by Mark Oshiro
“Mr. Elliot has already declared this a bust,” Mr. Jacobs insisted to the cop, still out of breath. “And I’d appreciate it if you got that damn thing out of my face.”
There was no hesitation before the response. The baton swung hard and cracked Mr. Jacobs across the jaw. The collective gasp Moss’s friends couldn’t smother betrayed their escape, and the cop turned to see them slipping away. He sprinted after them. The cop looked so awkward with all that gear, Moss thought, but his brain wouldn’t react otherwise. Moss, too, wanted to run, but his own legs were jelly, wobbly and uncertain.
The baton came up. Moss reacted then, cowering in front of the man, and it was the wrong reaction. The baton started to come down, but then he swooped it to the side. The baton hit Moss’s left knee, making him crumple to the ground in an instant, overwhelmed with pain, with shame, the burning agony. The baton came up again, and Moss had no time to block it. The pain from the blow on his shin made him cry out, and he curled up, an instinctual reaction, an attempt to make his body as small as possible. But Moss felt huge. He felt like the most obvious target in the world.
Javier was on him then, trying to help, so the next blow connected with one of Javier’s hands instead. Javier swore but he wouldn’t move. He was smothering Moss, using himself as a shield, and it was the only comfort Moss found in that terrible moment.
“Are you okay?” Javier said, right in his ear, and Moss turned his tear-streaked face up to Javier. Javier’s expression broke Moss’s heart. Why did Javier have to see him like this?
“We need to go!” Rawiya screamed. “They’re coming!”
They both stared in the direction Rawiya was looking. The line of cops was now advancing on them in unison. Moss cast a glance back behind him. Mr. Jacobs was on the ground, sobbing something terrible with his hand over his face, and the cop who had struck them stood frozen and uncertain. He gazed toward Mr. Jacobs, then back at Moss, then back again at the assistant principal. Why? Why had the cop stopped hitting them?
The cop belted out something close to a groan. It sounded like he was frustrated. He tore off his helmet, chucking it at Moss and missing.
“Daley, don’t!” someone shouted from behind Moss. He risked a glance; it was one of the advancing cops, their hands up, their focus not on any of the students, but on Daley.
Daley had a face full of rage. His brow crunched up in the middle, and his cheeks were a deep beet color, sweat pouring down his face. Moss realized that it must have been agonizing in those hot suits, but he had no time to feel any sympathy for this man. The cop growled at Moss and struggled to free something from his belt in the process. “You little shits never learn,” he snarled, pulling at his holster, at a stout, rectangular object. “You have no respect for anyone, do you?”
Daley swore as something fell to the ground. Was that a Taser? Moss thought, and he was gripped by an overwhelming need to move. His reluctance, his fear, his terror, it all slid away in that instant. Moss had always heard a lot about the fight-or-flight instinct, but he had never experienced it; his mind had always channeled fear into stillness. Now, something else took control of his body. He had to get away. He had to survive.
Moss scrambled to get to his feet. He would risk running. He would risk anything to escape this man, to flee from the vengefulness radiating from his body. He glanced up at Daley as he pushed himself into an upright position. Rage flared in Daley’s eyes, and Moss’s stomach dropped.
Moss yanked at Javier, pulled him up alongside him, kept his own eyes on the the advancing cops and his back to Daley, but then Javier stilled. Moss saw Javier’s eyes go wide, saw that his mouth slightly open. His gaze was not on Moss, though. It was behind him. Moss spun around.
The beet-faced cop had a gun trained on Javier. And then he fired.
It wasn’t the first time Moss had heard the pop of a gunshot. Nor was it the first time he’d heard the sickening sound of the air leaving someone’s body. The sound that meant the worst. Javier curled into himself; his brown hands jerked up to his chest, and blood squirted out between his fingers. Moss screamed, again and again, and pitched himself forward as Javier crumpled to the ground, the life too quickly draining out of him.
