, Thelonius. I don’t know if you hear that enough.”

  “Excuse me?” The way a rattlesnake shakes its tail as a warning, Moms’s “excuse me?” alerts everyone that she’s about to bite.

  “Moms caught you slipping,” I say with a wide grin.

  “Believe me, I know you hear it from your mother.” Mr. Blackmon remains focused on me; his smooth delivery doesn’t waver. “If any of us thinks otherwise, she’s quick to let us know.”

  Moms straightens in her seat. “Dignity and pride. I teach my boy to walk upright, with his back straight. There’s none of that sagging pants nonsense around the house. He doesn’t let anyone strip him of his dignity. Not the school. Not his friends. Not the neighborhood. And not himself.”

  I shrink in my seat. I don’t need to actually be here. It’s embarrassing. Their expectations are a lot to live up to. I want to tell them that I’m not trying to get kicked out of school. That I especially want no part of being transferred to Banesford Accelerated Academy. That I dream—when I let myself dare to dream—of doing something . . . smart in life. Like be a scientist, to figure out how things work. Maybe be like one of those detective scientists on television who solve crimes. That would be so lit. No one would see me coming.

  But most times those kinds of dreams seem like they’re the future for someone else. I hear the voice of Mrs. Horner making fun of me. Kids like me don’t become scientists. That’s not even worth dreaming about. I’m a screwup. I’m going to let them down. Those voices may be right, but . . . I don’t know. I’m not ready to give up on it just yet.

  “So it’s with that in mind, a student came forward to say that she heard you brought the gun to school.”

  Marcel. No, not her. I mean, I know that she’s behind it, but she would’ve put someone else up to it. Not Kutter, because Mr. Blackmon said “she,” and besides, no one would believe him. Someone more low-key. Brionna, maybe. “That’s the rumor. It’s what Mrs. Fitzgerald all but accused me of from the jump.”

  “Did you call us in here to ambush us with accusations?” Moms is about too through with this conversation.

  “The opposite, actually. We’re still looking into things, doing a thorough investigation. No one’s going to move on rumor. I wanted to give Thelonius an opportunity to tell his side.”

  “Look, Mr. Blackmon.” I meet his eyes, then Moms’s. “I’m a little extra. I get that. But this is next level. I didn’t do this. There’s a lot going on in the school, things I’m still learning about. But this situation, it isn’t on me.”

  “You know I believe you, T. You know better than to have me out here looking foolish defending you if you did it. That said, I got you,” Moms said.

  “You’re a good talker, Thelonius. I knew I needed to hear you say that. But you need to know that if you are all talk and no action, then all you are is empty air. And I know there’s more to you than that. I want you to step up some more. Take on more responsibility. Get you to fight for what you believe in, and, should that flame get lit, fan it to make sure you keep fighting. You have so much potential and could be a powerful leader wherever you go.” Mr. Blackmon reaches for his water bottle to allow time for his words to settle in before continuing. Even he has to realize he’s just laid it on pretty thick. He turns toward Moms. “It takes a lot of voices speaking into a child’s life, fighting for them, in order for them to turn out okay. And, Mrs. Mitchell, I wanted you to know that I’m on your team. However I can support you, I’m here.”

  With the two main adults in my life batting life lessons at me for each other’s benefit, it’s time to derail this nonsense. “Are you hitting on my mom?”

  Ahrion’s engines go silent.

  “Thelonius!” Moms yells.

  “You are, aren’t you? I ain’t going to just sit here and let him push up on you. Talking about how much he cares, like he’s trying to be my dad or something.” I admit, this would be the corniest flirting I’d ever seen.

  “Is that what you think?” Without fluttering an eyelid, not seeming flustered in anyway, Mr. Blackmon swigs more water. He just looks at me—through me—in a, I don’t know, paternal way.

  Ahrion smashes cars into each other. Lego pieces fly everywhere. Ahrion giggles as she begins rebuilding them.

