Doing Right (Locked Out)

by Patrick Jones

  I keep running until I reach the edge of the parking lot. I duck behind a car to catch my breath, close my eyes, and clutch my stomach.

  From the park, I hear the last screams from the last ride of summer coming from the coasters.

  Soon, I pretend not to hear other sounds. Sirens. Police car. Ambulance.

  And I pretend not to hear the voice in the back of my head. It’s my dad calling me a coward.

  Dad never ran away from a fight. He’s always been proud of that. Of course, it got him a life of walls and bars, while I’m walking free. What he thinks shouldn’t matter to me.

  But I can’t get that voice out of my head.

  I pull up my shirt, put my hand on the black object in my waistband and take it out. I hold it tight until my hand stops shaking, then press down.

  “Uncle Lee, I need your help,” I say into my new big-ass phone.

  5

  “So that’s what happened,” I say to Uncle Lee just as we’re getting on 35E toward St. Paul. In the time it took him to come get me at the park in Shakopee, I rehearsed how I’d tell the story. Like I expected, he interrupted with lots of questions, grunts, and sighs. Now he’s silent for a second, deciding which of those to throw at me next.

  “So you called me instead of calling the police?” he asks finally.

  “You think that’s what I should’ve done?”

  “Absolutely. You gotta be careful, DeQuin. Minnesota’s got the conceal and carry law now. Those boys could’ve had guns. You run into trouble like this, you should never try to deal with it on your own. It could’ve gotten much uglier.”

  I’m still seeing those guys tackling Anton and Martel. I don’t want to think about how much worse it could’ve been.

  “Well, the cops did show up,” I tell my uncle. “I heard the sirens.”

  “Yeah, a little late. Have you tried to call Anton or Martel?”

  “No.” I have no idea what I’d say to them. Sorry won’t cut it. “You think they got arrested?” I keep telling myself I ran not because I was scared of getting hurt, but because I didn’t want to get in trouble.

  “If they did, they had it coming. That’s it—that’s the last straw with those two. I don’t want you hanging around with them anymore.”

  I almost breathe a sigh of relief. Now it’s not my fault if I avoid them. I can blame my uncle. “But they’re my friends,” I argue back, putting up a false front.

  “They used to be your friends,” Lee says, all stern and gruff. “They’re magnets for trouble. You follow them, and you’re going to get into trouble like your dad. I raised you better than that. You’re not losing everything I worked so hard for because of your hoodlum friends. I already got to visit my brother in prison, I’m not going to be visiting his son that I’m raising. No sir, no sir.”

  Gramps is up when we get home. Lee tells me I should let Gramps know what happened, since he was worried too. I sit at the kitchen table while Lee escapes into his office. I keep my hand in my pocket on my phone, but it doesn’t ring.

  Gramps makes me tell the whole story over again. I leave out some of the parts, just like I did with Lee, but all the time I’m talking, Gramps is shaking his head like he’s trying to screw in his neck.

  “Don’t you know nothing about history, DeQuin?” he says when I’m done.

  I shrug.

  “You never heard about Emmett Till? Don’t they teach you nothing in school no more?”

  Another shrug.

  “He was a black boy who talked to a white woman in Mississippi back in the 1950s, and then he turned up dead. They arrested the rednecks who done it. Everybody known they’d done it, but like I said, it was Mississippi and an all-white jury, so they got off. It was just another lynching.”

  “It’s not like that anymore.”

  He’s back to screwing in his neck with the head shakes. “You tell that to the white boys who jumped you tonight.”

  “Look, Gramps, we weren’t bothering those girls. We talked to ’em for like thirty seconds, then we were gonna leave ’em alone. You telling me I should just avoid all white people all the time in case I piss off some stupid football player?”

  “Of course not,” snaps Gramps. “You think that’s what I was fighting for on that bridge in Selma? Let me tell you, DeQuin, they beat us on that bridge, but we never backed down. We showed everybody we was stronger even though we took a beating.”

  “So what—you saying I should’ve just let myself get beat up?”