“No, no, no!” Moss shrieked, his own hands pressing over the hole in Javier’s chest, the blood gurgling in Javier’s throat, the hot liquid spraying everywhere, and Rawiya was there and screaming as well, as was Njemile and then someone else, and finally there was an ungodly roar coming from the gate, but Moss couldn’t look at any of it. He watched Javier’s eyes roll about wildly, trying to focus on something, anything.
“Please stay with me,” Moss begged. “Please don’t leave me now.”
Someone yelled the cop’s name, and Moss didn’t want to look away, but he couldn’t help it. The man stood off to the side, the gun still in his hand, just staring. He said nothing. Did nothing. Offered no reaction at all.
Moss looked back toward the cops who had been coming their way. “Someone, help us!” Moss yelled so loud his voice cracked. “Please, help him!”
None of them came to his side. One of the cops had his hands on the side of his head, swearing over and over again. Another was rushing toward Daley, his own hands up in front of him, and he called out. “Holster your weapon, Daley!”
Javier heaved and moaned. But he said nothing, his throat offered no words. His mouth was agape and the blood was pumping out of him slower and slower, and Moss couldn’t stop screaming. “Someone, please help!”
The color was draining from Javier’s face, his lips were the wrong hue, they were so wrong, it was all wrong. Moss pressed harder on the wound, and Rawiya laid her hands on top of his.
“Keep putting pressure,” Rawiya shrieked, “and don’t let go!”
Don’t let go, Moss begged. Please don’t let go, Javier.
Javier stopped kicking about. He stopped looking at Moss. His beanie had come off, sat forlorn beside his head. There was no life left in his eyes. Moss knew Javier was gone.
It had happened again.
Moss slumped back and nausea rushed up into his throat. He saw a pair of black boots next to him, and he followed them up.
Daley had holstered his gun and stared at the body of the boy he’d shot. His head tilted to one side, like a dog’s did when you said something they did not understand. Without a word, the man turned and walked away.
Moss reached over and grabbed Javier’s beanie and he clutched it hard; then he fell over Javier’s body and shook him, begging him to come back.
Again. Again. Again.
But there was no response.
23
He washed his hands.
Again.
The hot water was wrenched on high and Moss left his hands underneath it, the heat stinging his skin. He didn’t move them. He left them there and stared at them, viewed them as if they were attached to some other body in some other place.
There was still blood. Around his cuticles, tucked in the corner on his left thumb and forefinger. He pulled his hands back and squatted down, ripped open the cupboards below the sink. He found a sponge in the back, grabbed it, and stood up. Steam rose from the basin and it made Moss sweat, but he couldn’t stop. He began to scrape at his hands, running the rough side of the sponge over his fingers. It stung. He scrubbed harder, but he couldn’t seem to get the spot to go away. He had to make it disappear, to make it stop reminding him of everything all over again.
The spot got bigger. It bloomed, spreading down his fingers, and there was more red, and it wouldn’t stop coming. It dripped down into the sink, red on white, spreading out into the water that poured from the faucet. Moss dropped the sponge and held his bleeding hand still, watched the drips disappear down the drain, wished he could follow them and disappear himself.
He couldn’t. He couldn’t disappear. Not now. No matter how badly he wanted to.
Moss rinsed off the blood as best as he could, shut off the faucet, then wrapped the hand towel around his finger. H
e had to face them, he knew it. His legs were lead but he forced them to move, one after the another, down the hallway and toward the living room. He heard the newscaster speak. Something about an upcoming traffic report. An awkward cough. The squeak of the leather couch. And there was an overbearing silence that hung over everything, a massive hole that no one wanted to acknowledge.
But they had to.
Moss stepped into the living room, glanced at the others. His mother. Esperanza. Reg. Kaisha. Njemile. Rawiya. They looked to him, but it was brief. They avoided staring too long, and Moss hated it. It was happening all over again. When everyone treated him as if he was fragile, as if he would crumble any second.
Moss despised himself because it was true.
