At the Crossroads

by Travis Hunter

“No,” Habib protested. “I can’t take that.”

  “Yes, you can,” Nigel said, and ran outside. The police officer was pulling off just as Nigel made it outside.

  “Hey!” he called out, but the officer was already on Martin Luther King Boulevard and speeding down the street. “Daggone it,” he said, punching his own hand in frustration.

  Nigel jumped into his car and raced back up the block to his house. He pulled into the driveway, jumped out of the car, and started running. He ran inside the house and straight back to Franky’s room. He opened the door and looked inside, hoping that Habib had just had a bad dream. Franky wasn’t anywhere to be found. Nigel growled in frustration and ran around the house, looking for his cousin. He sighed and look around as if Habib and Franky had got together to film an episode of Punk’d. But his life was far from a television show. Looking around his cousin’s room, he knew that Franky was exactly where Habib said he was.

  The phone rang and he rushed out of the room to get it, hoping it was Franky.

  “Hello?” he said.

  “May I speak to Franky?” a girl’s voice said.

  “He’s not here,” Nigel said. “Who is calling?”

  “This is Khadija,” she said. “Will you tell him I called?”

  “Oh, how you doing, Khadija?” Nigel said. “I didn’t recognize your voice.”

  “I’m doing okay. I was trying to catch Franky before he left for school.”

  “You already missed him. I haven’t heard from you in a few days. You doing okay?”

  “Yes,” Khadija said. “I’m okay. Will you tell Franky to call me? I really need to talk to him.”

  “I’ll do it,” Nigel said.

  “Okay,” Khadija said. “Please don’t forget to tell him that I called.”

  “I won’t,” Nigel said before hanging up.

  Nigel walked back to Franky’s door and stared at his empty bed. His heart was heavy, and he felt responsible for where Franky was, because he didn’t press him hard enough for answers when he started acting weird after he got jumped. His interest in school dropped, he never went to meet the football coach, and he stayed in his room staring at the wall. Now that his little cousin had finally snapped, he couldn’t help but take the blame.

  Nigel saw Auntie Kelli’s telephone number, picked the phone up, and dialed it. He had done the best he could for Franky and he’d failed. It was time for someone else to try.

  23

  Aloud horn sounded, and Franky slowly opened his eyes. He looked around and tried to figure out where he was. He was still sitting upright with his back against the wall. A set of feet plopped down in front of his face, followed by a body. A person jumped from the top bunk and turned around to look at him.

  “What’s up?” the guy said.

  Franky didn’t respond. He ignored the brown-skinned guy with tattoos on his face. There was a black tattoo of a cross between his eyes and two teardrops on the outside of his left eye.

  “It’s breakfast time,” the boy said. “And you gotta get up and eat.”

  The boy was about Franky’s height but was heavier. Franky sized him up and figured he should be on somebody’s football field instead of in the county’s jail cell, but then again so should he. He stood up and stretched.

  “I’m DeMarco. People call me Dee,” he said, reaching out his hand.

  Franky gave his hand a halfhearted slap.

  “What’s your name, homie?” Dee asked.

  “Franky,” he said. “Do you know a guy in here named Tyrone?”

  “Black Tyrone?”

  “He’s black,” Franky said.

  “It’s two of them in here. One is light skinned and the other one is as black as a car tire. The light-skin one is cool, but Black Ty is a buster. He just got here a few days ago. Loudmouth with a missing front tooth? I guess somebody got tired of that big mouth and fired him up.”

  “How can I get at him?” Franky asked, excited at the opportunity. “He’s gotta pay for some things he did.”

  “Well, you will see him in a few minutes. We all eat together,” Dee said, smiling in anticipation of some action.

  “What about the guards? I only need a few minutes with him,” Franky said, licking his lips.

  “A few minutes ain’t happening, bro, but you can get to him. There is no such thing as a long fight in here. Guards are on their jobs. I’ve been in here so many times that I know their steps in my sleep. I’ll tell you when you’ll have more time, but it won’t be at breakfast.”

  “So when?”

