by Mark Oshiro
He turned the page. His tears hit the page, blurred the frame with the bed in it, and he saw that El Gran Misterio was no longer a superhero, no longer the man in purple spandex and a red cape, and then he was climbing into a bed with another man, whose skin was a deep, dark brown, who looked …
No, please don’t let it be true, Moss thought, and then he was utterly unable to look at Javier’s drawing of him, unable to fathom a world where so much potential had been snuffed out, unable to want anything else but Javier, right there and right now. He closed the notebook and clutched it to his chest as he collapsed on Javier’s bed.
They must have heard him. Wanda shuffled into the room first, Eugenia behind her. His mother sat on the edge of the bed, ran a hand down his arm, but she seemed so reluctant. Uncertain. Even she was lost, and it sent him spiraling more. They were all lost.
Eugenia was there at his side, and she reached over to his face, put her hand on the side of it, touched him gingerly. “You have to get him,” she choked out, then yanked her hand back and wiped the snot away from her nose. “Please.”
“Get who?” Moss asked. He saw the heartbreak in her expression. Does she mean Javier?
“Get the diablo who did this, please,” she begged. “Promise me you’ll get him.”
It was a goal. Something Moss could focus on, to make him forget that Javier wasn’t here.
Moss nodded. “You have my word,” he said. “We’ll get him.”
His mother didn’t react. They sat in silence for the rest of the evening.
25
“Did you hear that, Mr. Jeffries?”
Moss looked up at Mrs. Torrance. Her eyes were red. His own head pounded something fierce, the pain hiding behind his eyes and in his sinuses. It was too bright in the room.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “What did you say?”
She sighed. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” she said. “You can step out if you want to.”
He shook his head. “No, it’s important,” he said, and for the first time that morning, he smiled. “We all need to know.”
She nodded back at him. “Classes for the morning have been changed,” she explained, standing up. As she spoke, she paced back and forth. “We’re on a limited schedule until lunch. Our homeroom classes are two hours this morning, and then you’ll visit periods one through four for just half an hour each. Mr. Jacobs, our assistant principal, wanted to make sure that students had time to process what happened on Friday and talk to their teachers about it.” She walked over to her desk and picked up a yellow piece of paper. “I’m supposed to read this statement to you from Mr. Elliot, but I suspect it’ll anger y’all more than anything else.”
“Oh, then you definitely need to read it,” said Njemile, full of scorn. “Please. Perform it for us, Mrs. Torrance.”
There were murmurs and grumbles about the classroom. Mrs. Torrance chuckled. “Well, it’s short,” she said. “I suspect that the school’s lawyers aren’t letting any of the administration say much.”
“Figures,” said Njemile. “Well, what does it say?”
“‘To the esteemed student body at West Oakland High,’” she began, then she scoffed at the page. “Now he thinks you are all esteemed? That’s nice.” There was scattered laughter about the room, more awkward than anything else. She continued. “‘We are all deeply saddened by what occurred here on campus on Friday afternoon. The West Oakland High administration requests your patience and understanding as we try to deal with this situation as best we can. For the immediate future, our partnership with the Oakland Police Department has been suspended, and the metal detectors have been disabled. There will be a more detailed statement later this week.’”
“Well, that’s not so bad,” said Larry. “Hella fake, but not the worst thing I’ve ever heard.”
“I’m not finished yet, Mr. Jackson,” said Mrs. Torrance.
He groaned. “Why did I speak up?”
She grimaced as she silently reread the remainder of the note. She exhaled. “‘I would like to personally remind students that trespassing is not tolerated on campus. If there are any disruptive incidents this week, they will be met with strict enforcement of our disciplinary policy.’”
Moss felt his stomach sink right as his class erupted in response. He heard a few students swear, which Mrs. Torrance usually did not tolerate. But her face was lost and exhausted. She dropped the note on her desk and raised her hands, waited for the class to quiet down. “I know, I know,” she said. “This is all very confusing and deeply upsetting.”
“That’s an understatement,” said Moss. The words came out with a bitterness, and he cringed. But Mrs. Torrance was looking at him. He saw it again: sympathy in her eyes, pity on her face.
“The faculty hasn’t been briefed on anything,” she said, “so all I know is what I saw and what others told me they saw. And it was pretty bad on our end.”
Kaisha’s hand shot up. “Permission to use my cell phone,” she said. When Mrs. Torrance nodded, she added, “My new cell phone, since my old one doesn’t work at all. Who else had a broken phone after Friday?”
Nearly every hand in the room shot up, including Moss’s. He hadn’t had time to get a new one or to find out if the information on his old one could be salvaged.
“I don’t think that’s an accident,” Mrs. Torrance said. “But I have no explanation for it. They didn’t tell the faculty anything.”
“Well, I’ve been keeping track of everything,” Kaisha said, scrolling down to something on her phone. “If you don’t mind?” Mrs. Torrance silently gave her permission. “Well, here’s what we know for sure. The final count: one hundred and seventeen students injured in total.”
The silence was painful. It was worse for Moss because his fear had just come true. Javier was a number, unspoken in the count but still part of it. He would forever be part of a statistic, a fact read aloud to shock others, a part of a fractured history. As Kaisha began to talk about the injuries, as she shared quotes from the Oakland Police Department, from pundits and online blogs, as other students began to tell their own stories, show off their injuries and wounds, Moss’s attention floated away. He couldn’t hear it anymore. None of it was new to him. No one wanted to be accountable. No one wanted to take responsibility. And the more he heard about the school district distancing themselves from what had happened, the more certain he was that nothing would ever be fixed. They’d all get away with it. They’d all get to live their lives and go home to their families.
All of them but Javier.
