“Aren’t you going with her?” I ask Coach Mung.
“I have—I need . . .” He looks at the retreating figures for a moment, then lifts his head and squares his shoulders. “My team needs me,” he says, and heads toward the pool entrance.
I am left alone with Mr. Hundle.
“That was . . . unexpected,” the Hun says.
I knew she was unhappy. Unhappy people sometimes do bad things.
He stares at the phone he holds as if expecting it to grow jaws and bite him.
“What about my brother?” I ask. “Since he didn’t do the things Coach Mung accused him of, will he get his job back?”
“I’m sorry he was let go,” the Hun says. “With that petition and the adverse publicity, the college board couldn’t keep him on in the face of growing community outrage.”
“So, no second chances for him, even if he’s not guilty?”
More zero tolerance. It’s not about what Lamont actually did. It’s what people say and think. What I once thought. I tore support from my brother by believing the worst. Maybe I’m more like Mung than I realized in my willingness to believe anything about Lamont as long as it was bad.
“You should get to the pool with the others, give yourself a little time to think,” Mr. Hundle tells me.
“No.” I head back toward the locker room. “I quit.”
“Hold on, T. That’s a little extreme. I understand you’re upset with Coach Mung, but he’s not a bad man at heart.”
“Upset?” Is that the best word a teacher can manage? “I can’t work with Coach Mung and pretend what he thinks doesn’t matter.”
“Please understand we don’t all share Mung’s views.”
“But you didn’t do anything to change them.” Neither did I. I’m disappointed in the Hun. I disappoint myself. “I have to go.”
“Your fees are paid for the remainder of the season. You have potential, a future. Don’t let that go because of one person.”
“Give another kid my scholarship.” Maybe then I’ll feel better, as if I’ve done one good thing.
“There was no scholarship,” Mr. Hundle says. The confession makes me stop on my way out the door. “There was only your brother. He came to see me weeks ago. We worked out an arrangement: he took the job with the night maintenance squad and his pay went to your club fees. He asked me not to tell you, but I think you need to know.”
I shouldn’t have needed to know. My brother has been trying to do things right from the start, and I screwed that up for him.
“You’ve improved tremendously in such a short time, T’Shawn. I hope you will remain on the team.”
I shake my head. “I can’t be part of this anymore. Find another kid and give them my spot. In fact, there’s this girl I know, Linda Murhasselt. She’s a good swimmer. Let her have the scholarship.”
Mung starts to say something, but I turn and walk out of the locker room.
Chapter
Thirty-Three
I HAVE TO TALK TO Lamont. Since he’s not answering his phone, I decide to ask his parole officer where he sent my brother. I take the bus from W3C to Mr. Cho’s office and I find him slumped behind his desk.
“Where is Lamont?” I ask as soon as I see him.
He looks up and scowls. “Good question, one I should ask you. He was supposed to be here an hour ago.”
“Ask me? He moved out.”
After a long pause, Mr. Cho removes his glasses and sits polishing them with a tissue. “He can’t move anywhere without my permission.”
“He said you gave him permission, that you found a halfway house for him.” My stomach suddenly aches as if I had done a belly flop from the board.
“Not only did I not tell him to go anywhere, I’ve been trying to reach him. How does anyone live without voice mail these days? We set up a meeting a week ago. I owe him, but he’s not allowed to blow me off.”
“Owe him what?” I ask.
After a short pause, Mr. Cho asks his own question. “Do you know why your brother only served two years?”
I feel silly having to admit I have no idea.
“My cousin is a guard at Pontiac. Last fall there was a riot at the prison.”
“I remember there was a problem,” I say. “Mom couldn’t make her normal visit in October.”
Cho nods. “Staff put things in lockdown for a week after the riot to remind the inmates who was really in charge. The uprising was small and quickly contained. But even a small riot can be dangerous for any guard caught on the wrong side, the way my cousin was. Lamont defended him, held off other prisoners who wanted to use him like a punching bag or worse.”
My brother is a hero?
“His actions drew the interest of some law students. They took up his case, filed a motion to get his sentence reduced. When the reduction was granted, I volunteered to be his PO.”
“Because you’re grateful.” Lamont changed from villain to hero. I can’t stop thinking about that.
“Gratitude is one thing, my job is another.” Mr. Cho laces his hands under his chin and stares at me intently. “He must see me today. I can give him until nine tonight before I’m forced to report him. Then it’s out of my hands. An arrest warrant will be issued, and he goes back inside.”
It’s already after four. I have less than five hours to find him and get him to Cho, and I have no idea where to start looking.
“So your brother did one good thing, what does that change?” Carmela says when I explain what Mr. Cho told me.
I ignore her and look at Dontae, Linda, and Redmond. We’re gathered in my bedroom. He’s not what we thought. He was helping people. I think all he ever really wanted to do, he just tried the wrong way.”
An idea bubbles into my brain. I’m going to find my brother and tell him I forgive him. And then hope he can forgive me. “I need the recording you made of my Second Chance Drive,” I tell Redmond. “I’ll use it to reach out to people to help me find him.”
