Courage

by Barbara Binns

  Don’t force him to relive

  Things he never should have done and things he never did.”

  He rolls his eyes before tossing my paper on the table. “‘Never did?’ Don’t you know about cause and effect? He arrived, and bad stuff got worse.” Dontae sticks his finger in the dip and pulls out one of the black beans. “Did you see your mother fix this?”

  “I helped her,” I admit, wondering what he’s getting at. He knows I like working in the kitchen with Mom.

  “Did you soak the beans?” he asks. When I nod, he continues, “Then you saw the scum that floats to the top.”

  “Are you calling my brother scum?” My jaw clenches.

  “Didn’t you?”

  A long time ago. Okay, maybe only a few weeks, but it seems to belong in a history lesson now. Lamont is not perfect—he lies and he’s up to something at night—but once in a while, I glimpse the brother I used to know and love and trust. I don’t know. I’m just confused, I guess.

  “Your dad wants us to give people second chances,” I say through trembling lips.

  “He’s a preacher. He has to say that. You need to be smart.” He leaves the table and pulls on his jacket. “I need fresh air. Let’s go to the park by the school. We can shoot a little basketball.” He walks out. I grab my own coat and the basketball from my closet and run to catch up with him.

  We walk in silence for a few minutes, pausing to watch an artist painting a mural on a wall near the stores where Mr. Owens was attacked. The elderly figure the artist has placed on the wall is surrounded by a ring of arms in blue sleeves holding guns. His hands are upraised in surrender. “Someday that could be one of us,” Dontae says.

  We approach a flock of pigeons so bold they barely lift their tails out of the way until we draw near. I laugh when wings flutter as they rush to lift off and escape the giant human intruders. Then I laugh even harder when the ball slips from Dontae’s hands and rolls into King Drive.

  “Oh, man.” Dontae looks at me.

  “You lost it. You have to get it,” I say. That’s our rule.

  Not many cars are on King Drive right now. But still, too many for him to run into the street without checking. I see the approaching car, driving too fast, and yell for him to stop. The silver Audi bucks while the white driver frantically hits the brakes. Dontae jumps back just in time to avoid being hit.

  “Sorry, man, I was trying to get my ball.” Dontae smiles, the big one that shows all his teeth and keeps him out of trouble with our teachers.

  The driver leans out his window and yells, “You almost hit my car, you stupid black punk!”

  I stand on the sidewalk, frozen. I’ve heard words like that shouted out as people drive through our streets. They shock me every time and feel like broken glass pulled through my skin. It’s not just the words. It’s everything—the whole package burns my insides like crazy. People say a lot just by the way their eyes flicker, lips tighten, heads turn away. His expression, the narrow-eyed glare, said we weren’t wanted and didn’t count. I feel like an insect skittering across a newly cleaned kitchen table. Tires scream as the man peels away, his front bumper barely missing a Chevy in front of him.

  “I didn’t do it on purpose,” Dontae mumbles, staring after the car and driver.

  I take the ball from his trembling hands. “You need to watch out if you want to live long enough to grow up.”

  “Once again you sound like my mother. Stop it.”

  I know how I sound. We are buds—that means we look out for each other.

  We continue walking, tossing the ball back and forth, the man and the car already forgotten. Dontae returns to his awkward attempts at dribbling until we reach a fenced-off construction site a block away from the park. There we stop in front of the fence to watch the dinosaur-style excavators dig deep into the ground.

  “Imagine being in charge of one of those puppies!” Dontae shouts so I can hear him over the sound of the machines.

  “Imagine this time next year when the new grocery store opens. Maybe I can work here in a few years. I could bag groceries or maybe stock shelves.” Maybe even get Mom an employee discount.

  “A hundred people are going to want those jobs.”

  Maybe two hundred. I can still dream. Dreams keep me going. Dreams of the past, when Dad and Lamont and I were at the beach, splashing and laughing and enjoying being together. And dreams of the future. Me winning diving medals, going to college, making Mom proud. I love those dreams.

  A shadow suddenly falls over me. I turn to find Carmela almost on top of me. I didn’t hear her approach with all the noise.

