his eyes to me.
I got scared.
So I pulled
the trigger.
BUCK BENT
his pinky and ring
finger back,
turned his
hand into
a gun.
Bang-
bang.
AGAIN
What does this have to do
with Shawn?
I asked.
Shawn stuck to The Rules,
Frick replied.
You mean.
I swallowed.
You mean he . . . he . . .
I struggled
to get it out.
Now Buck put
the finger gun
against Frick’s
chest and repeated,
Bang-bang.
ACTUALLY,
he only pulled the
trigger once, so it
was more like,
Bang,
Frick corrected.
Fifteen
bullets.
TOOK ME OUT
before I ever even
got my Shining,
Frick said.
Rubbed just under
his right eye
like it still
rubbed him
the wrong way.
FRICK YANKED HIS COLLAR DOWN.
See this?
he asked,
exposing a hole
in his chest,
dime-sized,
disgusting,
bloody
but not
bleeding.
Your brother’s
fingerprints are in
there somewhere.
Buck Ha’d!
Replied
before I had
a chance.
And I bet
it’s his
middle finger!
WHEN THE JOKE WAS OVER
I asked how Shawn
could’ve known Frick
was the guy who killed Buck.
Buck said there was only
one other person at the
court that night,
always there
all the time,
a young kid
running back and forth
trying to dunk.
Not shoot.
Said he thinks
I might’ve known him.
Tony.
And he wasn’t trying to dunk.
He was trying to
fly.
TONY TALKING
ain’t the same as snitching.
Snitching is bumping gums
to badges, but
Tony ain’t run to no cops
or cry to no cameras,
nothing like that.
Tony talking
was laying claim,
loyalty,
an allegiance to
the asphalt around
here, an attempt
to grow taller
get bigger
one way or another.
09:09:03 a.m.
NOW LET ME ASK YOU
how you know
this kid Riggs got your brother?
Buck fired back.
Because he clearly got revenge
for Shawn taking out this guy,
I pointed
to Frick.
Frick, you know
a kid named Riggs?
Dani asked
out of nowhere,
her voice
floating over
my shoulder.
Little dude.
Big mouth.
Dark Sun.
I figured
the description
might help.
Frick looked at me,
confused.
Who?
ANAGRAM NO. 6
I wish I knew
an anagram
for POSER.
FRICK LOOKED
at me like I was crazy,
shrugged his shoulders,
and turned around
and faced the door.
Couldn’t see
his reflection.
Couldn’t see
any of their
reflections.
Just mine,
blurred.
FRICK HAD
his own cigarettes
and
his own matches.
Finally
Finally
Finally
the elevator came to a stop.
WHEN THE ELEVATOR DOOR OPENED
no one was there.
So I reached over and pushed
the L button
again and again and
again and again.
Because that’s what you do
when you want the door
to close faster.
Another one of those
elevator rules.
COME ON,
I huffed
under my breath,
impatient,
pissy,
pissed off,
scared,
scarred,
and straight-up
uncomfortable being
crammed in this
stupid
steel
box,
this vertical coffin,
another second.
UNCLE MARK CHUCKLED.
You would never survive
in prison, nephew.
FINALLY
the elevator door
began closing.
I exhaled,
happy we were
almost there.
One floor to go.
And just before
it was shut,
before the door clicked
in place,
four fingers slipped in
just barely catching it.
The elevator door
began opening
again.
09:09:07 a.m.
HIM.
Shawn.
Stepped into the smoky box
wearing exactly what he wore
the night before:
blue jeans,
T-shirt,
gold chain.
But not his alive outfit.
His dead one.
The one that came
with bloodstains.
EVERYBODY
was so happy
to see him.
Shawn!
Buck yelped,
reaching out
for him.
They slapped hands.
Buck fiddled with
the gold chain around
Shawn’s neck.
Moved the clasp
to the back.
Shawn looked at Dani.
Look at you!
he said,
taking her hand,
spinning her around.
Uncle Mark
gave him a light
tap in the ribs.
Big man!
he said
proudly.
Shawn turned,
gave him a hug,
caught a glimpse
of our father.
Pop!
he said,
natural,
his face
beaming.
Our father
wrapped his arms
around Shawn,
cocooning him.
Then pulled away,
shook hands
like men,
like partners.
ALL
the un-alive/un-dead
lined up along the wall
puffing their cigs,
smiling
as Shawn
finally
finally
faced
me.
WHEN WE WERE KIDS
I would follow Shawn
around the apartment
making the strangest
noise with my mouth.
Hard
to explain the sound.
Burpy but not a burp.
Like burp mixed
with yawn mixed
with hum.
Something like that.
For twenty minutes straight.
From bedroom
to kitchen
to living room
back to bedroom.
To punish me,
he would wait for me to finish,
to run out of steam,
to let it go,
to get tired
of being immature.
And then,
to my surprise,
he wouldn’t say a word to me
for the rest
of the day.
I LOOKED AT SHAWN.
He looked at me.
Shawn,
I said.
But he said
nothing.
I repeated,
Shawn?
Nothing.
I STEPPED TOWARD HIM,
hugged him.
He didn’t hug back.
Just stood there,
awkward,
a middle drawer
of a man.
I ASKED HIM
why he wouldn’t say nothing,
why he was ignoring me,
but still,
nothing,
not a word,
not even a smile.
I TOLD HIM
about the
drawer,
the gun,
that I did
like he told me,
like Buck told him,
like our grandfather told
our uncle, like our uncle
told our dad.
I followed The Rules.
At least the first two.
I hadn’t cried.
