Doing Right (Locked Out)

by Patrick Jones

Gramps looks at his own beer in disgust. “Sometimes a man can’t stay out of trouble. Sometimes trouble is standing in his path.”

  Did I hear that wrong, or did Gramps just call me a man?

  “Jimmie was a follower,” Gramps says. “Both my sons are followers. He went along with the gang life. You, Lee, you went along with the quiet life. DeQuin ain’t a follower.”

  “Well, he’s still gotta pay that fine,” says Lee, and the conversation is over.

  My head feels like someone’s taking a whack at it all over again. If I’m not a follower, what am I? If I can’t fight and I can’t run, what are my choices?

  15

  After last night, the only thing that’ll make me feel better is seeing Ralisha. But it’s Sunday, so I got twenty-four hours till I see her at school. I call her and we meet up in this little park a couple blocks away from her house.

  “What’s wrong, boo?” Ralisha asks. First I tell her about getting pulled over last night. But she can see that’s not all that’s bothering me.

  I decide to be totally honest for the first time. I start with why I had to leave Harding. I’ve shown her the scar but never told the story of how I got beat up.

  Now I tell her everything, from how I used to run with Martel and Anton through the night at the amusement park up until I got smacked in the back of the head. “For a long time I felt like it all came down to that moment in the parking lot, when I decided to run,” I say. “I thought I made the wrong choice. But now I think—maybe when you’re on the wrong path, there are no right choices. No matter what I did that night, it was gonna end bad. Hanging with Martel and Anton, following their lead all those years, that was my real mistake. But I’m done with all that. It’s time to get serious.”

  “That’s what I need, DeQuin,” Ralisha says. “Too many fools and boys pretending to be men. I need somebody I can count on, somebody who will stand up and do the right thing.”

  “That’s me, these days.” I kiss her gently. “And now I get to ask you something. How come we been together all this time and you never had me to your house?”

  Ralisha removes the phone from her back pocket, unlocks it, and taps the screen. “You’re right. I’ve been afraid too,” she says. “I guess it’s time for you to meet my family.”

  Ralisha wraps one arm around the back of my neck, pulling me tight. With the other she holds the phone and starts to flip through photos. “That’s my moms and dads,” she says and then pauses her thumb. “And this is my pride and joy. This is my son, Ramon.”

  PART THREE: MAY

  16

  “What you up to this weekend?” Ralisha asks me over the phone as I walk out with the closing crew after a busy night. Her tone’s light and teasing, which is good to hear—a nice change from all the serious talks we’ve been having lately.

  I’m still absorbing everything she’s told me about her family over the past few months. Ramon’s the reason she leaves school early every day. She goes to Harding in the morning, parents and does her online classes in the afternoon, and then works nights. It’s a hard life, and she’s been doing it for three years now, since Ramon was born. No wonder she don’t have time for fools.

  “I got this thing to go to for work on Saturday,” I say. “My uncle’s boss, the owner of the stores he supervises, has this big party every May for kids who work at his stores and are graduating from high school. He invites his senior team too, which includes my uncle Lee. And Lee always brings me. He wants me to dress up, look respectable.”

  “Well, you can’t be disappointing your uncle,” she says.

  “Yeah, he’s pretty uptight about it. He’s planning on asking Mr. Richards if he can buy one of the stores.”

  “That’s great, DeQuin. You sound really proud of him.”

  “Yeah, I guess I am.” He stepped up to raise me, along with working hard on his career. I always think of myself as not really having a father. But I guess Lee’s been my father. “Are you proud of your dad? And your mom? What do they do?” I ask.

  There’s a long pause before she says, “You can ask them yourself. I’d like you to have dinner with them, me, and Ramon on Sunday for Mother’s Day.”

  It’s like a big old window just swung open and let in a gust of fresh air. “I’d love that, baby,” I say.

  We talk a little more before she needs to go. My head’s still spinning from the thought of meeting her folks when I stop dead in my tracks.

  There’s Martel leaning against my ride.

