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Long Way Down

Page 7

by Jason Reynolds


  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 business@simonandschuster.com. • 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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