Well, where was I when Rashad was lying in the street? Where was I the year all these black American boys were lying in the streets? Thinking about scouts? Keeping my head down like Coach said? That was walking away. It was running away, for God’s sake. I. Ran. Away. Fuck that. I didn’t want to run away anymore. I didn’t want to pretend it wasn’t happening. I wanted to turn around and run right into the face of it.
I took a deep breath as the breeze picked up, and as I stared down the street at Paul’s house, I knew for damn sure what I was doing this Friday night.
I went back inside and began my usual morning workout, and as I was pumping through my squats, I had an idea. I ran into the kitchen and rifled through the junk drawers, looking for a black marker. I couldn’t find one. I knew I didn’t have one, but Willy might, so I crept through our room while he still slept and tried to find something that might work. Finally, in a green plastic box on the floor on his side of the closet, I found a big, black permanent marker. Then I dug out one of my plain white T-shirts.
On the front, I wrote: I’M MARCHING
On the back, I wrote: ARE YOU?
There were plenty of kids, black, white, and everyone else, who looked at me like I was a dumbass when I got to school wearing the T-shirt. And there were plenty of kids, black, white, and everyone else, who nodded or slapped hands with me. Even in English class, Mrs. Tracey looked at my T-shirt and smiled. “Me too,” she said. And I was actually daring to think that the day was going down much easier than I thought it would when I saw Dean Wykoff walking down the hall between second and third periods. He stepped in front of me, one eyebrow raised, and read my T-shirt. I assumed he was going to give me one of his signature finger curls, that thing he does that’s kind of like he’s making fun of himself but also isn’t and he actually expects you to come closer when he does it. As dean of students, he was also Dean of Discipline, and since I was “the model son” Quinn Collins, I’d never been called to his office before, and I thought, well, if this was going to be my first time, it was worth it. But he didn’t give me the finger curl. He nodded, threw a little frown in, but kept on walking, not giving me a hard time at all.
Yes, there were some kids giving me the stink eye for wearing the shirt, but no one directly gave me shit until Dwyer found me in the hall after fourth period. He grabbed my elbow and pulled me over to the lockers.
“What the hell, man?” His freckly face was so close to mine he barely had to speak much louder than a whisper. “What are you doing?”
“What it says I’m doing.”
Dwyer glanced around the hall. “I said don’t fuck this up, not fuck this up even more. What the hell, man? You better not let Coach see that shirt. No protest, remember?”
“Dude,” I said, yanking my arm out of his grip and stepping back. “People should be able to go to the protest if they want. It’s important, man.”
He pulled up and looked down at me, giving me a face worse than Dean Wykoff had ever given anybody. “You’re wack,” Dwyer told me. “What the hell happened to you?” And then he split for class, leaving me to chew on that by myself. I didn’t have the words for it, but I felt I had an answer to the question.
The rest of the day was a blur of distraction. Nobody was getting much done in class, and I had to hand it to Mrs. Erlich, because she trashed her trig plan for the day and wrote a bunch of facts and figures on the board, which I started copying into my notebook, fast.
In 2012, in the United Kingdom, the number of people (regardless of race) shot and killed by police officers: 1
In 2013, in the United Kingdom, the number of times police officers fired guns in the line of duty/the number of people fatally shot: 3/0
In the United States, in the seven year period ending in 2012, a white police officer killed a black person nearly two times a week.
“I’m not much of a talker,” she finished up. “You know that. But I know numbers. The numbers don’t lie, kids. The numbers always tell a story.”
Guzzo was nowhere at lunch, but even though he’d avoided me all day, I knew he’d seen me, seen my T-shirt. At basketball practice, though, he couldn’t avoid me anymore. He showed up late, just as Coach blew his whistle and a chaotic warm-up came to an end. I tried to catch Guzzo’s eye, but he wouldn’t look at me. Coach had us run drills to get the blood pumping, and then we practiced four or five plays. The last play was designed specifically for English, and Coach called it “Fist.” It was an isolation offense to run when another team played us man-to-man defense. We’d all form a column in the paint as English called the play at the top of the key, and then we’d scatter and make a wide box away from the net so English could take his man one-on-one to the hoop, because he could beat anybody off the dribble. And he did. Even though we knew the play, as we ran it, English beat us all, again and again. He was unstoppable.
And when it was finally time to scrimmage, Coach asked us to play hard, and he let the point guards call whatever plays they wanted. He struck a good balance—I was playing on the team opposite English most of the time, and even though Fist was designed for him, he didn’t call it. He ran every other play, once, twice, he ran Gold three times, and then finally, after I’d sunk a three from my sweet spot, English calmly walked the ball up the court to the hash mark and called Fist. He blazed past Nam for the easy layup. We missed at the other end, and English didn’t push the fast break. He slowed it all down, got to the top of the key, called Fist again, spun a circle around Nam, and another one around Tooms—who came in from the weak side to help—and swooped under the basket with a reverse layup. He did it a third time in row, and this time, when he put his fist in the air, he paused and said, “Rashad,” and waved his fist like a flag before zigzagging a fierce line to the hoop, banging and slipping past nearly everybody. He yelled and slapped the backboard as he went up for the layup and nailed it.