He limped to the couch and sat in the vacant space. Esperanza stole a look, but Moss didn’t return it. His mother looped her fingers between his and squeezed once, but he was lost in the news broadcast. It was looping back again, and Moss couldn’t tear himself away. The helicopter shot of their school, the gates with yellow police tape like party streamers, the shots of students huddled in tears on the front steps. The same images repeated and the newscasters babbled the same nonsense. No one knew much of what had happened, not unless they’d been there and seen that man raise his gun and fire it at Javier and saw Javier crumple and then …
The images on the TV set blurred, and Moss’s eyes filled with tears. He didn’t even bother wiping them away.
His mother did it for him. “I’m going to get you some tea,” she announced, rising from the couch, letting him go. “Would anyone else like some?”
“I’ll have some, if you don’t mind,” Esperanza said.
No one else answered her, so Wanda slipped into the kitchen. Moss heard the water running; he heard the thump of a cabinet closing; he heard the gentle whistle minutes later as the kettle began to boil. His mother returned with a couple of steaming mugs. He looked up at her, and an expression of pain briefly flitted across her face. He’d seen that before, too, on the steps of Dawit’s store, when she had to explain to him that his father wasn’t coming back. He remembered how she had stood in silence while Moss wailed in anger and grief, dropping to the cold concrete. Moss wished he could tear that card out of his mental Rolodex and shred it to pieces.
He hadn’t broken down yet. He was certain that his mother was expecting him to. It was why she hovered so close to him, why she never strayed too far away, why she always kept him in her peripheral vision. Maybe it’s performance anxiety, he thought, then wished he could make that joke out loud, but nothing felt right.
Moss ran a hand over the lumps on his legs. They were still warm, feverish. The one on his shin throbbed and pulsed, even when he wasn’t moving, so he focused on it. Started counting each time he could feel his blood pump through and past it. One. Two. Three. Four.
“Did they find the cop?” Reg asked softly, breaking Moss’s concentration.
Moss shook his head. “No. He disappeared after the … the…” He let the sentence dissipate.
His mother ran her hand down his arm. You’re still here, she seemed to say with each touch. You are here and you are alive.
“How can someone just disappear like that?” Reg asked as the news began to report on traffic conditions, a welcome respite. “There were so many people there.”
“I swear, he was sitting there when we were trying to get Moss up,” Kaisha added. “Then he just wasn’t.”
“At lot was happening,” said Rawiya. “Maybe we just weren’t paying attention when he left.”
“He’s not supposed to leave the scene of a crime, though, is he?” Kaisha asked. She shook her head and sighed. “I already know the answer to that.”
“What were those … those things?” Reg asked. He shook his head. “Man, I have so many questions.”
“What are they going to do now?” Esperanza asked. She sounded so worried, so afraid. “I mean, they’re gonna stop the whole pilot program thing, right?”
“We don’t have to talk about this,” Wanda interjected, and she squeezed Moss’s hand. “Moss, honey, we can watch something else. Talk about something else.”
He shrugged. He was thankful that she cared how hard this conversation should have been for him, but he couldn’t feel anything. “It’s okay,” he said. “Really. I don’t know what else to do anyway.”
“You just tell me the second you don’t want to anymore,” his mother said, then looked back up to Esperanza. “What were you saying?”
Esperanza smiled weakly at Moss; he didn’t have it in him to respond. “Well, I was just wondering if this meant the end of that whole program at the school. It would have to, wouldn’t it?”
“You’d be surprised at the lengths people will go to avoid responsibility,” Wanda replied, and her voice was rough, but certain. Esperanza started to say something, but Wanda raised a hand to her. “I’m just sayin’ that they’re already spinning this on the news, aren’t they? Listen to the damn language. It’s all so passive. A police officer ‘discharged’ a weapon. A student was ‘fatally injured.’ It all sounds like separate events, you know? And that’s how they start.”
“Start what?” Esperanza said.
