Dear Martin

by Nic Stone

  All Jus knows is he’s got this shitty feeling in his gut, kind of like somebody crawled into his stomach and ran a cheese grater over the inside. He needs to get rid of it somehow. Talk to somebody who gets what he’s feeling because they’ve felt it too.

  You know who gets it? Deuce Diggs. Jus has been listening to his music a lot since he woke up without a best friend. There’s one track he’s had on repeat since the article dropped:

  Turn on the news, another black man slain.

  They say “It’s okay. Save your voice, don’t complain.

  This isn’t about race, so stop using that excuse.

  Now look at this funny picture of Obama in a noose!

  See how color-blind we are? You’re not really black to me.

  Underneath, where it matters, we both bleed red, you see?

  So put away that race card; it ain’t 1962.

  There’s no more segregation…isn’t that enough for you?”

  But of course Jus doesn’t have access to Deuce Diggs; he can’t just call him up and say: Hey, dawg, I’m feelin’ what you’re feelin’. Can we talk?

  Jus remembers what Quan said about the neighborhood guys being “like family.” That Martel would get it. That he’d be welcomed if he wanted in.

  That’s really why he’s on this bus right now: he’s sick of feeling alone.

  —

  The first thing to cross Jus’s mind as he steps off the bus is the irony of looking for solace in the place he was anxious to get away from. As someone drives by in a brand-new Benz, he also feels a twinge of guilt over refusing to drive his new car to Martel’s house. How can he be mad at white people for profiling when he’s doing the same damn thing they do? Lock your doors…Hide your valuables…He even left Manny’s watch at home.

  This is the shit that has to be remedied.

  He hangs a left onto Wynwood Street and spots the gunmetal Range Rover Trey said would be in the driveway. Despite it being an older model than the one Manny drove, seeing it makes Jus want to make a run for it.

  He should turn back. He really should. Turn back, and go “home” to his mahogany desk and school-issued MacBook.

  But he doesn’t.

  It’s not until Jus starts up the driveway that he notices the three guys sitting on the porch. Trey is there, plus White Boy Brad and the dude who had the gun during the Halloween disaster.

  “Oho! If it isn’t Smarty-Pants!” Brad says.

  The gun-toter—Jus doesn’t remember his name—smiles. “ ’Sup, Justyce?” he says. “Great to see ya, buddy, ’ol pal!”

  The others laugh.

  Jus’s eyes immediately drop to the guy’s waistband. He can see the bulge of the gun handle beneath dude’s shirt. It gives him a chill.

  He tries to pull himself together. “ ’Sup, y’all?”

  They all laugh again.

  Trey gives Jus the same kind of once-over he did at the Halloween party all those months ago. He smiles that sneery creeper smile, and Jus feels like his guts are about to make an appearance inside his boxer-briefs. Trey shouts: “Hey, Martel, you got company,” over his shoulder at the screen door, and the second Jus steps onto the porch, a voice calls out from inside: “Come on in, young brotha!”

  Even though his heart is about to explode, Jus pulls the door open and enters the house he’s only ever eyed warily due to rumors about all the drugs and guns hidden inside. He follows a short hallway lined with what appear to be African relics: tribal masks, framed hieroglyphics, and a silhouette painting of Nefertiti—he can tell by the cylindrical headpiece that reminds him of the flattop haircuts some of the NBA players are trying to bring back.

  There’s similar art all over the walls of the living room. Jus is sure this house could win the world record for largest collection of ancient Egyptian paraphernalia. His gaze roams the space until it lands on a youngish, bearded black man in a dashiki shirt and kufi hat. He’s sitting cross-legged in a papasan chair with a kente-cloth cushion. Most notable is the black tracking device strapped to his ankle—so this is why dude couldn’t meet Jus at a coffee shop.

  “Welcome,” the guy says. “You must be Justyce.”

  “Yep…That’s me.”

  “Martel.” He sticks out a hand, and Jus walks over to shake it. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  “Likewise.” Jus looks around again and then sticks his hands in his pockets.

  Though Jus has known of the Black Jihad leader since middle school, Martel in person is not what he expected. He honestly has no idea what to say to the guy. The silence is beginning to morph into something straight-up menacing. “Cool art.”