  “Where did you come from?” Dontae asks.

  Carmela rolls her eyes. “I finished writing the petition. I sent you both links. Have you seen it?” she asks, waving her phone at us.

  “Not yet,” I lie, wishing she would disappear. I saw her message when I was doing homework with Dontae, but I ignored it.

  Dontae looks at her and grins. “We’re heading to the park to shoot some hoops.” He tosses the basketball in the air. “I have skills.”

  She shrugs, uncaring. “I play better than you.”

  “I bet you think you’re WNBA material.”

  “I could be, only I’m going to be a police officer and protect people like my dad.”

  A siren whoops, the high-pitched sound hurting my ears. Carmela jumps in surprise, as if she thinks it might be her father. I wonder too, until I turn and see the two burly white officers in the car stopped a half block away.

  “Uh, T . . . ,” Dontae says. He stands, jaws open, eyes bugging as the cops get out of their car and walk over to us. One fingers his taser, the other has a hand near his gun. Neither weapon is drawn. They yell something as they approach, sounds my ears cannot process. We’re just three seventh graders and one basketball. We’re just watching the construction and talking. We will be okay.

  “Want to ride the lightning?” the bigger cop yells. He’s the one fingering the nightmare-ugly yellow taser.

  “No, sir.” A froth of fear runs down my back. Not again! my brain screams. I know I shouldn’t stare, but I can’t take my eyes from his taser. My stomach feels hollow, and my shoulders itch, anticipating the feel of the prongs penetrating my coat. My feet beg me to run. Hands, legs . . . I can’t stop shaking. Dontae stands beside me, hands already in the air. He is bigger and darker than I am and looks older than I do, but he’s so scared, he’s shaking. Only Carmela looks relaxed as we turn to face the approaching officers.

  “We didn’t do anything,” Carmela says, taking a step forward.

  “Did I ask you?” the shorter one says. His hand shifts closer to his gun. I grab her coat and pull her back. These men aren’t her family. At least they don’t fear for their lives. If they were afraid, they would already be shooting.

  “I need names and ID, starting with you,” a cop barks. He points at me.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Carmela tapping on her phone.

  “T’Shawn Rodgers,” I say, my voice squeaking.

  “Shaun?” He lifts an eyebrow as if my name is a joke.

  “T’Shawn,” I say, pronouncing it correctly. “People call me T.”

  “ID?”

  “I, uh, I don’t have any.” I usually have my school ID with me anytime I’m out of the house. Mom insists I be prepared, just in case. Today, of all days, I forgot.

  The other cop takes a step closer, eyes squinting. “Don’t I know you?”

  “No-no, sir.” It’s never good when a cop thinks you look familiar. I wonder if they think I’m Lamont. But he’s older and bigger than me, so that can’t be it. Maybe the guy in the Audi did more than just hate on us.

  The officer shrugs before turning to Dontae. “Who are you?”

  “Don—Dontae Morrow, sir.” His breathing seems worse, and sweat sprouts all over his forehead.

  “Don-Dontae. Cute.” The cop barks a laugh. Hasn’t he ever been so scared his insides melted? Too scared to think or talk or d
o anything except panic.

  Carmela steps up again. “You’re not supposed to treat people this way. I’m Carmela Rhodes, and my father is—”

  “I don’t care if he’s the mayor. I don’t need your family history, girl. Stay back.” The officer’s hand returns to his taser. He looks jittery, as if he is afraid of us. “Don’t move or speak unless I say you can.”

  She squeaks but doesn’t say another word.

  My terrified feet want to turn and run. Mom’s instructions about dealing with the police flood my brain. Number one rule: come home alive. The best way to stay alive is to remain silent and just obey, no matter how badly they treat us. Don’t move or give them any excuse. I can only hope that someone, somewhere close, is watching out for us.

  Dontae begins wheezing, swaying on his feet, fighting for breath. He drops the ball. It bounces, rolls, and comes to a stop beside my feet.

  “Is he on something?” one officer asks, frowning. His expression morphs between fear and confusion. Then he seems to make a decision. He backs up and puts both hands on his weapon. “On the ground, all of you.”

