by Mark Oshiro
Reg’s eyes were red and glassy. “I know I already said it, man, but I’m so sorry,” he said. “It’s just so unfair.”
“And I hate knowing that his killer is gonna get away with it,” Kaisha added.
“You really think that’s gonna happen?” Esperanza said, sniffling.
“How often have the cops killed someone in our city? In this country?” Kaisha asked. “How many times have they gotten off scot-free for it?”
“A lot,” she admitted. “Practically every time.”
“So why do you think that happens so regularly?” Kaisha asked her. “Who is allowing people to die like that?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “The police department. Maybe people in the local government.”
“It’s more far-reaching than that, though,” said Wanda. “How many people are sitting in their homes right now, watching this same news report, and justifying death? Who else is deciding that Javier deserved to die?”
“When I went home, I logged into Facebook, and … it’s a mess,” said Kaisha. “I’ve already had to delete a few people because they want to believe that no one did anything wrong. Well, no one except Javier.” She sighed. “I can’t show you, though, cuz my phone is still busted. Same with all you?”
Reg, Moss, and Esperanza all grumbled an affirmative, and Rawiya held hers up. “Completely broken,” she said. Moss’s phone wouldn’t turn on at all, and he hoped that he hadn’t lost any of his old texts. The thought that he might have pushed Moss closer to the edge of panic, but his mother began to run her fingers over his scalp through his hair. It calmed him, as much as it could.
“When my husband was killed,” Wanda said, “me and Moss constantly had people come up to us. In grocery stores. At the mall. While waiting for a bus. And they would come up to the two of us, and they would tell us how sorry they were, how sad it made them that Morris was dead, but did we think it was fair to blame the police?”
Esperanza’s mouth dropped open. “Wait, really?” she said, staring directly at Moss.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice hoarse. “All the time, Esperanza. I guess what’s so messed up about how my dad died is that the whole thing was the fault of the police. They weren’t even at the right store, and then they thought my dad was someone else. If anyone was in the wrong place at the wrong time, it was them, not my dad.”
“But how did they get away with it?” said Esperanza.
“Do you think the cops aren’t capable of just making shit up?” Kaisha said, anger filling her voice.
“Okay, that’s not what I meant,” she said. “I meant that it can’t be that easy to just lie about people so openly.”
“But they did, and they did it often,” Wanda said. “The initial reports all said he had a gun and that it was self-defense when the officers shot him. Even after Dawit leaked the surveillance video.”
“Months,” Moss said, his voice cracking. “Months of me hearing about how he was a dangerous individual. Months of those Piedmont assholes teasing me at school, telling me he deserved it because he was a thug and the streets were cleaner without him. Months,” he said, emphasizing the word.
Esperanza wrung her hands together. “Oh my god,” she said, and she was no longer looking at him. “I didn’t know it was that bad.”
Moss shrugged, but offered nothing else. Esperanza had always been good with his own anxiety and depression over the years, but he knew this was the one big thing she never seemed to get. More than ever before, he wished she just understood it without them having to explain everything.
“Can you imagine how bad it’s gonna be for Javier?” Kaisha asked, and she fixed a frown on her face. “I don’t even want to find out.”
“Oh god,” Moss groaned. “He’s not from here. They’re gonna use it.”
Wanda frowned. “What you mean, Moss?”
“Javier told me once that he and his mother did not come here legally. He’s not technically a citizen.”
Moss stared at Esperanza, watched the realization spread over her. She turned her head away, wiped at tears.
He stopped talking and watched the weather forecast, focusing on any detail he could. The broadcaster’s tiny brooch. Was it an owl? He couldn’t tell. He saw how her dark brown hair curled at the ends and watched as it bounced about each time she turned her head back to the camera. He watched her gesture about a map of the peninsula, rattling off various locations and their temperatures. He watched the two anchors exchange banter with each other. He wanted to make fun of their outfits with Javier.