“Excellent,” he says with a big grin. “I’ve been playing around with it on my music app. If you’ve got some pictures, I could jazz it up, add a few memes to give it punch.”
“A music video,” Linda says, and nods. “We can sing and dance. Only cat videos go viral faster.”
“You’ll help too,” I inform Carmela. “You have a zillion online friends who keep liking your stuff. They can help spread the word.”
“He’s a gang member,” she scoffs.
“Former gang member. I need you to help me save him.”
Her mouth opens, closes, and opens again. I don’t think she can believe I’m still arguing instead of giving in to her. I barely believe it myself.
Carmela suddenly shrugs. “Fine. But only for you.”
My phone is filled with pictures of Lamont. While we talk, Redmond selects a few of me and of Lamont for his video. He also records me asking for help to add to the message. He posts the package under the hashtag #helpmefindLamont.
The big problem is the clock. I’m just throwing a small bottle into a big ocean. It has four hours to reach the shore.
“Do you really trust your brother?” Linda asks. I understand what she’s thinking.
“You don’t have to forgive your father, but I have to give my brother a second chance.”
She gives me a long look, then nods and begins tagging her friends.
Within minutes, comments start rolling in:
Your brother sounds like a good guy—#helpmefindLamont
Much respect, little bro—#helpmefindLamont
There is even a comment from Malik that makes me smile.
I’m with you in spirit, T. Let me know if I can help—#helpmefindLamont
The number of shares, retweets, and comments rise every minute. Not one includes information or a sighting. I only have four hours before Mr. Cho’s deadline. How many people will view the video before then? How many of those will also see Lamont?
I slump, knowing the answer is too small to count. Chicago
is too big. I need a bigger idea, something better. Someone has to know something. Maybe one of his friends. I turn to the only guy I know who liked Lamont.
“What do my brother’s friends say?” I ask Redmond.
“He doesn’t have many, at least not that I know. He doesn’t deal with his old friends. Except maybe this one guy. He moves slow, shakes a lot, and your brother called him . . .”
“Toxic!” Why didn’t I think of him? Another former gang member, the only kind who would still be his friend.
Redmond knows the fast-food place where Toxic now works nights. He’s moved up in the world. Cleaned up too.
“Your brother pushed me into this,” he says as he offers us free sodas. “It’s not much of a job, only pays a few bucks, but it’s mine.” He seems proud, and his hands don’t shake as much.
“I have to find him. It’s urgent.” I barely taste my Mountain Dew. “He’s gonna be in so much trouble if he’s not back by nine.”
Toxic glances at the clock on the wall. “Then he’s gonna be in trouble. He was bunking with me, but he packed up and left this morning. Said he had to get away, go to where he knew people.”
That phrase strikes a memory. “Memphis.”
Toxic nods. “I told him he was being a fool, but no one could ever change his mind.”
If he flew, I’m already too late. He always liked trains, and planes cost more. Using the Amtrak app, I find that the train that will stop in Memphis leaves just after eight.
I run back home and tell my friends, “He’s taking the train.” It’s almost seven. Expressway traffic is always heavy. Neither a cab nor the CTA can get me from the far South Side to Union Station in an hour. Even a bird would have trouble.
“We could call the station and ask them to page him,” Redmond says.
“He wouldn’t answer. We couldn’t talk them into doing it anyway.”
“I need my dad.” Carmela goes to leave the apartment and then turns, frowning when she sees that none of us are with her. She waves. “Move it.”
Why? She doesn’t need me to get to her old man. But something in her expression makes me run after her. When we reach her house, her father is waiting in a squad car.
“Carmela says you need to get to Union Station, stat,” he says.
My jaw falls open and I stand motionless, astonished.
“You said I had to help. Go on, get in before he changes his mind,” she says, giving me a push toward the car.
“Your brother’s not thinking on all cylinders,” Sergeant Rhodes says as we enter traffic on the Dan Ryan. It’s supposed to be an expressway, but right now it’s a centipede, with cars weaving slowly toward downtown like tiny, useless legs.
“I could try calling ahead to have officers find and hold him for us,” he adds.
We eye each other. I ask, “What would you say? ‘I promise he’s not dangerous, but he might resist because he really wants to be left alone.’” I would rather Lamont get on that train and leave alive than be stopped by someone with a gun and a fear for his life.
Sergeant Rhodes grimaces while fighting the stop-and-go traffic. After two minutes he suddenly shrugs. “Screw it.”
A second later we are on an off-ramp up to the city streets. His siren wails and lights flash, signaling other drivers to move aside. “I could get in so much trouble for this,” he mutters as we careen down State Street. “But then I’m not supposed to have you in the car anyway. The risk is worth it if we can keep another black life from being wasted.”
“Thank you,” I say.
We reach the Loop, Chicago’s downtown, and head west toward Canal Street and the entrance to Union Station. Just for a second, I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and visualize a future with all of us together: Mom, me, Rochelle, and Lamont. He will be here. I will find him, and I will make him agree to come home.