We were glistening with sweat under the incandescent lights in the gym, all breathing heavy, even English, as he jogged backward to set up for D, and somehow, even though I was concentrating on the play, another part of my brain recognized how stupid it was to believe Rashad’s name wasn’t on all our minds—how interconnected all these things were in our lives, how we couldn’t just separate basketball from the rest of our life, just like we couldn’t separate history from the present, just like we couldn’t have racism in America without racists.
My team pushed the ball up the court, and you could already feel the nerves bouncing in our bodies. Nam kicked the ball down low as I made my cut to the far corner, but someone else got a finger on it, so it spun off course, and Guzzo and I chased after the loose ball. It had nearly rolled out of bounds, but he slammed into me anyway. We hit the floor, and what might have looked like good hustle was actually just us ripping at each other more than the ball itself, elbowing each other, until finally, the ball rolled away and the two of us wrestled on the floor. I slipped out of Guzzo’s grip and got to my feet. His face was a twisted mitt of hate. He hated my guts, and I think he hated everyone’s guts at that moment, but mine most of all, and I didn’t blame him.
Coach blew his whistle, but Guzzo just stared dead at me.
We got back into the scrimmage, and I tried to shake it off, but I couldn’t shake the snarl on Guzzo’s face when he looked at me, any more than I could shake Rashad’s name from my head.
The game started up again, and after only a few trips up and down the court I found myself going for a rebound against Guzzo, and it was like he had been waiting for this all day, because as I went up for the ball, I caught a flash of his elbow in the corner of my eye, and then I felt my lip explode. I fell straight on my ass, tried to stand, wobbled, and collapsed. Everybody was around me in seconds. Guzzo first. He had his hand out, helping me up, apologizing loudly, saying it was an accident. My whole head rang like the bells of St. Mary’s after Easter Mass.
It was an accident, Guzzo kept insisting, and while I’m sure no one believed him, Coach let it slide and told me to
go clean myself up. It was getting near the end of practice anyway, and I didn’t want to hear any damn speeches or anything—especially more rules about not going to the march. I’d worn the T-shirt. Now I was committed. As I washed and got changed, my mind was on fire, and it would have been impossible to chant team if Coach had asked me to.
I was ready to go when the rest of the team came into the locker room. I slung my backpack over my shoulder, and on my way out, I found English. I told him we should just call the play Rashad, instead of Fist, something everybody in the stands would have to hear every time we ran the play.
“I know,” English told me. “I’d already been thinking that.”
We smiled and slapped hands.
I was out of the locker room and heading down the hall to the doors, when Coach called my name. I turned, and he called me back to him. He stood with his legs spread in his Superman stance by the door to the locker room, but twirling his whistle in one hand.
“Collins,” he said when I got back to him. “I don’t think you’re thinking this through.”
I shrugged.
He gestured to my shirt. “I want to remind you what I’m talking about.”
I nodded.
“Yes, sir,” I said. The tone in his voice was flat and deadening and frankly starting to scare me a little.
“This bullshit,” he said, pointing at my chest again, “has to stop. You know the rules.”
“Sir—” I began, but he cut me off.
“No excuses. I’m calling your mother about this too. You need to straighten your shit out, stay focused, and remember we have everything riding on next week and every practice and every game for the rest of the season. You hear me?”
I was about to speak, but he put his hand up.
“Actions speak louder than words, son.” He bent forward, his eyes wide. “You’ve got too much riding on this, Collins.”
He turned and walked past the locker room toward his office, and even though I hate when people call me “son”—like they have any frigging right to call me that—I couldn’t go after him or tell him, or say anything to him, because I knew for damn sure he meant what he said and he was going to call Ma right then.
I got the hell out of there before anyone else slipped out of the locker room to give me a hard time, and I left the gym by the side door, like usual. I was about to pull out my phone to text Jill when I saw Guzzo leaning against the wall a few feet away, still in his basketball shorts and T-shirt.
“I’ve been trying to find you all day—” I started, but he didn’t waste any time talking. He charged. He swung as soon as he was close enough, and I blocked it, but the force knocked me back into the brick wall. He swung again and I shielded my head, but he got me in the chest with his other fist, I lost my guard and he slugged me across the cheek. I spun and hit the ground.
I wasn’t thinking clearly, the grooves in the concrete were moving in and out of focus, but I knew enough to know that my body wasn’t being hit anymore. Mostly I was fine; he’d hit twice, and that must have been enough. Maybe he’d even scared himself, because if he’d wanted to, he could have ruined me right there, but instead he just hovered over me, calling me all kinds of names, telling me how awful I was for turning my back on him, on Paul, following the crowd and jumping on the Rashad bandwagon because it was the easy thing to do.
“First Jill gets all crazy and radical. And now you? What the fuck?”
I rolled over and tried to catch my breath.
“Don’t let me see your face in our house again,” Guzzo went on. “Don’t even speak to me. We play ball, but we don’t speak to each other. You got me?”
