“No matter what I do, I find trouble,” he answers. “Dealing with that man and the things he wants me to do for him is exhausting.”
I leave him alone in the living room. Inside my bedroom, I climb up to the top bunk and sit with my head brushing the ceiling. Through the window, I see the clear sky and squirrels bouncing along the budding branches. Down in the courtyard, people walk. The snow is gone, the ground clear. My mind is the only thing that’s messed up.
Chapter
Twenty-Nine
CARMELA WAS RIGHT. PETITIONS PULL people. Those five hundred names have grown to almost a thousand online signatures. While most of the names are from the neighborhood, people from other parts of Chicago have signed. Some are from other states and even from other countries. People who don’t even know Lamont want him banished. I scroll through the comments listing reasons for signing. Some contain brutal words from people who don’t even know the man they are happy to condemn. Hearing about a black ex-con is enough for them to believe the worst.
“We’re trending,” Carmela exclaims, waving her phone. “Hashtag ‘Lose Lamont’ is officially viral. All my friends posted links to the petition on Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat, and Twitter. And . . .” She pauses for drama. “I got a call from a couple of newspapers asking for me to comment on what we’re doing.”
“I thought you hated the media,” I remind her.
“Not when they actually get things right. But I need Mr. Frank to sign the petition. He’s the number one victim; his name will mean a lot.”
Meaning the media she can’t stand doesn’t want to hear from her if she doesn’t have him. “Why hasn’t he signed already?”
“He’s old. I bet he doesn’t know what the internet is. We’re going to have to go see him.”
I protest but let Carmela, Dontae, and Linda lead me away from school at lunchtime. I’ve never been inside Frank’s Place before.
I look around at the dimly lit restaurant, somehow expecting to see an old man with long, gray hair come rushing to chase me out. Mr. Frank is like eighty years old or something and rumored to have secret ninja skills. Kanye is rapping over the speakers. It’s a family-friendly remix of one of his early hits. The restaurant is crowded with families and men and women in business suits.
Carmela grabs a booth when a group leaves. A thin-faced waitress arrives to take our order.
“I want a Mondo Burger, please,” Dontae says, naming one of Frank’s specialties. He licks his lips. “A half pound of pure beef.”
“Pure fat,” Carmela corrects with a scowl. “Melted cheese plus grilled onions. You just had an attack. You’re not doing that to your body.” She orders a Coke for herself. Linda gets hot chocolate. Dontae scowls, but instead of complaining about Carmela’s mothering ways, he only asks for water. I’m hungry and nervous, so I order fries with my drink. The waitress glares, impatient with our small order.
“I want to see Mr. Frank,” Carmela says when the woman returns with our drinks and fries. “He’s my uncle. Tell him Carmela’s here.”
I’m happy to let her do all the talking since she will anyway. Those words earn us an even fiercer scowl before the waitress disappears. The old man arrives a few minutes later. He’s just a balding black man I remember from that day in court. The sling I saw him wearing two years ago is gone, but he uses a cane to walk.
“So I’ve been promoted to uncle?” he asks with a sly grin, and pats Carmela’s hand.
“I knew that would work better than saying my father’s old friend. Besides, you are practically part of our family.”
“I love flattery, but as you see, things are busy today.” Mr. Frank looks over the drinks and half-eaten fries on the table. My stomach rumbles, so I dip a fry in ketchup and chew slowly, letting the salty tang fill my throat. Then I push the dish close to Linda so she can take some.
“This won’t take long, I promise,” Carmela says. “Do you know there is a petition to get rid of Lamont Rodgers?”
“That’s not exactly what it’s for,” I say. I don’t like the way she put that or the eager gleam in her eyes.
The old man looks at me while he says, “I know about the petition.”
“But you haven’t added your name,” Carmela says, leaning closer to him.
“I’m not sure if I should.”
“He attacked you. Do you want him to walk back in here someday and do it again?”
“Lamont wouldn’t do that,” I say. Then, “Ow!” as Carmela kicks me under the table.