I won’t get to see him laugh like that again, Moss thought. His heart felt like lead, weighing down his chest, and it was like it was pulling him down to the floor. He just wanted to sleep and never wake up again. Then the pain in his legs and in his chest would stop, and he wouldn’t have to ever worry about himself or his mother or his friends anymore.
But his mother leaned into him and the thoughts scurried away. The group in the living room all watched the television in silence. Moss used the armrest to give himself leverage and pushed himself to his feet, wincing as the pain laced through his left leg.
“Honey, where are you going?” Wanda said, rushing to help him stay upright.
“I can’t watch this anymore,” he said quietly, and he shuffled off toward his room. “Y’all can stay or leave, I don’t care.” He said nothing more, and he caught the look on Kaisha’s face before he left the room. Her eyes were wide, vulnerable, and they darted away at once.
His mother was right behind him, following him much like their neighbors’ pit bull did whenever Moss walked by their yard. Moss didn’t bother closing the door to his room. He limped over to his bed and flopped down on it, burying his head in his pillow. Wanda sat on the bed and gingerly ran a hand along his back. “Oh, Moss, honey, I’m so sorry,” she said.
He hated how hurt she sounded. “I know,” he said into the pillow. He turned his head to the right and sucked in a deep breath. “I’m so tired of you being sorry, though.”
Her hand stopped in the middle of his back. “I’m tired, too,” he heard her say. “Tired of a lot of things.” Another break. “I’m sorry you have to go through this.” Pause. “Again.”
He felt his throat begin to constrict at the thought of another person gone from this world, forgotten, because he knew that was what Javier would eventually become. What if he was nothing more than another statistic, or hashtag online? What if his name was forever stripped of all the wonderful memories that Moss had been gathering? That was the last thing Moss wanted. He wanted to remember Javier running his lips over Moss’s jaw. He wanted to remember the last time they’d ridden their bikes together, a goofy smile etched onto Javier’s face as Moss passed him. And every time Moss tried to center his thoughts on one of these memories, it would instead flash before him: the pop of the gun, Javier clutching his chest, the red blood dripping.
“What’s happening to the world, Mama?” Moss said, his voice cracking on the last word. “Why does this keep happening?”
“Well,” she said, her forehead crinkled with concern, “because people keep getting away with it.”
“He’s gonna get away with it, isn’t he?” he asked her, and the tears spilled out and down his cheeks. Wanda raised a hand to brush some of them away, but it only made Moss cry harder. She pulled him into her lap and he clung to her as if she might disappear any second. The sobs shook his body, but his mother said nothing. She held Moss with a tenderness he craved, that he needed more than anything else in the world.
He finally sat up, sniffling every few seconds, his congestion getting the best of him. He crossed the room, leaving his mother on the bed, and grabbed a handkerchief off his desk so he could blow his nose. When he finally looked at his mom, tears were streaming down her face as well.
“I’m sorry, Mama,” Moss said. “I didn’t mean to make you sad.”
“Baby, you know you can always talk to me,” she insisted. “It’s not your fault I feel this
way.”
“I just…” His voice broke again, and he felt his throat close as he fought the urge to start bawling. “I just thought … I could have loved him, Mama.”
She stood and came to him, her arms out, and he let her hold him again. He liked the feel of her hands running up and down his back, so he tucked himself into her as close as he could. “I kinda figured,” she said. “I could tell you felt something for that boy.”
“I just want him back,” he said, and then knew it was a pathetic thing to say.
“Me too,” she said softly. She gently pushed herself back a bit. “You know we can’t stop.”
“Stop what?”
“What we started. It’s more important than ever. We gotta get justice for Javier.”
“Oh, damn,” Moss said, sniffling again. “We need to go talk to his mom. I completely forgot.”
“I know, baby. I understand. You’ve kind of had a lot on your plate, you know.”
“But what else can we do?” he asked. “I don’t even know where to start.”