I hadn’t snitched.
EXPLAINED
that I was on my way to take
care of his killer,
follow through
with Rule Number Three.
Told him I knew it was Riggs.
Told him I thought it was Riggs,
then told him I knew it was Riggs
again.
CONFESSED
that I was scared,
that I needed
to know I was
doing the right thing.
THE RULES ARE THE RULES
I WAS BREAKING DOWN.
The tears were coming
and I did what I could
to hold them back.
Took my eyes off Shawn,
hoping to fight the crying
feeling by not looking.
But everywhere else
was everyone else,
cigarettes glowing
like a bunch of
L buttons.
09:09:08 a.m.
I LOOKED BACK AT SHAWN,
tears now pouring from his eyes
as he softly snotted and hiccuped
like a little kid,
tears pouring from his eyes
tears pouring from his eyes
tears pouring from his eyes.
I thought you said
no crying,
Shawn,
I said,
voice cracking,
one of my tears
bursting
free.
But only one
so it didn’t count.
No crying.
No crying.
No crying.
No crying.
AND EVEN THOUGH
his face was wet
with tears he wasn’t
supposed to cry
when he was alive,
I couldn’t see him
as anything less
than my brother,
my favorite,
my only.
AND THERE WAS A SOUND
like whatever makes
elevators work,
cables and cogs,
or whatever,
grinding,
rubbing metal on metal
like a machine moaning
but coming
from the mouth
from the belly
of Shawn.
He never said nothing to me.
Just made that painful
piercing sound,
as suddenly the
elevator came to a stop.
RANDOM THOUGHT NO. 5
The sound you hear
in your head,
the one people call
ears ringing,
sounds less like a bell,
and more like a flatline.
THERE WAS A MOMENT
before the door opened
when we all just stood there,
sickening
smoke thickening,
crowded in
this cell
this coffin
this elevator
quiet.
I LOOKED AROUND
only seeing the orange glow
of five cigarettes puncturing
the sheet of smoke
like headlights in
heavy fog.
Only five cigarettes.
Shawn hadn’t lit one,
became invisible
in the cloud.
And I felt like
the cigarette meant for him
was burning in
my stomach,
filling me with
stinging fire.
09:09:09 a.m.
I WANT OUT.
The door opened slowly,
the cloud of smoke
rushing out of the elevator,
rushing out of me
like an angry wave.
I caught my breath as
Buck,
Dani,
Uncle Mark,
Pop,
Frick,
and
Shawn
chased behind it.
The L button
no longer lit.
I stood alone
in the empty box,
face tight from
dried tears,
jeans soggy,
a loaded gun
still tucked in my
waistband.
Shawn
turned back toward me,
eyes dull from death
but shining from tears,
finally spoke
to me.
Just two words,
like a joke he’d
been saving.
YOU COMING?
Acknowledgments
I’d like to give special thanks to my agent, Elena Giovinazzo, who saw this work first and suggested I write it in verse; and to my editor, Caitlyn Dlouhy, who took it and helped me shape it into what it is now. The unwavering belief you both have shown me is nothing short of remarkable. Thank you. To my family, but more importantly, for this book, my friends, who have been with me in precarious situations where our humanity curdles and our ethics are put to the test. I couldn’t have written this without our childhoods. To the young men and women serving time in detention facilities: your stories, your testimonies matter. Your lives are often sacrificed by the failures of people twice your age. But you will make it. You will make it. Also, to the poets. Without poetry, especially when I was younger, being a writer would’ve seemed like a futile attempt. The poets taught me the functionality and power of language. And lastly, to my dear friend, Randell Duncan. We miss you. Rest easy, brother.
About the Author
Author photograph by Jati Lindsay
Jason Reynolds is crazy. About stories.
Jason Reynolds is also tired. Of being around young people who are tired of feeling invisibl. So he writes books (a bunch ofbooks) and has even won some awards, but none of them are as important as a young person saying they feel seen. The more that happens, the less tired Jason is.
But either way, he’ll still be crazy.
About stories.
About you.
Check
him out at jasonwritesbooks.com
A CAITLYN DLOUHY BOOK
Simon & Schuster · New York
Visit us at simonandschuster.com/teen
Authors.simonandschuster.com/Jason-Reynolds
Also by Jason Reynolds
WHEN I WAS THE GREATEST
THE BOY IN THE BLACK SUIT
ALL AMERICAN BOYS (with Brendan Kiely)
AS BRAVE AS YOU
GHOST
PATINA
An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division • 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020 • www.SimonandSchuster.com • This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. • Text copyright © 2017 by Jason Reynolds • Jacket photographs copyright © 2017 by Getty Images • All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. • Atheneum logo is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc. • For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-866-506-1949 or [email protected]. • The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event, contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com. • The text for this book was set in Arno. • Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data • Names: Reynolds, Jason, author. Title: Long way down / Jason Reynolds. Description: First edition. | New York : Atheneum, [2017] | “A Caitlyn Dlouhy Book.” | Summary: As Will, fifteen, sets out to avenge his brother Shawn’s fatal shooting, seven ghosts who knew Shawn board the elevator and reveal truths Will needs to know. • Identifiers: LCCN 2017001395 | ISBN 9781481438254 (hardback) ISBN 9781481438278 (eBook) Subjects: | CYAC: Murder—Fiction. | Revenge—Ficction. | Ghosts—Fiction. | Brothers—Fiction. | Conduct of life—Fiction. • Classification: LCC PZ7.R33593 Lon 2017 | DDC [Fic]—dc23 • LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017001395
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