She pulls out her phone and hands it to Mr. Frank. I move my chair until I see the screen he’s looking at. She’s showing him the comments from signers explaining how unsafe they feel with Lamont around.
Mr. Frank looks at me more closely. “Aren’t you his brother?”
“Uh. Yeah.”
“And you want me to sign?”
“Sort of,” I say. I really want to kick myself for ever adding my name to the thing. Then I think about being stopped by the police again because of something Lamont did. Or of another kid overdosing like Sammy. Maybe next time they will raid our apartment and terrify Rochelle when searching for him. I’ve heard of people losing everything, homes, money, even their lives, because one family member broke a law. I want Mom safe. I’ll take the pain of losing my brother again to keep people safe. “Yes, I want you to sign,” I say.
“We have to make sure he goes away,” Carmela says. “Imagine him walking in the door ready to hurt you again. This is important to your neighbors. To your customers. To you.”
“I understand one of the conditions of his parole is that he stay away from me and my restaurant.”
“He’s been awful at obeying orders so far,” Carmela says. “Don’t you think he should be punished for what he did to you?”
“He has been punished,” Mr. Frank says.
“He got only two years for almost killing you. That’s not real punishment. It’s not right.”
The old man’s fingers tighten around the head of his cane. Does that mean he’s agreeing with her, that he hates my brother too?
“He’s here,” Linda says, her soft voice breaking into the sudden stillness. I follow her gaze to the front window and see the impossible: my brother standing outside the window, staring in. My stomach does an atomic nosedive to the floor. I jump to my feet, horrified by the sight of Lamont in his hoodie, like some kind of ghost.
“He looks angry,” Carmela says with notes of triumph and fear in her voice. I hover over Linda, but she’s not in danger. Lamont is staring directly at Mr. Frank. I know that look. It’s not about anger. He’s thinking, planning, evaluating. Coming to a decision.
“I’ll call nine one one,” Carmela says, but hesitates. Even the daughter of a police officer is no longer sure whether Lamont or the cops is the bigger threat.
“Don’t. I can get him to leave.” This is my job, and I’m sure I can handle him. I head for the entrance and arrive at the door just as my brother reaches for the doorknob. I push Lamont, forcing him to step back on the sidewalk. “You know you can’t be here.” The wind tries to steal my words away.
“I’m taking your advice,” he says. “You said things were my fault no matter whose gun it was, and you were right. It’s time I faced my past and made amends.”
Now he listens to me. Great timing, bro. “Not a good idea.” Not when the old man has been reading about how awful he is.
“Frank will listen. I can make him.” My too-optimistic-for-words brother refuses to even admit there might be a problem. And then it’s too late. The door opens, and Frank limps out into the sunlight. I look into my brother’s eyes and silently beg him to stay calm, hoping that will be enough. Mr. Frank is not as tall as Lamont, but his bushy eyebrows draw together, making him look fierce. He takes three steps, stopping only when he and Lamont are just a few feet apart.
“My name is Lamont Rodgers.”
“You think I don’t remember you?” Mr. Frank shakes his cane. “I’m old, not senile
.”
“Did I . . .” Lamont begins, his hesitant voice and wide eyes indicating his fear that he caused an injury that left Mr. Frank unable to walk without assistance.
“Arthritis.” The old man shakes his head.
Lamont’s shoulders slump with relief. “I came to tell you I’m sorry.”
“Real convenient, you being sorry now.” Carmela steps out to join us, her mouth twisting in an ugly frown. “Your phony apology doesn’t fool anyone.”
“I’m not trying to fool anyone. I was barely eighteen. Not an excuse, just a fact. My father was dead, and I felt alone, without options or opportunities. The gang wanted me, my brains, what I had to give. All I had to do was hand over my loyalty. Small price to pay, I thought.” He grimaces. “That was my first mistake. They said I was important, and I needed to hear that. But they lied. I thought I could stop, could leave whenever I wanted. I was wrong. I thought they valued me and what I had to say and do. I needed to be respected, to matter to someone the way I used to matter to Dad. Again, not an excuse, just a fact.”