  He steps forward, extends his arms, wraps me in a hug, gives me a bump, another hug. It feels weird, the old routine. I flash to him sitting behind the wheel of his Jeep last September. It’s all good. We cool. I’d wanted to believe him so bad. Even after, when I woke up in the hospital, when I heard Martel’s and Anton’s side of the story from Lee and the cops—even then I’d tried to believe it.

  But I ain’t walking around with my eyes closed anymore. I take a step back from Martel and wait.

  “Hey, man,” he says. “I knew you wouldn’t take my calls, but I needed to see you, tell you something.” We lean on the side of my car.

  “What is it? I have homework.” Not a lie. Armstrong High is kicking my butt something fierce.

  “Look, it’s been a while and a lot’s gone down,” he starts. He won’t look at me when he talks. “I’m working a program now, making amends and such. I need to make peace with everyone I hurt, especially you, DeQuin.”

  I’ve waited for this. I’ve dreaded it. I need to hear it. “How did you hurt me, Martel?”

  “We were serious angry at you, so we taught you a lesson about bailing on friends.” He glances at me out of the corner of his eye. “I figured you knew it was us.”

  I rub my head; my finger lingers on the scar. “Yeah, I was pretty sure.”

  “But you never said anything to the cops.”

  “I might be chicken, but I didn’t snitch.”

  “I owe you. And for real, I didn’t mean for you to get hurt that bad. We were just trying to make a point.”

  “There’s better ways to make a point than cracking somebody’s skull.”

  “I know that now,” Martel says. “Times change, I guess.”

  I nod.

  “So. We good?”

  I shake my head. “We ain’t good...but we ain’t bad. It takes courage to man up and confess like this, and I appreciate it. But we’re not friends.”

  Martel nods. “I feel you, DeQuin. A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.”

  I bump him again and nod in agreement. Except, for so many things in my life, I still don’t know what it is a man would do.

  17

  “You know, Ralisha, I’m seventeen years old, and I’ve been dressing myself just fine for years,” I say as we walk out of yet another clothing store at Maplewood Mall.

  “If you’re coming to my house, you’re gonna clean up and look right, not wearing no ratty old Levis and a LeBron jersey and such,” she argues back, but in a fun way. That’s one of the things I like about Ralisha, she can take it and give it out. “I got fashion sense, DeQuin. You look most days like you been dressed by a blind man.”

  “Maybe I’ll just wear my KFC uniform.”

  “Yeah, right. Speaking of KFC, you need to dress nice for that party, don’t you? So if you buy a suit, you’ll get to wear it twice in one week. That’s a good investment, DeQuin.”

  “Look at you bustin’ out the vocab from econ class,” I tease her.

  But she doesn’t let me get her off track. “Why don’t we go over to Woodbury? They got some of those nice places like Joseph Banks and stuff. You’d look sharp in those, I bet.”

  I don’t tell her that I want to avoid Woodbury. “Too expensive.”

  “Tell you what.” She gets close to me, whispers in my ear. “You know what other store is there? Victoria’s Secret. Maybe I’ll have to try on some things for you to see.”

  The keys are out of my pocket and in my hand so fast it defies physic
s.

  At the fancy men’s suit store, I feel out of place in a hundred ways. First, because I’ve never been in a store like this with clothes this expensive. Second, because ain’t nobody in the store as young as me and Ralisha. And third, of course, ain’t nobody in the store looks like us, except maybe a lady working the register who’s spent too much time under a tanning lamp.

  “At least buy a nice tie,” Ralisha says. “I’ll even tie it for you.”

  Before I can answer, some older guy with a gray beard comes over. “Are you finding everything you need?” he asks. I kind of nod and smile but don’t answer. “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah, we’re fine.” But he’s not moving. He’s right next to me. It’s weird.

  Ralisha points to a sales rack, so we head over there.

  “All this merchandise is on sale,” the guy says.

  “Thanks,” I mumble. I glance toward the exit. There’s an older white security guard staring at me.

  I grab two shirts from the sale rack and head for the back where I saw the dressing rooms. Ralisha has to run to keep up with my long legs.