Sergeant Rhodes stops the car in front of the station. I race out and through the entrance, ready to make my vision real.
Chapter
Thirty-Four
THE INTERIOR OF UNION STATION is like a palace with gilded roads that all lead down. I run down the stairs so fast I almost slip and fall, but that’s faster than using the crowded escalator.
“City of New Orleans?” I ask a man in a uniform. He grunts and points at a big sign on the wall listing trains and track numbers. My eyes race over words that blur as I try to read them.
“Track eight,” he finally says, and points to a wide door. “Go through and turn right.”
People are already in line before the door leading to the waiting train. A man in a uniform is at the front taking tickets before allowing people to pass through to the waiting train. I search through the people waiting patiently, looking for the familiar face, or my brother’s big gray bag, or . . .
Or a flash of light shining off the surface of my father’s ring.
I run to my brother’s side.
“You will be in so much trouble if you get on that train.”
He missteps and almost plunges into the back of the man beside him. “What are you doing here, T?”
“I came to bring you home.”
“Not happening.” He turns away, staring at the front of the line. “You signed the petition. I got the message. You will all be happier without me.”
“I can’t be happier without you. If you leave, I’ll never forgive you.”
“Get back to your life, the club. Enjoy yourself.”
“I quit that stupid club,” I say.
“You what!” he roars, rounding on me, once again the King of the World. “You can’t quit, not after I—”
“I know what you did,” I say as the silence grows long.
“You can’t know,” he growls, eyes widening with something like fear.
“I know you played janitor at night to pay for my spot on the Rays. Why didn’t you tell me the truth?”
He relaxes as if my information doesn’t hit as hard as he expected. “Confess that the only job I could get left me cleaning toilets and mopping up vomit. I have my pride.”
“You always had too much pride.”
“There’s no such thing as too much. Besides, I was afraid you’d refuse to take it if you knew the money came from me.”
I deserve that. The headphones I never touched are still in a corner of the closet. But he is wrong; people can have too much pride.
“I . . . I need you.”
His Adam’s apple jumps. “Don’t worry, I’ll send money to you and Mom when I can.”
“Not your money. You.” We’re getting closer to the front of the line. Too close.
“Stay,” I insist.
“How? I can’t get a real job around here. Between my record and that petition and now getting fired, there’s no hope. No job, no money. No money and sooner or later I’ll end up back inside.”
“Sooner if you leave the state without permission. You have only an hour to meet with Mr. Cho.”
“They’ll have to find me first.” He laughs as if he thinks that will never happen.
We’ve reached the front of the line. He lifts his bag and slings it on his shoulder and holds his ticket ready in one hand.
“Are you sorry I’m your brother now?” I ask.
Spiderwebs crinkle around his eyes as he says, “There’s lots of stuff I regret. Having you as my brother was never one of them.” Then he hands over his ticket and walks through a door where I cannot follow.
It’s over. I have no more arguments.
This is the end. I lower my head and turn in defeat.
No. I didn’t come here to give up. This can’t be the end. I have to make one last try.
I lift my head and stare at his retreating back. Then I open my mouth and begin to sing my words. The crazy rap of love I wrote for my brother. I rush back to the door he walked through and begin singing as loud as I can.
My voice cracks horribly. People stare. They laugh.
He stops walking.
My brother stands motionles
s as I sing about him and how much I love him, need him. Slowly he turns. He comes back through the door to me, ignoring the gate agent’s protests. I finish singing, and we simply look into each other’s eyes.
“You wrote that?” he asks.
“I wrote it about you. I love you, and it hurt remembering how I lost you. That’s what you saw in my face when you first came home.”
“Last call!” the ticket taker yells.
Lamont doesn’t move. “If I stay, I’m keeping the bottom bed. And I’m calling you Short Stack.”
I jump him, grabbing his shoulders, and hoisting myself onto his back. “Deal,” I say.
I’ve learned to enjoy being on top.
Epilogue
THREE WEEKS LATER, LAMONT AND I stand outside the church. An annoying drizzle drips from the sky, but it’s a warm Saturday afternoon. Our neighbors are around us, all waiting for Pastor Morrow to begin the Unity Prayer and March that was planned at the last TBTS meeting. This will be a peaceful display against violence. A few police officers stand around, just to make sure everything remains safe. I see the young officer who wanted to arrest me. He nods and smiles at me. I wave.
Lamont is wearing a red Take Back the Streets T-shirt with sleeves long enough to hide his tattoos. He’s planning to have them removed. He isn’t too proud to be a janitor anymore, and Mr. Morrow hired him to do maintenance for the five buildings in our courtyard complex. Mr. Morrow has decided he’s too old to have to jump up in the middle of the night because someone’s pipe is leaking.
He stops in front of one family, saying Miss Wiggins also offered him a job. She thinks his firsthand experience with the gang and prison makes him the perfect guy to talk to the shelter kids. She’s probably right. It helps to have someone who’s been where you are tell you the hard truths.
My brother circulates among our neighbors now, using his charisma to build bridges. The more he gets out and meets with people, the more they like him.
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