  I drop so fast I scrape my cheek on the sidewalk. I’ve heard that the electricity paralyzes people. I don’t want to be paralyzed. My face burns. Tears sting my eyes. Carmela crouches down beside me. And Dontae . . .

  Dontae is still standing, swaying, his eyes glassy with pain.

  “You heard me, punk, get down now. Stop resisting!”

  “He’s not resisting!” Carmela yells.

  “What did they do?” someone yells but not from too close. People know it’s dangerous to be near someone stopped by cops. Neither officer answers the question. Only one speaks, telling the person to retreat, threatening them with arrest if they don’t move.

  A gurgling sound comes from Dontae’s throat. He looks like he wants to speak, or scream, but can’t find the strength to do either. He grabs for his chest and falls to his knees. “Don’t kill me, please.”

  “He’s having an attack!” I scream. I know what is happening. It’s a sickle cell crisis, sudden and acute pain. He’s described it to me, how every joint burns as his blood clogs his veins.

  The cops drop to a fighting crouch, guns extended. In the distance, I hear an approaching siren. More cops. I don’t need more cops.

  “Hands behind your backs!” one roars.

  “Don’t move!” the other screams.

  The orders beat into my brain. I’m confused, scared, and my heart beats like it’s playing chopsticks with my ribs. Even though the orders the cops bark at me contradict each other, I try to obey. So does Carmela. Only Dontae can’t. He clutches his chest, moaning with pain. It’s Mr. Owens all over again, and I am as helpless now as I was then. Dontae can’t stop moving, grabbing at his arms and legs. His body won’t let him. His eyes are wide and scared.

  “Stop moving or we’ll shoot!”

  Dontae can’t obey that barked order, and I won’t do nothing, not this time. I throw myself on my friend, trying to hold him, shield him, and scream, “Please get a doctor. Call nine one one!” Hoping at least one person watching will call for help. I wish I were home. I want Mom. I want Lamont.

  Dontae convulses beneath me.

  A new cop car arrives, jumping the curb, running from the road onto the sidewalk before the driver, Sergeant Rhodes, positions his vehicle between us and the weapons. Sergeant Rhodes’s voice blares over the loudspeaker, “Stand down!”

  I manage a quick look at Dontae, his eyes connecting with mine just before he passes out.

  An hour later, Sergeant Rhodes faces the officers who attacked us. Carmela and I are sitting in a back conference room at the police station. An ambulance had raced Dontae north to the University of Chicago children’s hospital. Carmela’s the reason we are safe, helped things way more than I did by texting her father for help when things escalated. We would probably be in a cell now, or worse, if he hadn’t roared to the rescue.

  “You were about to use deadly force on three children, including my daughter,” Sergeant Rhodes says, the words cold and slow. I’d slink into the ground if anyone ever talked that way to me.

  “We were following procedure, doing our jobs,” the older officer says, staring back at Sergeant Rhodes defiantly. “They wouldn’t cooperate.”

  “They—they should have followed our orders,” his younger partner stammers.

  “Dontae couldn’t. He was too sick,” I say. Both cops look at me. The older one shrugs. The other swallows after a moment and turns away. Carmela stirs on the bench beside me. I take her hand to keep her from jumping to her feet. I know she wants to yell and protest. That won’t do any good and might make things worse for us.

  “There was no reason to draw your weapons on unarmed children,” Sergeant Rhodes says, his voice breaking. I think he and I both feel the same impossible fury.

  “When we’re on the streets, we do what we have to do,” the defiant officer counters. “There was no way to know they were kids. I mean, look at them. You can’t trust any of these people.” He pauses, face growing a little pale. I think he’s remembering whose daughter he’s talking about.

  “We were following procedures, doing our jobs,” his partner says, a defensive note filling his voice. “We acted within the normal parameters of our job.”

  Against three kids armed with a basketball? They were solving no crime, protecting no lives. Just teaching us to fear them. A chill descends through my body. Will I go to jail, have a record? I’m only thirteen. Will I be marked forever because of this?

  “Why did you stop us?” I ask. “We were just talking, laughing, going to play ball. We didn’t do anything.”