“What the gang offers is not real respect,” the old man says.
“I know that now, but back then I thought my words and smart ideas made me a leader. The guys I was running with hated the way you stood up to them. Darnell, one of the older men, had a thing for your waitress.” That brings an apologetic glance at Linda. “That’s why this place became the target. When I called the robbery proposal a stupid idea, Darnell decided he’d had enough of me and let me know who was really in charge. The night of the robbery, I had little more choice about my actions than you did. A big piece of me was glad when the police caught us.”
“No one believes any of that,” Carmela says.
“If he’s truly sorry . . .” Linda begins.
“You don’t care,” Carmela informs her. “How many people have to disappoint you before you learn? He’s as phony as the apologies your father tries to spread. Thanks to our petition, he’ll soon be sent away, right, T?” She puts an arm around my shoulders.
I didn’t expect her to pull me into this discussion. My jaw drops, and I can’t find the strength to say anything when my brother turns to me. Disappointment rolls off him like physical waves that slap me in the face.
“Petition?” he says in a choked voice. “Was that thing your idea?”
“No, but I mean, sort of.”
He doesn’t look angry, not even hurt. Just resigned. “I thought nothing would ever throw me again, but you managed.” He turns and leaves with a swagger in his walk, the special move that’s supposed to convince the world he’s in total control.
“I know you’re going to sign my petition now,” Carmela says, turning to Mr. Frank.
“Then you know wrong. We all make mistakes, including that boy,” he says. “You don’t know half the mess I got into at your age. No one should have his entire life ruined because of a foolish mistake made as a teen. Especially when half the problem is geography. Think of those kids living in Streeterville or Lincoln Park.”
He’s named two of the more affluent neighborhoods on Chicago’s North Side. Streeterville is a land of wealth where people live in high-rise buildings looking out onto Lake Michigan. Lincoln Park, home of the zoo, is almost like a suburb or the countryside. Both neighborhoods are places where most of the people are white and have money. Where cops act like they believe kids should get to be kids and residents are listened to if they contact the authorities about problems.
Mr. Frank continues, “Let a kid from one of those neighborhoods make a mistake, and they get sympathy and a second chance. Kids down here just get condemned.”
“But he did try to rob you,” Carmela says. “He didn’t wave his gun in your face by mistake.”
“Two years ago he was only eighteen. Only a few years older than you are now. Think about the many mistakes you make every day. Think about one of them closing doors for you for the rest of your life. You’ll see for yourself soon.”
Soon? Like now! I’m confused all the time. Scary to think life could get even rockier.
He continues, “Carmela, all of you, I like you thinking you can control the world. That’s what being young is all about. But not by sending a man into exile instead of helping him fix the problems that put him in trouble in the first place.”
Even Carmela is silent when we walk back to school. I’m tired of her personal crusade. She likes being important, and she believes she is right. A bad combination. Mr. Frank was right. If only I had never signed that dumb petition.
If only. The two most useless words in English. Because I did sign, and now I have to live with that.
When school ends, I’m not sure I want to go to swim team practice, not after all that drama. But the alternative is going home, and possibly dealing with Lamont, who will probably still be in a rage at me. I rush for the bus and head for W3C. I could use a workout, a way to get all my energy out without exploding. The treadmill, I think. This is a cardio day, and I can run until I can’t breathe or think. Then dive and dive until I have nothing left.
The bus is filled, jolting through crowded traffic with people who have their own lives. Babies cry. Older people sit and look worried. I’m surrounded by tired, sad faces of every age and race. Maybe I’m not the only one with a Lamont-size problem in his life.
Carmela grabs me by the arm as I enter the door of the aquatic facility.
“Hurry up, he’s waiting.” She begins pulling me down the hall, away from the locker rooms.
“Who?” I stop dead, refusing to move another step no matter how hard she tugs.