  “Classrooms are always good,” he said. “But you will still get only a minute or so at most. Me and a few of my people can stand in the way and give you a lil more time, but the thing is, they gonna send us back to our rooms for the rest of the day and that’s gonna cost you.”

  “What’s it gonna cost me?”

  Dee shrugged his shoulders. “Not much. Nobody likes him. He talks too much and he’s fugazy.”

  “What’s that?” Franky asked.

  “Fake.”

  “Count time. Line up,” a voice said from out in the corridor.

  “Let’s go, cuz,” Dee said. “The hacks get to trippin’ if we don’t get out here before they come to do their lil count.”

  Room, Franky took note of how calm and at home Dee seemed. He wasn’t trying to get too comfortable in this place. But he was willing to stay as long as he could to make Tyrone pay for his cowardly act. Yet Franky knew that if he carried out the plans that were dancing around in his head, he, too, would have to get comfortable with that thin mattress and the steel doors.

  They stepped out of their room and stood by the door. The first floor was for no violent offenders and those who could be bailed out at any time. The second floor was where you could find all of the head cases and career juvenile offenders. Franky looked up and was amazed at the size of the place. There had to be at least one hundred rooms, and two kids were standing by each one. The place looked like it was right out of the movie Lockdown. Everywhere he looked, he saw nothing but steel and glass. There was a control room directly in front of him that opened and closed doors, called for more officers if there was a riot, and watched the juvenile delinquents’ every move.

  Once the corrections officer was satisfied that everyone was accounted for, he asked them to turn to their right, place their hands behind their backs, and march to the mess hall.

  Franky scanned every face he saw, trying to find Tyrone, but he didn’t see him. Every kid had on the same navy blue jumpsuit with the exception of a few sprinkled around who wore orange ones.

  “Why do they have on orange?” Franky asked Dee as they walked.

  “They got big charges,” Dee said. “Or they’re about to turn eighteen, and if that’s the case, they are out of here and about to go over to the adult spot. I ain’t ever tryna go there, bro.”

  “Me neither,” Franky said. “I’m tryna make this my one and only stop, ya heard.”

  “You from New Orleans, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Ya the only ones who say ‘ya heard’ fifty times a sentence. ‘Ya heard,’ “ Dee said. “Yeah, I heard ya. I’m standing right here.”

  Franky kept looking for Tyrone as they walked. They made it to the mess hall, and Franky slowly trudged up and got his tray. The place was surprisingly quiet. Franky placed his tray in front of the old lady who was waiting to serve the juvies. She slapped a big wad of some funky-looking white mixture onto his plate and jerked her finger to the right, signaling for him to keep moving. The next server gave him some boiled eggs, and the next guy gave him burned toast. He grabbed a carton of milk from a stainless-steel tub and walked over to an empty table by the wall. He didn’t touch his food; his attention was on the faces of the guys coming into the mess hall.

  There he was.

  Franky stood up, but before he could take a step toward his enemy, Dee blocked his path.

  “You can’t do it right here, cuz,” Dee said. “The most you
gonna get is a punch in, and they will keep y’all separated forever. So sit tight. Come sit with us.”

  “Well, looky-looky here,” Tyrone said. “How ya doing, New Orleans? Or should I say, how’s Khadija?”

  Franky stood up, but Dee’s large hand grabbed his shoulder and slammed him back down.

  “Ignore him for now. He knows nothing is jumping off in here.”

  “See that fool,” Tyrone said to one of the guys who was standing by him. “That’s why I’m locked up. Crushed that fool and I knocked his lil stink girlfriend out, too. One punch, boi. Bam! Right in her ugly face.”

  The boys with Tyrone stared at him—so did everyone else in earshot of the loudmouth.

  Franky was boiling inside. His eyes began to water because he wanted to go after Tyrone so bad.

  “You crying, man?” one of the guys at his table asked.

  “Nah,” Dee said. “He ain’t crying. That’s pain. Loudmouth is in trouble.”

  “Whatchu do to get up in here, New Orleans?” Tyrone asked as he went to another area of the mess hall. “Stole a schoolbook? Ya nerd. I’ma see ya around, boi.”