I sat up against the brick wall and gave a short nod. I unzipped my coat and wiped the blood from my mouth with the T-shirt that said I was marching. At the sight of the shirt, Guzzo spat on me and slammed the door behind him as he stormed back into the gym.
I didn’t want anyone making more of a big deal about Guzzo and me, so I hauled myself up and hurried away before anyone came out. I went the long way around, hit the Burger King, and leaned against the stall door in the bathroom with wads of toilet paper pressed to my lips until the bleeding stopped. I was all right. I could walk. I could see. I’d stopped bleeding. My cheekbone didn’t feel broken. I didn’t need to go to the hospital or anything.
Oh, shit.
I stood in the locked stall, staring up at the weak, flickering bathroom light, thinking about how I’d seen Rashad on the concrete a week before and I hadn’t even known who he was. And now, not even a week later—what the hell? Rashad and I had been beaten up by brothers from the same family?
But even thinking that was off base, because there was no comparison. The beatings were no comparison. The reasons for the beatings were no comparison. I wasn’t going to stand there and pretend I knew what life was like for Rashad. There was no way. We lived in the same goddamn city, went to the same goddamn school, and our lives were so very goddamn different.
Why? You’d think we’d have so much in common, for God’s sake. Maybe we even did. And yet, why was there so much shit in between us, so much shit I could barely even see the guy?
It was like Jill had said. Nobody wants to think he’s being a racist, but maybe it was a bigger problem, like everyone was just ignoring it, like it was invisible. Maybe it was all about racism? I hated that shit, and I hated thinking it had so much power over all our lives—even the people I knew best. Even me.
I wanted to figure out all that bullshit in between us. So now there was something else I wanted to do. I wanted to see the whole dude who lived that life.
I was frigging exhausted when I got home, but it didn’t matter, because my fights for the day weren’t done. Ma always had Thursday nights off. It was her first night home in seven days, and when I got in, I learned that, yes, Coach had called and warned her that something was going on between Guzzo and me. So there I was, looking like a crazy person, and there was Ma, looking at me like I was a crazy person, and at first she just fluttered around trying to make sure I didn’t have a broken nose, or jaw, or loose teeth, or any of that, but when she finally accepted that the worst of it was a bruise on my cheek and a lip that looked like I’d tried to eat spaghetti with a steak knife, she finally sat down across from me at the little round kitchen table, leaned her head into one hand, and asked me what the hell I was doing.
Willy was at the table too, doing homework, and I looked to him. “See that?” I said. “Not ‘What did Guzzo do?’ What did I do?”
Ma frowned. Pointed to my bloody T-shirt. “Don’t be coy with me, Quinn Marshall Collins.”
“Ma!” Willy yelped. “Come on! Guzzo beat him up. Why are you getting on him?”
I stuck out my fist and Willy bumped it. “Thanks, man,” I said.
Ma raised a half smile at Willy. “You can’t play two against one on me. I’m immune. I’m your mother.”
“But Ma!” Willy said.
She reached over and gently held his wrist. “Please,” she said. “Let me speak with your brother.” She turned back to me. “What are you doing with that shirt?”
“Letting people know I’m going to the march.”
“You aren’t going to the march, Quinn.”
“Yes, I am.”
“No, you are not. I’ll miss work tomorrow night. We’ll all stay home and we’ll have a family night at home for once.”
“Ma,” I said. “I’m going to the march.”
“Listen,” she said. “After Coach Carney called, I called Rita. Guzzo told her why the two of you got into a fight.” She sat back, folding her arms across her chest, accusatory. “I know this is all complicated, but think about what you’re doing to the Galluzzos.” She pointed to the shirt again. “What is all this? You’re not marching!” She paused, rubbed her forehead, and when she was calm again, she continued. “Honey, I know you think you are doing the right thing, but you aren’t.”
“I think I am.”
“No, what you are doing is
thinking very selfishly.” She got up and poured herself a glass of water and stayed standing against the counter. “You think you are taking the moral high road, but what does this all mean for the rest of your family, Quinn? What does it mean for me and your brother?”
“I’m kind of hoping you’ll have my back.”
“No, Quinn. Look,” she continued. “Just step out of the way. Even if it’s ugly at school, this isn’t your fight. Why are you jumping into the middle of it?”
“I’m already there, Ma. I was there Friday night. Ma, I saw it. I’m right in the middle of it, which is why I can’t do nothing.”
She took a sip of water and stared at me.
“Have you seen the video, Ma?”
Willy turned to me. “I have.”
“What?” Ma cried. “Why would either of you watch it? Watch the fool they’re making Paulie out to be? Do you see what you’ve done, Quinn? You’re just dragging us all into it with you.”
“Ma,” I said, pushing back my chair and standing. “You’re already in the middle of it too. I think we all are.”
She gripped the countertop. “I don’t know how to talk to you right now.” She paused, and then added, “What would your father say if he were here?”
She never invoked Dad. Even though the whole town whipped out their Saint Springfield cards whenever it was most convenient, Ma never did. Dad had been her high school sweetheart, her husband, and the father of her two boys, and so for her, that’s what came first. He wasn’t a symbol. He was just gone. Gone for seven years now, and Ma was frigging exhausted.
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