  Martel smiles. “I like to surround myself with reminders of ancient Kemet so the boys and I never forget our imperial roots. You know anything about that?”

  Jus shrugs. “I’ve studied it a bit, but I don’t know a whole lot. Sorry.”

  “No need to apologize.” Martel tents his fingers beneath his chin. “You’ll learn, young brotha. You’ll learn. The Europeans succeeded in denigrating and enslaving peoples of African descent, but there’s royal blood flowing through your veins, you hear me?”

  Justyce nods and swallows. “Yes, sir.”

  “People across the diaspora have been treated as inferior for so long, most of us have habituated to the lie of white superiority. But never forget,” Martel goes on, “your ancestors survived a transatlantic journey, built this nation from the ground up, and maintained a semblance of humanity, even when the very conditions of their existence suggested they were less than human. ‘Jihad’ is the act of striving, persevering. That is your legacy, young brotha. This country belongs to you.”

  As Jus listens to Martel’s voice, he can feel himself relaxing. He doesn’t know if it’s the voice itself, or what it’s saying, or the art, or the incense, or the atmosphere, but something about Martel and his house makes Jus feel looser than he’s felt in a while.

  He looks at Martel—who’s been watching him, reading him, studying him, he can tell, ever since he stepped into the room—and…yeah. Martel does get it. Quan said Jus would be welcomed, and that’s exactly how he feels. The disarming effect gives him vertigo.

  “So what can I do for you, Justyce?” Martel asks. Before he knows it, Jus is telling Martel all the stuff he can’t talk to anyone else about: how it felt to be profiled, the Martin experiment and how it failed, how alone he’s felt and how furious he is, how much he misses his homeboy.

  Martel listens intently, stroking his beard, lowering his eyes when Jus gets to Manny’s death, narrowing them when he hears about Mr. Julian’s job. By the time Jus finishes getting it all out, he’s sprawled on his back across the giant ankh at the center of Martel’s Egyptian rug. He feels empty…in a good way.

  Martel gets up without a word and disappears into what must be the kitchen. Jus lets his head fall to the left. That’s when he sees the sawed-off shotgun tucked beneath the edge of the coffee table.

  It smacks him like a battering ram: he shouldn’t be here. No matter how chill Martel seems, the dude is a criminal (Hello? House arrest anklet?). Those guys outside…they’re the same ones who threatened to shoot Manny’s old friends.

  What the hell is Jus doing here?

  There’s a tap on his foot, so Jus looks up. Martel is squatting beside him with a glass in his hand.

  Jus sits up and takes a drink. The first gulp is too big—he doesn’t know why he didn’t expect the thing to be alcoholic. He coughs as what feels like the flames of hell run down his esophagus through his chest and into his stomach.

  Martel laughs. Jus can tell it’s a laugh of delighted amusement. It makes sense that the neighborhood guys without dads flock to Martel. “So, the illusion wore off, huh? Seeing some truth now?” he says.

  Jus nods, and that feeling of defeat returns to his chest now that the fire from the liquor is gone.

  “You ready to strike back?”

  Justyce knew this question would come. What he isn’t ready for, though, is t
he fear that seems to have elbowed its way in front of his fury. Is he ready to strike back? It’s definitely not what Manny would want.

  But the reason he’s even here is because Manny is gone.

  Justyce looks up at Martel. There’s no anxiety in this dude’s face. No pressure. No fear. Jus lifts his glass to his lips again—

  Trey bursts into the room with Gun Guy and White Boy Brad on his heels. “Yo, check this out,” he says, passing a cell phone to Martel. They all crowd around.

  “Brad, that’s the fool you punched at that Halloween party, right? With the KKK shit on?” Gun Guy asks.

  “Yep,” Brad says. “That’s him.”

  “Homeboy says you whupped his ass a few months ago, Justyce.” Martel hands Jus the phone.

  There, in big, bold letters above a picture of Blake Benson: JUSTYCE McALLISTER’S VIOLENT PAST: A FORMER VICTIM SPEAKS OUT.