  Franky dropped his head and massaged his temples. Seeing the guy who had turned his world upside down and not be able to touch him was pure torture.

  “Let him talk. Dig his own grave,” Dee said.

  Franky stood and walked over to his table to get his tray. He noticed that someone had taken his milk. “Who took my milk?” he barked.

  The guys at the table next to him snickered and laughed among themselves. Franky walked over and saw one guywith his hand behind his back. He stared down at the boy. “You got three seconds to give me that milk back.”

  The boy looked at his friends with a smirk on his face, but Franky could see the fear in his eyes.

  “One,” Franky said. “Two.”

  “Give it up,” Dee said.

  The boy’s smirk disappeared and without a word handed Franky the carton.

  Franky reached out and snatched it out of his hand. He glared at the boy, who only looked down at his plate.

  “So what’s your beef with Loudmouth?” Dee asked. “Oh, hold up. This is Zimir and that’s Detric,” he said, pointing at a guy who was so big he was almost bursting out of his jumpsuit and at a small guy who looked to be about ten years old.

  “He and a few of his friends jumped me and my girl. He hit her in the face with a roll of quarters and put her in the hospital.”

  “Why’d he do that?” Detric, the small guy, asked.

  “He came up to me at school talking about how some dudes from Nawlins shot his potna, and I guess he blamed me. So I punched him in the face and knocked him and his tooth out. He’s a clown. So he got his lil coward friends to attack me and my girl. Now my girl’s parents moved her away and she’s not talking to me.”

  “Sounds like he needs a whipping,” Zimir said. “My daddy is from New Orleans. I used to go down there every summer. I wanna hit up that Mardi Gras, though. I bet it be some honeys down there.”

  Franky nodded, but his eyes were on Tyrone, who was laughing and joking around like he didn’t have a care in the world. If he only knew.

  “Where do we go after we leave here?” Franky asked, plotting how to get at Tyrone.

  “After here, we go to class. Kind of relaxed over there. You can have at him for a good fifty, maybe sixty seconds before somebody come running. Then if you ain’t happy with your handiwork, we can block the guards for a few more seconds, but if we get in trouble, that’s gonna cost you a few honey buns.”

  “I had some money on me when I got here. Will they let me buy stuff with that?” Franky asked.

  “Yeah,” Dee said.

  “Honey buns,” Zimir said, licking his lips. “I’ma need to get about three of those.”

  The same horn that woke Franky up sounded again, and everyone jumped up to empty their trays. They were lined up again in single file, then walked with their hands behind their backs until they made it to the school.

  “What’s up, Mr. Banks?” Dee said to a tall bald-headed guy who looked to be in his late thirties or early forties. “When you gonna bring me a new book?”

  “As soon as you learn how to speak proper English. Besides, you haven’t read the last one I gave you,” Mr. Banks said.

  “Yes, I did,” Dee said. “Black Boy by Richard Wright? Come on, man. I been read that.”

  “Okay,” Mr. Banks said. “We’ll be discussing it at book club tonight. I hope you’re telling the truth, because if you’re lying, I’m kicking you out of the club for a week.”

  “When have you ever known me to lie?” Dee said.

  “Ah,” Mr. Banks said, scratching his head. “Every time you open your mouth.”

  “Stop flexing,” Dee said. “You know my word is my bond. Never met anybody I cared enough about to lie. I don’t care what nobody think, so why would I lie?”

  “Y’all got a book club in here?” Franky asked.

  “Yeah,” Dee said. “Mr. Banks is a writer—he has like ten books out. He started the book club in here, donated a bunch of books to the library and everything. Before he did that, we had all these books donated by white churches and stuff. Gone with the Wind and stuff like that. Man, I need to read some Jihad, Eric Jerome Dickey, some Shannon Holmes or something.”

  “That’s what’s up,” Franky said.

  “Yeah, Mr. Banks is a real dude. He said if I stay out of trouble, he’ll pay for me to go to college. Ain’t that crazy? My own daddy never told me that, and he has big money. Mr. Banks is the first man I ever met who’s ever took the time to teach me anything. That’s real talk right there, player,” Dee said.