“Start with the small things,” his mother said. She moved closer to him. “Visit Javier’s mom. Make sure she’s taken care of. You remember how expensive funerals were?” He nodded up at her. “I imagine it’s even worse these days. So we need to get our community to raise some money. And then … we hit everyone else where it hurts. We need to organize something—I don’t know what yet—to let them know that this can never happen again.”
She moved away from him and began to pace back and forth in the room. “We need to find a way to get at them. In a way they can’t ignore.” Wanda was quiet again, and then she walked over to the door, stopping before she left the room. “I’m calling another meeting,” she announced, then wiped her face. “Leave this part up to me.”
His mother drifted out of the room, and Moss lay down on his bed, his eyes on the ceiling, his heart empty. He was more than willing just then to let someone else do the work.
24
When they arrived at Ms. Perez’s home, Moss couldn’t bring himself to climb the stairs. It would become real. If I stay here, he thought, then I can still imagine that he’s home.
The man from downstairs peered out from his doorway. The screen creaked as he did so, and Moss locked eyes with him. The man was motionless, sadness all over his face. He must know. Moss realized he didn’t even know the man’s name. He was only the father from downstairs. Would it even matter? Would Moss ever have a reason to come back here again?
The man lowered his eyes. He said nothing. The door squeaked shut.
“Moss, honey, I’m right here.”
He sucked in a lungful of air, and his gaze drifted up to the top of the stairs. Moss’s memory filled in the blanks: Javier was at the top of those steps. He was going to spring out the door and stand there, waiting for Moss, that goofy smile twisting up his mouth, and when Moss got to the top, he’d offer to take his bike, but not before giving him one of those adorable kisses on the cheek. A kiss. Moss wanted to feel Javier’s lips on his again, and the thought was a lance through his chest. He leaned into his mother’s hand on his back, and she steadied him. Right as he felt a weakness in his knees, he heard the door at the top creak open. Without another thought, Moss bolted up the steps, his legs a quivering mess of nerves and soreness and his heart full of misguided hope. Javier, Moss thought. It’ll be just like it was before.
“Moss!” his mother cried after him, but it was too late. Moss was at the top seconds later, and he swung open the screen door, only to find himself face-to-face with Javier’s mother. It was then, staring at the emotional ruin of her face, the redness of her eyes, that the memory fizzled into the past. It was just that. A memory. A moment in time. It would never happen again.
Eugenia gestured to them to come inside, her lips tightly pursed. He embraced her without a word, hoping that was enough. Over her shoulder, he saw the table overflowing with flowers and balloons. Already? Moss thought. One of the balloons floated eerily above a bright vase full of irises. “Get Well Soon!” it urged, and the terrible inappropriateness of it forced him to stifle a giggle. The emotion made no sense to him. Where had the giddiness come from? Perhaps it was the irony. Would any of them ever be well again?
He let go of Javier’s mom and moved into the room, giving his mother a chance to greet her. They embraced and then Eugenia succumbed to her sobs. They racked her body. Moss could see his mother’s face over Eugenia’s shoulder. Tears spilled down her cheeks, but her eyes were vacant. Shit, Moss thought. This must remind her of Papa, too.
The two women sat down on the couch, and Moss’s mind flashed back to that afternoon. Overwatch. The kiss. Their bodies, so close. Moss moved away and wandered into the kitchen, placing his hands on the counter to steady himself. He could feel his throat constricting again, and he focused on that, knowing it kept him in one piece while he was here.
“Baby? You want to come join us?”
He heard his mother’s voice, but he knew he couldn’t even turn around to face them. What would happen to Javier’s room now that he was gone? What would Ms. Perez do?
His mother’s arms slid around his torso, and it sent him over the edge. His tears fell down onto the counter and he said, “It just isn’t fair.”
“It never is,” she replied. “Never.”
“I just want him here, Mama. Just right here.”