  “I’m saying sometimes you find yourself up against a wall, and running ain’t the answer. Running and hiding won’t save you. Sometimes a man’s got to stand his ground.” He pounds his cane as punctuation.

  “So you don’t think I should’ve called the police?” I don’t tell him that was Lee’s advice.

  Gramps groans. “Who do you think it was beating us up on the Pettus Bridge in Selma?”

  “Man, those were some hard times,” I say real soft, trying to calm him down.

  “But we got through it, and you know why we did it?” Gramps asks. He seems less testy now. “We did it for our kids, their kids. We stood our ground and took those beatings for you.”

  I got no idea what to say to that, so I go with, “Thanks, Gramps.”

  Gramps nods, staring hard at me. “So don’t blow it by acting like some fool.”

  “I won’t,” I say—even though I still don’t know what’s most foolish: to fight, to flee, or to freeze.

  6

  “Hey, DeQuin, you heard about Anton and Martel?” Rashad asks me at lunch on the first day of school. The four of us always sat together last year—that is, when Anton and Martel actually showed up. Rashad’s getting into sports and pulling away from Anton and Martel, so I guess we’re becoming better friends. It’s easier to say “no” when you got some backup.

  I shake my head. “What’s up?” I ask.

  “They’re in jail in Scott County,” Rashad says around a mouthful of pizza. “I saw Martel on Saturday and he said for sure he was coming back to school. So when he didn’t show this morning, I texted my moms to have her ask his moms, and now I got the whole story.”

  It’s just like I figured. Everybody at Harding’s gonna hear how I ran.

  “They got into some big rumble at Valleyfair on Saturday night. I thought you was supposed to be with them? I had to work.”

  I take a bite of my leftover KFC sandwich and ask another question so I don’t have to lie. “Why they still in jail?”

  “His moms said ’cause that’s the only thing they know how to do with black people in Scott County.” I laugh probably louder than I should.

  “But for real,” says Rashad, “they had a record, plus a bag with a little weed in it.” In other words the usual thing you’d find in their pockets.

  “Who’d they fight? What happened them?” I ask, making sure not to let on I know anything.

  “My moms said they’re probably out, ’cause they’re white.”

  “Glad they’re not hurt at least. Hit me up if you hear anything else.”

  “Martel’s moms said they should be back on Friday—that’s if school takes ’em back. But if they kicked out every brother that done time, this place would be half empty.” I don’t say anything, just focus on chewing on my cold chicken sandwich.

  Part of me’s relieved that Martel and Anton aren’t hurt bad. But part of me’s wondering what to expect on Friday.

  If we’re still friends—if that’s what matters to them—they’ll give me crap about it, but that’s all.

  But if they play by the rules of the street, they gotta teach me a lesson. A lesson I earned.

  As soon as I get off the bus from school on Thursday, I see Martel’s Jeep rounding the corner. It pulls up next to me. The bass is turned up, and the windows are almost shaking. When the driver’s side window rolls down, it’s like my ears have just been sucker punched.

  “Get in, DeQuin,” Martel says. He must see me hesitate, because right away he
adds, “Get in, it’s all good. We cool.”

  I open the door, throw my bag in, and hop in the backseat. I do it fast just in case Lee’s home and happens to be looking out the window, since he told me I needed to steer clear of Anton and Martel. I’ve broken up with girls before, but never with guy friends. It’s gonna feel weird.

  I shout over the music. “About Valleyfair—”

  Martel and Anton turn around. They look all stern at me, then laugh and offer me a bump. Both of them still got bandages on their noses, and Martel’s got a big ugly pink Band-Aid on his forehead and a puffy left eye.

  “You wanna explain it?” Martel says, turning his back to me and driving off. With the music loud, I got to shout over it. I’d ask him to turn it down, but he doesn’t owe me any favors.

  “I didn’t know what to do!” I yell. I’ve thought about what I’d say when they confronted me, but the music—and weed smoke—is throwing me off. They don’t offer me a hit.

  “Thing is, DeQuin, I don’t think this thing is over,” Martel says.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “I saw a pickup truck behind us with Woodbury High bumper stickers,” Martel says.

