When I Was the Greatest

by Jason Reynolds

  When they all left, Jazz took her seat on the couch and turned the TV back on. The stupid show seemed to pick up right where it left off. I ran over to the window to watch John and Black, but then caught myself and stepped away a little. Didn’t seem like a good idea to be too close to the window, y’know, in plain sight. But I could still see John and Black talking. The thought of my dad planning some sort of hit was crazy, but I knew that’s what was happening. John and Black talked a while, both using their hands a lot, which let me know that the conversation was pretty serious. John kept pointing to his car, and Black kept nodding his head in agreement. I kept thinking about that gun I saw. I knew that’s what John kept referring to. He was probably letting Black know that he had heat and that there ain’t no choice but to drive to Brownsville and off whoever was looking for me. Black started shaking his head no, obviously trying to talk my father out of it. But it didn’t seem to be working. Then they shook hands and hugged, my father waved to Kim, and he jogged back toward the door.

  The rest of the day went pretty smooth if you didn’t count the fact that I knew I was being hunted, which I have to tell you is a pretty jacked-up feeling. Like I said, I steered clear of windows, and kept Jazz away too. John knew that I was stressed about everything, so he made sure that the rest of the night was cool. We both knew we couldn’t let Jazz know what was going on, because if I told her that some dudes were looking for me, it would’ve been the world’s first case of a child literally crying themselves to death.

  So the three of us watched movies—Jazz’s picks, of course—and Jazz and I listened to John tell a bunch of stories about how we were when we were younger. I’d heard most of them a million times, but it was nice to watch Jazz take them all in for the first time. John told her that she was talking way before she was walking, which everyone thought was so strange. Made total sense to me! He said she would crawl around speaking in complete sentences about what she wanted and what she didn’t want, but couldn’t figure out how to stand up and put one foot in front of the other. John said he would always just say to her, “Little girl, stand up,” because he knew she understood him. Then one day he said it, and she just did it! I remember that. He said that’s how he and my mother knew that Jazz would be an old soul.

  He did tell one story I had never heard before. He said that when I was three or four, I would go to bed every night with a stuffed dog him and Doris got me. I remember the dog’s name was Roofus. John said he would come to tuck me in, and I would make sure Roofus was lying flat on my stomach, with the covers over him, too. He said I would be holding and hugging Roofus so tight that after a while the stuffing started coming out of him. Every night my father would do this, and before he’d leave the room, he’d ask two questions. The first was whether or not I wanted the nightlight on. I always said no. The second was whether I wanted the door closed or cracked. I always said closed. John said that one night, when he was tucking me in, he asked the two questions, and I answered like I always answered. Then he said, “You’re so lucky. You don’t have to be afraid of the dark because you have Roofus here to protect you.” I looked at him and laughed, and said, “No, Daddy. Roofus is lucky. I protect him.” And now he said that’s why he really wasn’t surprised about me taking up for Needles, that I’ve been that way since I was young.

  By the time my mother got home, the three of us were knocked out on the couch, John and I slumped side by side, Jazz laid out across our laps. I heard the knob turn and the door open, and by the time I could lift my head, John’s head was up too.

  “Ma?” I whispered, my throat full of sleep.

  “Lord have mercy, look at y’all,” she said, touching the top of my head as she walked behind the couch. “Get your little sister up and go to bed.”

  I slowly slid out from under her legs and scooped her up in my arms like a baby.

  “Night, Dad,” I whispered to John.

  “Good night, Ali.”

  In my room I lay in bed, lights off, but I left the door cracked for the first time in my life. I tried to go to sleep, but my brain was going in a trillion bad directions, wondering what would happen when the sun came up. When it was daytime again, what terrible thing might go down? Was my father going to really go to kill those guys? Was he really going to put his life in danger for me? Then I started thinking about if I would do that for him. Would I risk getting killed, or at least getting the crap beat out of me? Would I do that for Jazz? For Doris? Of course I would. I did it for Needles!