He pulled away from her and twisted around. He saw Ms. Perez wringing her hands together on the couch, her own face wet with tears. There was one thing he could do for her, though. He crossed the room, pulling Javier’s beanie out of his back pocket. When he sat on the couch next to Ms. Perez, he held it out to her. She looked at it, then up to Moss’s red eyes, and then she took it hesitantly, as if she were sure it would turn to dust if she touched it. She caressed it before bringing it to her face, inhaling. “It still smells like him,” she said.
Moss nodded. He had wanted to keep it, to have something to remind him of what it felt like to be cradled against Javier’s chest, but it wasn’t right. She needed this more than Moss did.
“They didn’t let me see him,” she said, her accent even thicker now. “They said they had to do the autopsy first.” Her voice cracked into another sob, and she fell to the side, right into Moss’s arms. He provided what little comfort he could while his own mother watched quietly.
Eugenia stood up suddenly and made a beeline for Javier’s room. She returned moments later with his bag, the one he wore when he was biking, and she handed it to Moss. It was heavy; his massive chain must have been inside it.
This was her offering. Moss accepted it, grateful that he would have a piece of Javier to keep for himself.
But it didn’t feel real, like he had hoped it would. None of it did. Moss glanced over at the hallway and saw that the light in Javier’s room was on. A panic darted through him, a trick of his mind. He had believed, just for a second, that Javier was still home, that this was all some cruel prank. The scene unfolded in his head. He’d yell at Javier, scold him for pulling such a vicious joke on them all. Javier would smile, that devilish grin filling up his face, and Moss would forgive him.
No matter what Moss did in the coming days, no matter what rallies he attended, no matter what revenge he got, Javier wouldn’t come back. Couldn’t, he corrected himself. He could not come back.
“Go,” Eugenia said.
He shook his head at her. “What do you mean?”
“Go in his room,” she explained. “Take something. Keep it.” She sniffled. “Recuérdalo.”
Wanda nodded at Moss, so he crossed the carpet slowly, his legs seemingly unable to move without conscious thought. When he pushed open the door, he realized that this was the first time he’d ever been in Javier’s room. The lamp in the far corner cast a yellowish pall, a sickly vibe that weighed heavy on Moss’s eyes. But there was so much vibrant color spread about that it overpowered the grimness of that lamp. Posters were tacked to the wall, almost haphazardly, as if
Javier had tried to cover every bare surface with something he liked. There was a Wonder Woman poster that stretched over his bed, which overlapped one of Selena. There were gig flyers taped all underneath it, and Moss wanted to come back, to spend hours reading them all, to see if they’d ever been at the same show and didn’t know it.
There was a poster for a movie called But I’m a Cheerleader, a young white girl looking at Moss from the center of it, a pensive expression on her face. He’d never seen it, but it seemed such an odd choice among everything else. Maybe I’ll watch it, he thought, and he moved over to the tiny desk tucked into the corner to his left. Papers and notebooks were spread over the top of it, as well as some scattered colored pencils and thin-tipped markers. He aimlessly moved the papers around, grabbed a black Moleskine journal and opened it.
Moss was staring at Javier’s comic.
The coloring was light, clearly a draft done to block out scenes and placements. His eyes darted from one scene to the next, to the superhero in the purple outfit and red cape. He thumbed back to the first page, ran down the long list of notes, and his finger stopped on one:
“Name character … El Gran Misterio? Ugh why, what is the mystery.”
Then, two lines down:
“What if he is made of MIST or something.”
Javier had crossed it out.
He flipped through the pages, admiring Javier’s use of color, the way he seemed to know how to arrange scenes in all those square and rectangular frames. He looked at a scene where someone leapt off a building, and he could tell that Javier had erased one part of El Gran Misterio’s leg over and over again, trying to get it right.
But he was trying. Moss flipped a few more pages. El Gran Misterio was removing his costume, hanging it in the closet, and Moss laughed. The main character had a stunning resemblance to Javier, and the laughter choked him as his throat began to close up again. I can’t even make fun of him for creating a Gary Stu.