  “How much longer you got in here?”

  “About three more and then I’m out,” Dee said. “I got a lil petty theft charge, but it’s like my tenth offense, so the judge gave me six months. Bad thing about it is I’ll be back. I’ve been locked up thirty something times, bro.”

  Franky felt sorry for him because he seemed like such a cool guy. If he only had a little guidance, there was no telling what he could be.

  “You can stay out if you want to, man,” Franky said.

  “That’s what Mr. Banks says, but I’ll be leaving here going right back to my hood. And trust me when I tell you that ain’t nuttin’ there but trouble. I live in the Bluff. You ever heard of it?”

  Franky had heard about the Bluff, and it was rough. Lots of bad things happened over there because the people lived far below the poverty level.

  “You said your dad has big dough,” Franky asked. “Why y’all live in the Bluff?”

  “Because that fool don’t want nothing to do with me or my sister. I hear he’s one of these NBA dudes. That’s what my grandma told me, but it don’t matter. He ain’t ever spent one second of his time with us, so forget him.”

  “Maybe you can see if Mr. Banks is as real as you think he is. Tell him you don’t wanna go back over there and see if he can help you,” Franky said.

  “Yeah,” Dee said as if he had never thought of that. “I’ma do that. I’m tired of coming to jail, but crazy as it sounds, it’s better in here than it is at my house. At least in here I get three hots and a cot. At home, it’s everybody for themselves.”

  “Yeah,” Franky said, because he certainly could relate.

  They walked into the class, where an old white woman sat at her desk. She had to be at least seventy-five years old, and Franky wondered what she would do to defend herself if one of the kids tried to do something. He got his answer when a mammoth-sized security officer, stepped into the class.

  “Man,” Franky said, looking up to the guy.

  “That’s Scales. He’s cool,” Dee said. “Nuttin’ but a big old teddy bear.”

  The boys filed into the classroom and took their seats. As soon as Franky sat down, he saw someone come running at him. He jumped up just as Tyrone’s fist came flying at him. He dodged his nemesis and pushed his back so that Tyrone’s momentum sent him flying f
ace-first into thecinder-block wall. There was a loud thud, and Franky was on him. He turned the boy around so that he was facing him and punched him as hard as he could in the face. Tyrone’s face frowned up from the impact of the punch. Franky hit him again and again and again. Tyrone staggered but raised his hands into a southpaw stance and threw a weak jab that missed Franky by a mile. Franky sidestepped him and landed another punch to Tyrone’s jaw that dropped him. Franky pounced on him, straddling his chest and hitting him with every ounce of strength he had. He punched Tyrone for every wrong that ever came his way. Tyrone’s face was the target for all the pain and anguish he’d felt since his family was destroyed. He hit him for Khadija and for ruining the most precious friendship he’d ever had. Then he grabbed both Tyrone’s ears and lifted his head off the ground to bang it on the hard tile floor.

  “Franky, ” Franky Sr. said in a very calm voice.

  Franky looked up and saw his father standing over him. He wasn’t there as some ghost or vision; he was really there. He had on the same clothes, and his shoes were still glowing. He paused and looked at his father.

  “Do you think you’ve proved your point?”

  No, Dad, Franky thought. He gotta pay. Do you know what he did?

  “Of course I know what he did. He’ll be in jail for the next three years for it. So what else do you want?”

  “I want his life,” Franky whispered out loud.

  “That’s not smart.”

  “Maybe I’m just not smart anymore.”

  “Franky, my son. If you hit that boy’s head on that floor, he will have permanent brain damage. He won’thave any memory of his incarceration. Therefore, he won’t really be punished for what he did.”

  “I don’t care what he has,” Franky said.

  “Yes, you do. You don’t care now because you are angry at the world, but you are a good person.”

  “I used to be.”

  “You still are, but if you slam his head on that floor, you will never see us again nor will we be able to see you. There is a price to pay for your actions. There is life after this, Franky. But if you slam his head on that floor, you will spend the rest of your life as a street person who never maximized his potential. You will always be in and out of prison and never find happiness. The choice is yours. You’re at the crossroads.”