  “I saw that too,” Anton adds. He points at the side mirror. I don’t see anything.

  “Here’s your chance to man up, DeQuin,” Martel says and then hits the gas. He drives fast but safe toward one of the industrial parks.

  “Maybe this time the odds will be even,” Anton says.

  “Except this time we won’t be flashing no phone pretending it’s a .22,” Martel says and then makes a hard right into an empty parking lot behind what looks like a vacant building.

  He stops the car fast, and my chest crashes hard against the seat. If they’re right about the Woodbury guys following us, I’m guessing it won’t be the only pain I’ll be feeling. I should’ve just pretended not to hear him and not got in the car. I ran away before, but now I’m in a worse situation.

  “Get out, let’s do this,” Martel says. Anton yells his approval.

  I climb out of the car. “You see them, DeQuin?” Anton asks. He points at the road.

  “I don’t see nothing.”

  “Look harder, Einstein,” Martel suggests, so I do.

  I take another step away from the Jeep right before something cracks into the back of my skull.

  PART TWO: JANUARY / FEBRUARY

  7

  “Welcome to Armstrong High School, DeQuin,” says Mrs. Oliver, the principal, all smiles.

  “Thanks,” I mumble. I cover my eyes to block out what seems to be a blinding light. Ever since I came out of the coma in December, bright lights and loud noises give me killer headaches.

  “We really appreciate you taking DeQuin into your school,” says Lee, who is all suited up. “Harding isn’t an option anymore, and with DeQuin’s challenges since...”

  And he stops. We don’t talk about “since.” Since I got jumped by a bunch of kids from Woodbury, according to Anton and Martel. Somehow they fought them off, they said, yet still I got hurt bad: broken jaw, concussion, busted eardrum, and other stuff I don’t remember.

  “We’ll accommodate DeQuin as best we can,” Mrs. Oliver says. “We’ll do an IEP.”

  “IEP?” asks Gramps, who insisted on coming with us.

  “Individualized education plan,” she answers. She doesn’t say it’s code for special ed.

  “I don’t understand,” Gramps says, his normal response to the modern world. While Mrs. Oliver explains, I’m thinking about Harding. Lee says my old school’s not safe for me, but I can’t tell if he really believes that or if he just wants to get me away from Martel and Anton. Either way, he wouldn’t take any arguments from me. So now it’s Armstrong, in the burbs, over in Oakdale. Good thing is I get to drive to school every day.

  “Is there anything else, Mr. Lewis, that I could help you with?” she asks.

  Lee asks a bunch more questions, since obviously he’s Mr. Lewis and I’m not. When there’s a break, I ask something important to me. “Are there any other students from Harding here?”

  “A few,” says Mrs. Oliver. “You might see some old friends.”

  That wipes the smile off Lee’s face. “Better that he make some new ones.”

  Not only are Anton and Martel off limits, so is everyone I used to hang with, except people Uncle Lee approves. I’m a little boy again.

  “One last question,” Gramps says. “What are you doing for Black History Month?”

  Mrs. Oliver jumps right into another spiel. “At Armstrong, we make a point to celebrate the diversity of our student body,” she says. I try not to laugh, since I didn’t see too many brown faces in the Armstrong hallways when we got here.

  “I was at the march on Selma,” Gramps says. I thought this meeting was about me, but no. “I think it would be good for young people to hear how it was back in the day, when we were fighting for our civil rights. I got lots of stories.”

  Mrs. Oliver’s face lights up. “I can certainly arrange that, sir.”

  Gramps smiles whenever anybody calls him sir. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  I pull up my hood, trying to block out some of the brightness. This is gonna be a long, long day.

  8

  Mrs. Oliver hands me off to a hipster white science teacher like I’m a relay baton or something. She gives him some papers, wishes me luck, and walks away.

  “DeQuin, welcome to environmental science,” the guy says, never looking up from the papers. “Why don’t you take a seat anywhere there’s space available?”