“Shifting how most people think about it. If it’s presented to us in a way to make it sound like an accident, then most people won’t try to hold the school itself responsible. If the walkout is portrayed as a chaotic riot—as it’s already been—then most people will accept that the school had to do something. Sure, they’ll shake their heads and say it was unfortunate that a kid got killed, but they ain’t ready to commit to more than that.”
“Javier,” Moss said quietly.
“What’s that, baby?” Wanda said, caressing his hand.
“His name is Javier.” He swallowed hard. “Was. Is. I don’t know.”
She was nodding her head. “They won’t use Javier’s name,” said Wanda, “at least not in positive statements. Watch how they’ll refer to him as a ‘suspect’ or the ‘trespassing student’ instead of his name.”
“And they’re not even talking about what they did to us,” said Njemile. “I have not seen one broadcast talk about that stuff that they shot on me. Or the weird thing that made Javier’s friends vomit.”
Kaisha rubbed Reg’s arm. “I was doing some research before I came over,” she said, “and … well, none of this is new.”
“What do you mean?” Moss said, trying to keep up with the conversation, pushing past the throbbing in his legs. “I don’t get it.”
“There’s all kind of technology out there,” Wanda said, leaning forward. “Stuff I used to see back at protests before you were born. Tasers. Devices that would send out loud, piercing sounds.”
“I wish I still had my phone,” said Kaisha. “I found a whole bunch of stuff online about weapons used against protestors. I’m pretty sure the cops used something called a Mosquito against us.”
“Great,” said Njemile. “That doesn’t sound terrible at all.”
“You know,” said Kaisha, her voice dropping, “they’re gonna blame us. They’re gonna blame the kids from Eastside, too. Say it was all our fault.”
Wanda’s face fell at that, and the next sentence out of her mouth was barely above a whisper. “Reminds me of all the people who blamed my husband for his own death.”
“That’s not exactly the same, is it?” Esperanza said. “Moss’s dad was innocent!”
“Are you saying Javier wasn’t?”
Moss leveled that one, and Esperanza shook her head. “No, no, of course not,” she said, in a rush. “I just meant that it was pretty open-and-shut with your dad. No one questioned whether it was right or wrong.”
“You weren’t there,” Moss said. “You didn’t see all the news reports then.”
Wanda was nodding. “He’s right, Esperanza. You had them talking heads on TV, sayin’ how it was a bad neighborhood, and how if he’d just put his hands in the air when asked, it wouldn’t have happened.”
&nb
sp; “Which they always say,” Reg added. “Sayin’ that we don’t got respect for cops. But his hands were full, remember?”
“But how can they do that?” Esperanza asked, frustration in her voice. “How can they just blame someone for something that isn’t their fault?”
“Because they always get away with it,” Moss shot back. “They always do.”
“It can’t be that simple,” said Esperanza.
They all shot glares in her direction. Moss watched his mother start to say something, but she shut her mouth, pursing her lips.
Esperanza tried to recover. “But how can we get to this point where this just happens? First Shawna got assaulted, then Reg, and now Javier … how? It doesn’t make sense to me!”
“It’s an insidious thing,” Wanda said. “It never happens overnight. This kind of thing crept into our community long ago. It latched on. It fed on prejudice. Selfishness. People’s inability to see life through someone else’s eyes. And it grew, bigger and bigger, until we got to a point where some people don’t even question why a cop should be allowed to shoot first and ask questions later.”
Esperanza went quiet after that, her gaze in her lap. She seemed unable to look at any of them, and it sent a bolt of anger through Moss. The thought coursed through him. This isn’t about you. But he didn’t say it.
“This is our reality,” Wanda said softly. “It was back when Morris got killed, and it is now. The details are different, but it’s exactly the same thing.”
She wanted to say something more. Moss could see it. She wiped at her eyes, but kept quiet.
“I’m sorry,” said Esperanza. “I really liked Javier.”
Her voice broke on his name, and Moss felt the wall inside of him crumble. The tears came freely and the lump formed back in his throat. “I know,” he croaked. “Me too.”