  “Damn, Smarty-Pants,” Trey says, shaking Jus’s shoulder. “Didn’t know you had it in you!”

  “Hell yeah, bruh!” from Gun Guy. “You scrap like this dude say you do, you can roll with us anytime.”

  “For real. You more like us than I realized!” Brad says.

  That does it for Justyce. “I gotta go.” He scrambles to his feet and makes a break for the door, refusing to turn around when they call out after him.

  “Let him go,” he hears from Martel on the way out.

  Mrs. Friedman looks so shocked to see Justyce standing on her doorstep, he peeks over his shoulder to make sure there’s not a ghost or something behind him.

  “Justyce?”

  “Hey, Mrs. F. Is Sarah-Jane home?”

  “Sure. Come in, come in.”

  As Mrs. F stands there with her eyes popping out of her head, Jus thinks maybe he shouldn’t have just shown up with no notice. Not that he made a conscious decision to do that…He got back to school from Martel’s, hopped in his car, and let his instincts lead.

  This is where he ended up.

  “I should’ve called,” he says. “I’m sorry—”

  “No, no, that’s not it at all, I’m just— Well, we’ve really missed you around here.”

  They missed him?

  “SJ’s up in her room, but do you mind saying hello to Neil? He’ll be thrilled to see you.”

  “Uhh…sure.”

  Mrs. F leads him around to the living room where Mr. Friedman is kicked back in his recliner watching reruns of the Final Four. “Neil, look who’s here,” she says.

  When Mr. Friedman sees Jus, he sits bolt upright. “Jusmeister!”

  “Hey, Mr. F.”

  “It’s really you!” Mr. Friedman jumps up to hug Jus, who winces a little from the pressure on his shoulder. “How are you? We’re so glad to see you, son!”

  “I can see that.”

  The Friedmans laugh.

  Jus swallows. It’s a little overwhelming, all this…love.

  “Sarah’s in her room if you want to head up, Justyce,” Mrs. F says.

  “Thank you. And thanks for the warm welcome. Promise I’ll call first next time.”

  “Oh, don’t be silly.”

  Jus smiles and turns to head upstairs.

  “Hey, Jusmeister, if you need anything—anything at all, I mean it—don’t hesitate to call us, all right?” Mr. F says from behind him.

  At first, Jus recoils. If there’s one thing he can’t handle right now, it’s pity.

  But as he looks over his shoulder into the faces of SJ’s parents, he knows this is different.

  He clears his throat. “Thanks so much, sir. That really means a lot to me.”

  “You betcha, kiddo.”

  “Okay, we’ve embarrassed ourselves enough,” Mrs. F says. “Go on up.”

  As Jus climbs, he gets nervous. What if SJ isn’t as cool with him dropping in as her parents were? What if she’s busy? What if she’s asleep? What is he even going to say to her?

  The door is cracked, and he can hear what sounds like NPR and Carrie Underwood playing simultaneously inside SJ’s room.

  Typical.

  He knocks.

  “Come in.”

  She’s stretched out on the bed in her Bras Prep lacrosse shorts and a T-shirt, with an open calculus book in her lap. When she sees it’s him, she sits up just like her dad did, wearing the same expression her mom had.

  It makes him smile.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Hey! Uhh…” She scrambles around for a second like she can’t figure out what to do. Shuts the calc book, sets it aside, and swings her legs around so she’s sitting on the edge of the bed. “Oh!” She grabs a remote from the nightstand and points it at the speakers attached to her computer on the desk. NPR and Carrie go quiet. “So…You’re, uhh…you’re here.”

  Jus laughs. “That’s what your parents said.”

  “Oh god, did they totally attack you? I’m so sorry.” She shakes her head. “You’re literally all they talk about these days. I would’ve warned you if I’d known you were coming.”

  Jus laughs again. “It’s all good. Actually felt pretty nice.”

  She smiles. “Wanna sit?” Points to the empty space beside her.

  He sits so close that their shoulders and legs are touching. She’s warm.

  “So…what brings you to la casa de Friedman, Mr. McAllister?” She nudges his knee with her own.