“Your coach wants to talk to you before he’ll sign.”
“Sign what? Are you still talking about the petition?” I protest. I stare at her for a long moment, unsure whether I am angry or sad. I glance at the door and think about running out and jumping back on the bus to get away from her. Instead, I let her drag me down the hall to a door labeled, Rays Swim Team. I hear angry voices coming through the closed door.
Carmela pushes the door open without knocking. Coach Mung is inside, along with Harmony. The room is small and stacks of paper lie haphazardly across a narrow metal desk. Even in the dim light of a single bulb hanging from the ceiling, I see that the coach’s face is bright red, hers so pale she could be a ghost.
Carmela pushes past Harmony, acting like she doesn’t notice we interrupted some kind of family drama. “I found T for you,” she says, almost singing, her voice full of the old Carmela Rhodes charm.
“You’re a rude little girl.” Harmony scowls. She is one of the few charisma-proof people I know.
“Is this your idea?” Mung asks me, pointing to a tablet open to the website containing Carmela’s petition.
“Absolutely,” Carmela interjects before I can make my tongue work.
“Your words moved me,” Mung says. “If there’s any chance I can help, I’m happy to sign.”
“But you don’t even live near our neighborhood,” I say.
“Your brother doesn’t limit himself to going after those close to him.” He looks at Harmony.
“What makes you so sure Lamont supplied the Adderall Sammy took?” Harmony asks bitterly.
“I don’t forget he used to be your supplier. Do I need to have you tested as well? Face facts. He was there with the boy. At least pretend your IQ is higher than room temperature.”
Harmony goes pale.
“What’s Adderall?” I ask, hoping to make them stop arguing.
Both Carmela and Coach Mung look at me like I have two heads, neither one working well.
“It’s a med used to help people with ADHD,” Harmony says. “It’s practically a wonder drug that helps them pay attention and focus.”
“Helps athletes cheat,” Mung snarls. “I can’t believe I harbored that cheater on my squad.”
“Be careful, Uncle. Your true colors are showing,” she says before strolling from the room.
“I’m sorry you two were exposed to that,” Coach Mung says o
nce his niece is gone. He adjusts his jacket. “My niece is . . . well, she’s complex.”
Not complex. She’s sad and almost never smiles. “Do you love her?” I ask.
“That’s a foolish question. She’s my brother’s only child, all that I have left of him. Of course I love her.” He takes a deep breath. “I’ll sign your petition and get the other coaches to do the same. I’m sure members of the Boosters will join in. Everyone wants him punished. You’ve done something good here, T’Shawn. Be proud.”
“Why did you tell him that was my petition?” I ask Carmela as we head for the locker rooms. It’s bad enough that Mr. Cho and my brother know I am a part of the petition. Pretty soon the whole team will know. Next, Mom will find out. Even the thought makes me shiver.
“I could tell Coach Mung liked thinking this was all your idea,” Carmela says, her voice so smug, I want to puke. My coach likes thinking of me as what I am—a Benedict Arnold.
Chapter
Thirty
MOM IS BAKING A CAKE when I get home from practice, whipping the batter with fast, furious strokes. Rochelle follows me into the kitchen whispering, “Mom’s mad.” My too-smart sister has already figured out about our mother and baking.
“Where’s Lamont?” I ask. He is usually sitting on the sofa playing with Rochelle when I get home, but she’s alone, dragging her floppy pretend puppy behind her.
“He’s in your room. Packing.” The words come out slowly, as if they are being torn from Mom’s throat. “He’s leaving.”
“He can’t go.”
“I told him that. But he claims he has no choice.”
I rush down the hall to our bedroom, where I see his open bag on the bottom mattress, already half filled with his things. He pulls a blue sweater from the closet, wads it up, and tosses it toward the open bag. He almost scores, but his stiff arms shake, and the sweater falls short, fluttering half in, half out of the opening. I grab handfuls of his things out of the bag and hurl them on the floor. Clothes, papers, anything, everything.
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