  “Do you need some help with those?” the guy asks, but I blow past him.

  I go into the dressing room, hang up the shirts, and stare at my reflection. The shirts all look wrong on me. When I come out of the dressing room, as I could’ve guessed, the old guy’s waiting for me. I hand him his overpriced shirts and say, “You don’t have to follow me.”

  “I don’t need any problems with you people,” he says.

  “But we’re not causing problems,” Ralisha says. “All we want to do is shop.”

  “And all I want to do is make sure that nothing happens in my store,” the guy answers with a straight face. “Maybe it would be best for everyone if you just leave.”

  “No.” And I’m with Gramps on the Pettus Bridge.

  “No.” And Ralisha is there with me. I got backup.

  “I’m calling the police,” he says and pulls out his phone.

  “We didn’t do anything, so I’m not sure what you’re going tell them,” Ralisha says.

  “I’m asking you to leave. If you don’t, then I guess you’re trespassing.”

  I look at Ralisha. She’s still with me. “We’re standing our ground.”

  The guy sighs, puts his phone back in his pocket and walks away. We’ve called his bluff.

  “OK then,” Ralisha says to me, all casual. “Let’s find you a suit.”

  18

  “Can we go soon?” I ask Lee. It’s not just that I hate wearing the suit. It’s everything else about Lee’s boss’s party at this country club in Woodbury. I got a change of clothes in the car that I’m itching to get into as soon as possible. Lee wouldn’t let me bring Ralisha—he didn’t say why and I didn’t ask—but he’s dropping me at Maplewood Mall after.

  “DeQuin, this is a big deal for me, especially this year,” Lee says. “I don’t recall you raising a fuss last year. In fact, last year, all I remember you doing was eating plates of food.”

  I don’t say, Well, Lee, that’s because I was high last year. Instead, I head for the buffet, which is loaded with nice food, instead of the KFC stuff we practically live on.

  I load up my plate and look for a place to sit. The only table with an opening is with a bunch of white crew members. I introduce myself, mention my uncle, and join the conversation.

  “So what colleges are you all going to?” I ask. Maybe I can learn something for when I have to decide next year. Gramps wants me to go to the University of Alabama, and considering how much he complains about everything in Minnesota, he’ll probably want to come south with me.

  “Um, I’m not going to college,” replies a short fat white guy with a name tag that says Benny. “I’m going full-time the day school is over.”

  “Same,” adds the girl, named Brittney of course. “I might take a class at the community college.”

  A couple more talk about going into the Army, and finally one girl says, “I’m going to St. Cloud State, but honestly, that’s mainly to play hockey.”

  “Serious? None of you’s going out of state, or even to the U?” I ask, all shocked.

  “Well, not all of us have it easy.” Benny nods toward Lee, who stands next to Mr. Richards.

  I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “Easy?”

  “Yeah, DeQuin, easy,” Brittney says in a tone like she’s spitting on me. “Not all of us got lucky enough to be the son of the general manager.”

  I barely register that she called me Lee’s son. I’m too busy chewing on the rest of what she said. There ain’t been too many times in my life I felt lucky. I want to ask Brittney if she’s got a dad behind bars, if she’s been dragging that chain most of her life. I want to ask her if she had her skull smashed in by people she thought were her friends. Seems like the whole world’s ready to judge me without knowing nothing about me.

  I catch sight of Lee across the room. He’s watching me—probably praying I don’t say something to embarrass him. Just keep your head down, DeQuin, I bet he’s thinking. Play nice.

  But I can’t do it. I can’t be who Lee wants me to be, or even who Gramps thinks I am.

  I pick up my plate, dump the fancy food in the garbage, and go over to Lee. “Be right back,” I say. “I forgot something in the car.” Myself.

  In the car’s backseat I lose the suit and get back into real clothes: jeans and a hoodie. Then I set off down the wide streets of Whitebury. I gotta walk it off.

  “So how late you working? I need to see you,” I say to Ralisha as soon as she picks up. “I’m feelin’ all messed up right now and—”

  “Hey, you, what are you doing out here?” I hear a male voice call out from behind me.