  He turns to look at her. “You.”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah, I…umm…” He looks away. “Well—”

  “Everything okay, Jus?” She touches his forearm just past his wrist, and the memory of handcuffs overwhelms him even all these months later.

  His eyes drop to her hands, and he feels a weight slip off his shoulders. They’re chipped now, but her nails are still painted his favorite color.

  Jus stands, pulls SJ up, and wraps her in a hug that lifts her off her feet.

  “Umm…okay,” she says.

  He inhales a whiff of her fruity shampoo. “I almost joined a gang today,” he says.

  “Huh?”

  “I almost joined a gang.” He puts her down. “Remember the guys I told you about from the Halloween party?”

  “You mean the ones who threatened to shoot you?”

  “Yeah. I went to see their leader.”

  “You what?”

  “I was thinkin’ about, uhhh…well, joining their crew.”

  She just gapes at him.

  They both sit back on the bed, and he tells her about visiting Quan in juvie, and the sequence of events that led him to Martel’s doorstep. At some point he starts crying. Which he’d normally be embarrassed about. But he’s not because it’s the best he’s felt since…well, since before he can remember.

  Granted, part of feeling so good probably has to do with being wrapped in SJ’s arms with his head on her shoulder. Jus has no idea when that happened, but here they are.

  He can imagine Manny calling him a punk for letting her hold him while he cries like a big-ass baby, but instead of making him sad, the thought makes him smile—he can also imagine Manny saying Took you long enough, fool.

  After a few minutes of silence, SJ lets him go, and he sits up. “Thanks for that.” He smiles at her.

  She doesn’t smile back.

  “You okay?”

  “Justyce, do you like me?”

  “Huh?”

  SJ clasps her hands in her lap. “Like…I know you’re going through a lot right now…”

  “But?” he says.

  She looks at him. “I can’t keep doing this to myself, Jus.”

  “What are you talking about, S?”

  She sighs. “Okay, this is the thing: I’ve had a crush on you since tenth grade.”

  “For real?”

  “Yes. At first, that’s all it was, didn’t expect anything to come of it. But then last semester, we started talking more and spending more time together, and it like…evolved.”

  Jus doesn’t know what to say.

  “Problem is, I don’t reall
y know how to read you. Sometimes it seems like you’re into me, but other times you’re kinda withdrawn. Sometimes you look at me in a way that makes me wanna put the world on a platter and hand it to you, but other times, you won’t look at me at all.”

  “Damn, S.”

  “As much as I enjoy your friendship and company, I can’t keep giving myself over to this hope we’ll become something more. I need to know where you stand. So tell me the truth.” She looks him right in the eye. “Do you like me, Jus?”

  He gulps. “Uhh…I, uhh…”

  “Oh my god. You totally don’t.”

  “Huh? I didn’t sa—”

  “You hesitated!”

  Jus peers down at his brown hands and sees Manny’s watch.

  “You know what? It’s fine,” she says. “We can still be frien—”

  “S, I like you.”

  She glares at him. “Don’t just say it to shut me up, Justyce.”

  “I’m not! I do like you, I swear! More than I’ve ever liked any girl.”

  “Why do I feel like there’s a ‘but’?”

  He sighs.

  “Melo, right?” she says.

  “What? No! Melo and I are done. As in never-gonna-happen-again.”

  “So what is it? Is it me?”

  “No! It’s…” He looks around the room. Anywhere but at her. “It’s complicated.”

  She drops her chin. “Just forget it.”

  “Wait! No!”

  It’s now or never, dawg, Manny says in his head.

  Jus turns to face her fully. “S, I’m sorry. For confusing you. You’re right. I never said how I felt cuz I was scared to.”

  She fiddles with her hands and doesn’t respond.

  Jus takes a deep breath. “This is the thing,” he says. “My mom…Well, she’s not real keen on me, uhh…dating girls who aren’t African American.”

  SJ draws back. And then her head cocks to one side. “Really?”

  “Yup. It’s been since I was little, but she’s gotten more adamant about it since—” He cuts off.

  “Since the shooting,” SJ says.

  “Yeah.”

  She sighs.

  “But I don’t care anymore,” Jus says.