  Crossing my arms, I lean away. There are times when a dull ache pains my belly from missing my dad. After school or on a Saturday afternoon, the back of my mind itches like there’s something I forgot or was supposed to be doing. Throwing a football with someone. Playing video games with someone. Having someone to show me stuff. I imagine it’s similar to, like, having an arm missing: it may have felt real all the same, but the pain was in my head.

  “I still think you need a pet or something.” Mumbling, I shift toward the window.

  “Fair enough.” Mr. Blackmon smiles. The eight o’clock bell rings. Ahrion jumps. “Want to give me and your mom a minute to go over your work to date? I promise I won’t hit on her.”

  I study Mr. Blackmon carefully with something shy of a stare down. Before I escape, Moms tugs at my arm to bend me low to kiss me. I wipe it off but smile. Nehemiah and Twon walk in together, trailed by Rodrigo, who nips at their heels with constant chatter. I step away from Mr. Blackmon’s corner to join them by the cubbies.

  “What’s that about?” Nehemiah glances back at Moms.

  “Surprise parent-teacher conference,” I say.

  “You in trouble?”

  “Always.”

  Nehemiah waits for Twon and Rodrigo to wander to their desks. “I saw Jaron. Told him we wanted to get with him at recess.”

  “Good. Maybe we’ll finally get to the bottom of things.”

  We are the brotherhood of the flinch.

  One way or another, we carry that fear with us. Every one of us. You can see it in the eyes of folks when you walk the school hallways. Always on guard. Always on the lookout. Never knowing where the next hit might come from. Never knowing who might roll up on you. We live in a state of shock, being worn out from always having to be on guard 24/7. We live with that sense of resigned relief when the punch finally lands and we think “at least now it’s over” until the cycle starts all over again. Sometimes it’s playful. Nehemiah wants to make me jump, and I have to live with never knowing when I am going to get caught slipping. There are other times, though, like the way Nehemiah flinches at his mother’s touch. Tiny, alm
ost imperceptible, it would have been easily missed, but I saw it.

  The flinch.

  Brushing off Nehemiah’s hand clap on the shoulder with an exaggerated sense of bravado, Jaron plays off him, flinching with a shrug.

  “Don’t sneak up on me. Never sneak up on a brother,” Jaron says.

  “My bad. Didn’t realize I was in full creep mode,” Nehemiah says.

  “I’m just saying. I’m a beast.”

  “All right, all right.” Nehemiah holds his hands up.

  The way Jaron scans the recess playground tells me a different story. I’ve never seen this side of Jaron. Actually, other than noting him being a big dude, I’d never actually “seen” Jaron before. Up until now, Jaron’s just been another nameless plaything. Some dudes just have “mark” written on them and you just have to mess with them.

  Still mad about being provoked into blowing up in music class, Jaron keeps his back to me, an intentional disrespect, which I let stand without saying anything. He probably had a session with Mrs. Fitzgerald and a detention day or two. It wouldn’t take a genius to piece together that I wound him up on purpose. I was just messing with him; it wasn’t personal. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time when I needed to vent. I mean, I’m sorry he got caught up or hurt or whatever, but he had to see that he wasn’t the only one I gassed that day. I can’t figure out the words to say and it’s not like we’re going to hug. That’s not how we do things. I can’t show softness and neither can he.

  The silence builds between us until it demands an action.

  I shift noisily and clear my throat. Jaron rotates on his heel, slow and deliberate, until he faces me. A mild sneer crosses his face. He stares me up and down as if I’m small. “What you need? Nehemiah says you wanted to talk.”

  “Why you so mad? I do something to you?” I play ignorant to draw out Jaron’s thoughts.

  “I just don’t like . . .” Jaron breathes hard through his nose. His face twists a bit like waves of conflicting emotions hit him all at once as he searches to attach a name to one of the feelings that trouble him. Resentment. Being used. Feeling burned by a supposed friend. I can only guess. I give him a chance to name them, because I’m sorry for them all. “Nothing. Forget it.”