  I just keep talking to Ralisha. She’s excited about me meeting her son and the rest of her family next Sunday. I focus on her words, trying to ignore the harsh voice yelling at me for no reason.

  “I said what are you doing out there?” The voice is deep, angry, scared.

  Ralisha breaks off. “What’s that noise?”

  “Some guy’s yelling at me.” I pull my hood over my head to block out the sound.

  “For what?” she asks.

  “He thinks I’m Tiger Woods and wants my autograph.”

  “Freeze!” the guy shouts almost in my ear. “This is your last warning.”

  I turn. It’s no Woodbury PD, just a pudgy guy in a polo shirt—security guard, maybe, for the golf club, or maybe some neighborhood watch thing. “What’s going on?” Ralisha asks.

  My body tenses: do I flee, fight or freeze? “Nothing’s going on,” I say into the phone. I take a step toward the guy. “What’s your problem? Why—”

  But I stop when I see it.

  “DeQuin, what’s going on?” Ralisha repeats, frantic now.

  What’s going on is that I’m staring down into the mouth of a pistol.

  19

  Blood drips down, staining my shoes. Some of it’s my blood, from where the guard bashed my eyebrow open with the side of his gun. Some of it’s his blood, which splattered everywhere when I knocked out half his teeth.

  The wail of the sirens from the police cars and ambulance makes my ears thrum, while the flashing lights from the vehicles blind me.

  “Let me see your hands!” the cop shouts. The same cop who broke my tail light? Sure looks like it. As I hold my hands out in front of me, I try to stop them from shaking.

  Another cop with a camera takes pictures. Once that’s done, an EMT checks me out.

  “I think my hand’s broken.” I don’t ask about the guard’s jaw. I know that’s broken.

  “We’ll fix him up after we book him.” The cop talks about me like I’m not there. He motions for me to put my hands behind me. I grit my teeth against the pain. The cuffs click together. It reminds me of the sound the doors at the prison make, a sound I’ll be hearing soon enough.

  “I didn’t do anything,” I say, head held high, defiant.

  I start to tell
the cop about the guard waving his gun, coming at me. Even as I’m spilling my guts, I can tell he’s not listening. This cop made up his mind about me the first time he saw me.

  He pushes me hard toward his car. “You can tell it to the judge in the morning.”

  “I wanna call home,” I say as I squeeze into the backseat. He doesn’t protect my head.

  “You can call your daddy from jail,” says the cop.

  “My dad’s already in jail,” I snap before I can stop myself. “I said I want to call home.”

  The cop smirks. “Or maybe we can just arrange a family reunion.”

  I bite the insides of my mouth to keep from saying anything else. They already saw me as a criminal, and now they’re seeing me as my father’s son.

  The cop slams the car door. Seconds later, like a delayed echo, the door on the ambulance slams. I’m off to jail and the guard’s off to the hospital, but that’s on him. He gave me no choice. No more fleeing or freezing. I fought, not to hurt others, like Dad did, but to defend myself. I stood my ground. No matter what these cops say or do, they won’t make me regret that.

  The car starts to pull away, and I brace myself for whatever’s coming next.

  AFTERWORD

  As of 2014, it’s estimated that more than 2.7 million children in the United States have a parent behind bars. About one in five of those kids are teenagers. While having parents in prison presents challenges at any age, it may be particularly hard for teenagers, as they try to find their way in the world.

  The Locked Out series explores the realities of parental incarceration through the eyes of teens dealing with it. These stories are fictional, but the experiences that Patrick Jones writes about are daily life for many youths.

  The characters deal with racism, stigma, shame, sadness, confusion, and isolation—common struggles for children with parents in prison. Many teens are forced to move from their homes, schools, or communities as their families cope with their parents’ incarcerations.

  These extra challenges can affect teens with incarcerated parents in different ways. Kids often struggle in school – they are at increased risk for skipping school, feeling disconnected from classmates, and failing classes. They act out and test boundaries. And they’re prone to taking risks, like using substances or engaging in other illegal activities.