  It was so much to swallow. What if John gets caught? What if he goes back to jail for shooting someone again, but this time for life? What if he misses and they shoot him! Oh, man! What if he can’t find them and they find me first? And in that moment, I thought that maybe helping Needles was a mistake. Maybe it was a mistake so big that my father, and my family, would be paying for it forever.

  15

  I woke up early the next morning. Well, I don’t know if you can really call it waking up, since I never actually got to sleep. I rolled out of bed and hurried into the living room to see John, hoping he hadn’t already taken off for Brownsville. It was important for me to see him, to talk to him, not that I could talk him out of it. I’m not even exactly sure that I wanted to. But just to see him and talk to him. You just never know, and I didn’t want him leaving, and something happening, and me not catching him to say good-bye before he left.

  I hadn’t heard any arguing or anything like that in the middle of the night, so I assumed it was cool with Doris for him to stay here. When I came into the living room, the two of them were sitting on the couch having coffee. I couldn’t believe my eyes. My parents together in the morning. And they actually seemed natural around each other.

  “Morning,” I said, trying not to make things awkward.

  “Morning, Ali,” John said.

  “Hi, sweetie,” Doris said. She stood up, gave me a kiss on the head, and then went to put her cup in the sink. “I’m gonna be late for work. The A train’ll probably be all jacked up as usual.” She grabbed her bag. “Y’all behave. Ali, look after your sister, and you still ain’t allowed out this house. Understand?”

  I knew that was coming. I just nodded my head yes.

  “And John,” she started. She walked over to him. He stood up, and she wrapped her arms around him tight. She whispered something in his ear, and when she pulled away, she whipped toward the door so fast, I couldn’t see her face.

  “She okay?” I asked.

  “Yeah, she’s okay. I told her that I was going to go take care of all this drama today in Brownsville, and of course, that has her all shook up.”

  “So you really going to do it?”

  “Ali, I don’t see no other choice. Either I handle them or they handle you.”

  “Or we could just leave Brooklyn.”

  “Leave Brooklyn? Boy, this is home. You leave home on your terms, not because someone ran you out. Got that?”

  “Got it.”

  We sat quietly for a second, and then I got a whiff of coffee, and bacon, and cinnamon. I glanced over to the kitchen. No pots. No pans. Stove off.

  “Hey! Ma cooked for you?” I asked jealously. Doris never cooks breakfast for us because she leaves so early. If she had cooked breakfast for my father, I was going to be salty.

  John looked at me crazy and laughed. “Now, you know your mother ain’t make no breakfast,” he said, shaking his head. “I think it’s Brenda upstairs. Go ahead up there and ask if you can have some.”

  I laughed. “Ms. Brenda is cool, but she don’t seem like the type to share food.”

  John hooted. “Got that right!”

  About twenty minutes later he’d gotten himself together and was about to leave the house. I asked him why he was leaving so early, and he told me something about how if they hustle like Brother said, then they should be wide-awake and on the block, and that it’s best to catch them early before they start looking for me. Jazz was still asleep, which was unlike her, but when I thought a
bout it, maybe she just felt more comfortable knowing that John was in the house. We didn’t really talk about too much before he took off, or have any sort of amazing father/son lightbulb moment, but the time we spent, to me, was quality. I told him that I loved him, which wasn’t too hard to do. I know for most guys it’s pretty tough, but because I’m so affectionate toward Jazz, and I’d watched John be the same way, it seemed like a normal thing to say, especially knowing what he was about to do for me.

  I asked if he was going to tell Jazz good-bye, and he said that he’d rather not wake her. He told me to do it for him, and to not worry too much because he would be back. But if there is anything I’ve learned about parents, it’s that they always tell you a positive thing in the middle of a negative situation because they don’t want you to trip out. And I appreciate that. He reached down and picked up his Yankees fitted cap, brushed it on his thigh, and slapped it on his head. He hugged me tight, and awkwardly, then pushed me away and gave me a left-handed handshake. Not dap. A handshake. Grown-man style. And he squeezed tight. So I squeezed tight. And then he left.