  The older cop turns to me, wide-eyed, flushed, and furious. “You acted in a suspicious manner. And you fit the description of a man we’ve been told to keep an eye out for.”

  My brother is six years older, six inches taller, with big shoulders. But both of us have dark-brown skin, so I guess that’s enough.

  “And you decided my daughter was also a threat?” Sergeant Rhodes says, face grim, jaw muscles quivering.

  “We had no idea she was your daughter. Sir,” the cop adds, the sir coming a little late.

  “And she’s black,” I add.

  The officer turns to me. “Don’t bring race into this.”

  “When is race ever out when you guys deal with us?” I should be quiet. That’s the safe way. But I am so angry, and I don’t care. I think of other kids shot by police guns. I suppose I should feel lucky because I did not die like Tamir Rice, the twelve-year-old whose name Redmond didn’t even know. Or like Jordan Edwards, who was barely fifteen when a policeman shot him; Cameron Tillman, only fourteen. That’s why Sergeant Rhodes is still shaking. His daughter could have joined the long, nearly endless list of names of black kids killed by police officers. Names I never had to learn for any class or test, but I cannot forget.

  I understand having to fear criminals and gang members: they are the bad guys. But why do I also have to be afraid of the people who are supposed to be on my side and protect me?

  I wrap my arms around myself and shiver. “How did I scare you?” I ask the policemen. They wear armor and hold weapons and yet feared for their lives when they saw us, as if we were the monsters crawling out from under a kid’s bed.

  Neither officer responds. The younger officer’s cheeks grow pink.

  Sergeant Rhodes sighs, then takes Carmela and me from the police station.

  “We didn’t do anything,” Carmela says, her voice breaking. “We were just talking when they came after us. I promise, Daddy, that’s all.”

  “Some officers are overly enthusiastic.” He speaks slowly. I can tell he is choosing his words carefully. I know a few vocabulary words that fit better than “overly enthusiastic.” Words like “aggressive,” “hostile,” “intimidating,” “uncaring.”

  And “fearful.” That one most of all.

  We were all afraid out there.

  Chapter

  Twe
nty-Four

  SERGEANT RHODES DRIVES CARMELA AND me to Comer Children’s Hospital at the University of Chicago to see Dontae. The astringent scents sting my nose as we walk down the hall to Dontae’s third-floor room. He’s so full of pain medicine he wears a dopey smile. A bruise on one cheek marks the spot where he fell and hit the sidewalk. There are paintings on the walls with scenes from Disney stories and an alphabet rug on the floor. Rochelle would enjoy being here. I’m just glad to see my friend sitting up. From the window behind Dontae’s head, I can see Midway Plaisance, a long, green island between two rivers of city traffic dotted with people walking, biking, or playing ball.

  Linda is here, along with several other kids from school. Dontae’s mom and dad leave with Sergeant Rhodes to talk in the hallway. Monitor wires snake from a machine next to Dontae’s chair down inside the blue hospital gown covering him. He sees me staring at the wires and shrugs. “This stuff tells the nurses every-thing about me. They even know when I have to pee before I do.”

  It’s funny but not really. Only Carmela laughs.

  “It’s been a long time since my last attack,” Dontae says. “I guess I was due. The pain is so quick, I can’t even describe what it feels like. My mind got fuzzy, everything ached, and by the time I realized what was happening, wham. I thought I’d wake up dead.” He waves his arm, a thin plastic name tag, the one that brands him as a patient, on his wrist. Then he closes his eyes, and I realize his smile is as fake as mine.

  “You know why they stopped us,” Carmela says. “Cops have an eye out for Lamont. When they saw T, they thought they were looking at his brother.” That’s one of the things the officers said when we first reached the station, that they felt they had a right to be cautious because Lamont was a dangerous ex-con.

  “Are you serious?” Dontae asks, looking from Carmela to me.

  She looks around the room before announcing, “I’ve finished writing the petition. Once we have enough signatures, the petition will go to our ward’s alderman, and the mayor, and Lamont’s parole officer. To start off, I need everyone in this room to sign. It needs to begin with you, T.”