  I quick-scan the room. The desks are pushed together into groups of four. In one of the clusters closest to the front, I see a girl rocking a pink zip hoodie with a white beater underneath that she fills out fine. Dark brown skin, almost sparkling thick lips, and intense focus. The only thing I don’t like about her is there’s no empty seat next to her.

  “I need to sit close to the front, I got a busted eardrum so I don’t hear too well,” I tell the teacher.

  “Sure thing,” he says. “Just grab a chair for today.” I take an extra chair from the back and set it down right next to the pink-hoodie girl’s desk. The teacher starts talking about climate change, but I’ve got other types of science on my mind, like animal attraction and magnetic pull.

  I open a notebook, but then pretend I don’t have anything to write with, so I whisper to the hoodie girl. “You got a pen or something?”

  She makes this little sniff sound and reaches behind her ear. She hands me a pen from beneath relaxed shiny shoulder-length hair.

  “Thanks. I’m DeQuin,” I whisper. “And you are?”

  “Smooth, DeQuin, real smooth,” she says, but doesn’t give up her name.

  I keep waiting for another chance to say something to this girl, but the teacher keeps talking like if he shuts his mouth, he’s going to die. Finally he tells us to talk at our tables about something. I agree with everything the mystery girl says, and she says a lot. Smart too. Somebody else in our group calls her Ralisha. So now at least I’ve got her name.

  When the bell rings, I go to hand her back her pen. “Thanks again.”

  “Keep it.” She picks up her books, then stands. I try not to stare, but it’s hard. She fills out her jeans as fine as she does the beater.

  “Thanks,” I say and then flash my A+ smile. She kind of smiles back. “Why?”

  “Why what?” she asks.

  “Why do you want me to keep your pen?” I ask just to keep the conversation going.

  “So you’ll have one when I decide to give you my phone number.”

  I pull out my phone. “How about now?”

  “How about you slow down?”

  “You never know how many days you got.” I show her the scar on the back of my head.

  “You must not be much of a fighter,” she says jokingly.

  “You should see the other guys.” I wish she could see the other guys and tell me who they were. Was it really the guys from Woodbury?
Or were Anton and Martel teaching me a lesson?

  9

  To get from east St. Paul to Oak Park Heights takes us right by the Maplewood Mall and through Whitebury. Even as I see the city limit sign, I think of the guys from the amusement park. Like they’re lying in wait for me here.

  If you had a map of our drive, it’d look like an Oreo from the side: leaving black-heavy east St. Paul, driving through the wide white burbs, and ending up at the prison. More black people live in Oak Park Heights than most Minnesota towns.

  The prison is max security and so is the visiting. It’s three of us on one side of the heavy glass, Dad on the other side.

  Gramps starts upbeat, but gets grumpy pretty quick. Lee comes mainly to be there for me, like he always is. He’s got nothing much to say to Dad. Hasn’t for years. Lee took the hard way, Dad took the easy way. It doesn’t take a genius to do the math and see where those choices landed them.

  After barely a minute, Lee hands me the phone. “How you doin’, DeQuin?” Dad asks, like always, like he cares. At least he pretends to care.

  I tell him I’m doing better. This is the first time we’ve talked since right after I got released from the hospital. I was still pretty out of it then.

  “You seen Martel and Anton at all?” Dad asks now.

  I shake my head. “Nah. Not since it happened.”

  That last call, I told him the whole story, everything that went down with Martel and Anton. Funny thing, I can’t lie to my dad, never could. Maybe that’s why I’d never make it as a criminal. I’m an honest person, somehow.

  “Still can’t believe you ran,” Dad says, shaking his head. “If I was out, I’d teach you how to fight, how to be a man, not a coward.”

  I try not to react. But it’s a kick in the balls. Every time I come here, I tell myself that it doesn’t matter what he says because of what he’s done with his life. And I believe it until I hear his voice and look into his face. It’s my face. He’s part of me no matter what.

  10

  “So I guess I should start when I was just a boy in Alabama,” Gramps says. He sits on a stool in the front of the room talking to my mostly white history class about Black History.