  Like usual, I walked over to the kitchen window to see him leave. There was really nothing to it. John just got into his car and pulled off. I leaned to the side to follow the car as far as I could, but before I knew it, it was gone.

  When Jazz got up, we did all the things we normally did. I needed things to be as regular as possible to keep my mind off John, and to keep me from acting weird around Jazz, which would then lead her to asking questions and worrying. So, everything went like usual. She cooked breakfast. I tried to help, but of course she wouldn’t let me. Pancakes, eggs, and orange slices. I ate it. We watched her shows. News, talk shows, soap operas. I helped her look through magazines for cool scrapbook pages while she picked my brain. All of her questions were about our folks. She wanted to know why John had spent the night, and if it was because he and Mom were thinking about getting back together. But I didn’t really have an answer for her. To be honest, our parents was the one thing I didn’t want to talk about. Not right then. Not with the thought of our dad never returning swimming around my head like goldfish in a shark tank. So I talked around all her questions, never really giving her any direct answers. After a while she just stopped asking and zoned back in to the TV.

  I took the bowls we used for lunch to the sink, then popped into the bathroom to pick something out of my teeth. I examined my mouth, as well as the rest of my face. I noticed the swelling was just about all gone, and the bruises were disappearing. The blue under my eye was turning back to brown.

  I heard a thump. But I didn’t pay it any mind because this is Brooklyn. You hear lots of things. Then I heard a voice. It was coming from the shower wall, which means it was coming from the apartment next door. Needles and Noodles’s place.

  I sat on the edge of the tub like I used to, like a fisherman sitting on the edge of his boat, waiting for something good to bite the line. I just listened, wondering who was there. I wanted to say something or do something. Maybe tap on the wall—that way if it was Needles, he would know it was me and maybe say something. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. The bath faucet dripped slowly, ringing as each drip splashed against the drain. I sat staring at the blue tile on the wall, wishing I had some sort of X-ray vision to see through to the other side. See if Needles was still bruised up bad. See if he was bent over, limping, or if his ribs had healed any so he could at least stand up straight. I wanted to make sure he still had his wrist wrapped up tight and that after he left the bathroom, he went right back to bed to rest up.

  I also wished I could see Noodles. Just to see if he was okay, is all. When Kim told me that he apologized to her about how he acted at Black’s house, I couldn’t help but feel bad. Not that he didn’t owe her an apology, but if he humbled himself enough to actually say he was sorry, then he must really be flipping on the inside. I mean, both me and his brother had lost faith in him, so everything had to be finally starting to get to him. And even though he had every bit of what he was going through coming to him, he was still my best friend. He was still my homeboy. My road dog. My dude. So I couldn’t help but worry, even when I felt like he didn’t deserve my worry anymore.

  “Ali, you okay?” Jazz’s voice snapped me out of my trance. She tapped on the door lightly. “Ali?”

  A drop of water hit the drain.

  “Yeah, I’m cool, Jazz. Coming out in a second,” I said. I tried to put some smile in my voice so that she didn’t worry or ask any questions. I could tell that she could sense something, though. That’s the only reason she came and knocked on the door. Any other time she would’ve just assumed that I was using the bathroom, maybe going number two. But this time she came looking for me.

  “Stupid orange stuff,” I said, opening the door.

  “Pulp.”

  “Yeah, pulp,” I said, smirking. “Stuck all in my teeth.”

  Jazz looked at me and twisted her mouth up. I knew she didn’t believe me, but I also knew she knew that whatever I wasn’t telling her, I wasn’t telling her for a reason.

  • • •

  A few hours later Jazz was taking her usual midday nap, the scandal of soap opera playing in the background, probably providing her with dreams no eleven-year-old should ever have, and I was sitting on the couch just waiting for something to happen. I didn’t know what that something was going to be. Maybe a devastating phone call from my mother saying she got word my father was dead, killed by some punks in Brownsville. Or maybe Black would come by and tell me that my father was down at the precinct, arrested for attempted murder or something like that. I don’t know, but I knew something was coming, and I was waiting for it.

  Somewhere between the television saying “I thought you died in the car crash” and “I love you too much to let you marry him,” I heard a key being pushed into the deadbolt. I turned the TV off and sprung up as the knob turned and the door opened.

  I didn’t know I was holding my breath until I saw him—my dad. Thank God! He stood in the doorway, filling up the space like a broken-down grim reaper. He held the bottom of his shirt up to his nose, using it to plug his left nostril to stop blood from pouring from it. He limped inside, wincing, with a duffel bag hiked up on his shoulder. Jazz twitched, reacting to whatever dream she may have been having. Afraid to wake her and have her freak out, my dad put a finger up to his lips, mouthed, Be quiet, and walked lightly to the kitchen sink. I met him there, grabbed the hand towel we dry dishes with, wet it with cold water, and gave it to him. He pressed it against his nose and leaned against the kitchen counter, his head tilted back, his eyes teary. I stood in front of him, staring at him as if he wasn’t real. Looking at his hands, thinking that they were now the hands of a murderer. Looking at his nose, wondering which guy hit him before he blew them all away.

  As happy as I was to see him here, alive, I’d never, ever, ever in my whole life felt worse about the fact that he had to do what he did for me. To protect me. Because I had to protect Needles since Noodles wouldn’t. But then again, it was me who pressed for Needles to go with us to that stupid party in the first place! Not Noodles. It was me. So it was just as much my fault as anyone’s. I just couldn’t believe that any of this was happening. Everything had come undone. And I had no idea what to say to my dad, or what he would say to me.

  Once he finally got his nose to stop bleeding, he motioned toward my room. We tiptoed down the hall, my knees barely bending, my ankles mushy and loose. I felt like I was going to pass out or something. The hallway seemed longer than usual, and even though it was the middle of the afternoon, it felt like midnight. We slipped in and closed the door, slowly turning the knob to make sure it didn’t click and wake up Jazz.

  John sighed a long drawn-out sigh, like a heavy load had just come out of him and was now floating around the room. It sort of felt like it came out of his mouth, bounced around the walls for a moment, and then landed right on my shoulder. Or right on top of my head. The heaviness of the room, the tension,
the fact that John hadn’t said nothing about anything yet, broke me. I threw myself at him just because I was so scared and confused, I didn’t know what else to do. He wrapped his arms around me as I sobbed. My shoulders were like bouncing all over the place as I hiccuped and snorted—just ugly. This was the kind of cry that could get you laughed at forever if the wrong dude saw you. Lucky it was my dad, and though I had never really cried in front of him before, he was cool about it. He didn’t say stop crying, or toughen up. He just said to let it out.

  “It’s okay, Ali. It’s all over now. I took care of it like I said I would,” John said, his voice trembling.

  “What you mean?” I snuffed out.

  “What you mean, what I mean? I took care of it. You don’t gotta worry about nobody coming to get you,” he said, his arms pushing me away from him so he could see my face. “You understand? I handled it. Needles and Noodles are safe too. It’s over.” He spoke like he was sure. Like he did something to permanently prevent them from coming after me. I knew what that something was, but I still had to make sure. There was something about hearing it that made it real, and even though I really didn’t want to hear it, I kind of did.

  “Can I ask you something?” I said, wiping my face, easing down onto the bed. “What was it like?”

  “What was what like?” John asked, still standing, leaning against the wall, Muhammad Ali posed behind him, taped to the wall with a big cheese on his face.

  “Pulling the trigger.”

  “Pulling the . . .” John stopped midsentence. “Wait,” he said, walking over to the bed. He sat down beside me and went through a quick series of motions, from glancing at the ceiling, to wiping his face with his hands, to patting my back before continuing, “You think I shot them? You think I went over to Brownsville and killed those dudes, Ali?”

  My confusion reached an all-time high.

  “Yeah. Ain’t that what you did? Took care of it?”