It was Larry who brought Moss back. In the pained silence after Kaisha stopped reading, he cleared his throat loudly. “Mrs. Torrance,” he said, his tone defeated and afraid, “I just don’t understand. How can they do this? They killed someone. What are we supposed to do next?”
Mrs. Torrance sat on the edge of her desk and lowered her head, her dreads hanging down the sides of her face. “I don’t know, Mr. Jackson,” she said. There was no confidence in her voice. She was normally so sure, so certain, so snappy and purposeful. But now, she sounded like all of Moss’s peers, and it left Moss feeling more dejected than before.
What were they supposed to do next?
26
Days passed. Moss was adrift in it all. He left his biology class on Wednesday afternoon, walked right past the hallway they’d run down to escape Daley after he had tripped. He saw a boy with a black beanie on his head, crooked, tilted to the side, and his mind betrayed him for just a second.
Moss rounded the corner. It was a freshman; he looked nothing like Javier.
He saw a ghost of Javier again on BART that night, a tall man with skin the same hue as he’d had, his black fixie leaning up against him. Moss did a double take. The man just glared back, angled his body away from Moss.
His brain kept filling in the chasm, the hole that was left behind. At dinner that night, his mother pushed her pad thai around the Styrofoam container. It sat there until the
steam stopped rising, until the normally scrumptious smell of it disappeared.
“I’m going over to Eugenia’s tonight,” she said. Wanda closed the lid, shoved the box away from her. “You wanna come?”
His heart leapt. Javier would be there, wouldn’t he—
He shook his head. “I can’t,” Moss said. “Not yet.”
She nodded. “I’m setting up another meeting for Sunday. For the church. You wanna come to that?”
He sighed. “Yeah,” he said, finally. “It’s important.”
“You don’t have to talk or anything if you don’t want to.”
“I know. I probably should, though.”
She reached out, her hand on top of his. “It’ll get easier someday,” she said.
Someday seemed a long way away.
27
It was Sunday night, and Blessed Way Church was overflowing.
Moss saw Martin at the main door, chatting with those who were struggling to get inside the space, but it was futile. There had to be nearly a hundred people on the steps and spilling out on either side of the building. Moss finished locking up his bike and headed straight toward his barber.
“We’re setting up a speaker!” Martin yelled at the crowd, then winked quickly at Moss. “I promise, y’all will be able to hear everything from out here!”
Martin stretched his hand out and pulled Moss through the crowd. “Good to see you, man,” he said, embracing Moss. He held Moss for a few seconds before pushing him in the direction of the doors. “Your ma’s about to get started, so you better head up front.”
“Thanks,” said Moss, his voice dull and lifeless. He ducked inside quickly, eager to avoid socializing as much as he could. The patient excitement that Moss observed during the first meeting was gone now. People spoke loudly and coarsely to one another, and a nervous energy filled the room, as if any second, a spark would ignite the entire crowd. They were angry, frightened. He worked his way toward the front of the room, stopping to greet a few people he recognized. The Meyerses were there. Mrs. Torrance and her partner. Shamika, Dawit, and Bits were up near the stage, so he headed in their direction. Moss saw Rawiya deep in conversation with Mr. Roberts. He gave them a nod as he passed. “Didn’t expect to see you here,” he said to his biology teacher.
“There are a lot of us who are unhappy,” Mr. Roberts said, frowning. He gestured with his head to somewhere behind Moss. The school nurse, the secretary, and two guidance counselors were chatting with one another not far away.
He saw more people he didn’t expect. Tariq and Eloisa. (No dog, though.) Jasmine waved from the far end of one of the rows of pews. There was a group of young kids near her, and they held a banner above them. ASIAN-AMERICANS IN SOLIDARITY, it read, and he felt a burst of appreciation. It passed. He couldn’t seem to hold on to anything for more than a few seconds.
Moss ascended the steps to the stage and found his mama crouched down behind the pulpit. “A good turnout, no?” she said as she rose.
“Yeah, it’s a lot of people,” he said. “Way more than I thought.”
“It’s a big night, baby. I’m proud of you, you know.”
“For what?”
“Being willing to sit up here and talk,” she said, and she kissed him on his temple. “It’ll be a huge help to us.”
“What do you want me to say tonight?” he asked, uncertain.
“Whatever you feel comfortable talking about,” she said. “And I mean that. Moss, this hurts, and I know it’s not fun to talk about. And you know I don’t want anyone to exploit the tragedy of this just for the sake of activism.”
“Neither do I,” Moss said. He took a deep breath. “But I think I need to. To feel better about this.” He looked out at the massive crowd. “It feels right.”
She beamed at him. “I love you, Moss,” his mother said, her voice small but proud.
And with that, she drifted across the stage toward Reverend Okonjo. He backed away and moved over to stage right, where someone had set up a table and a few microphones. Eugenia sat on the end farthest from Moss, and Reg was there, too. Moss leaned down and gave Javier’s mother a kiss on the cheek, and she smiled in return. He greeted Reg with a big hug.
“Good to see ya, Moss,” Reg said. “You seen Kaisha yet? She’s supposed to be here, too.”
Moss shook his head. “Nah, but it’s hard to find anyone here. I didn’t expect it to be so crowded.”
Reg wiped the sweat off his forehead. “I’m a little nervous, man. What are we trying to do here?”
Moss sat down next to him. “I dunno. I was just gonna let my mom lead the show. She’s so good at this.”
“Yeah, I know. There’s Esperanza!”
Reg pointed to someone coming up the center aisle, and she bounded up the steps and smothered Moss in an embrace. He gave her a smile, a genuine one, thankful for the moment that she was there.
“You doing okay?” she asked. “I feel like we haven’t spoken much this week.”
“I’m okay, given the circumstances. Sad all the time, but it has its highs and lows, you know?”
“I do,” she said. “My parents are just confused by the whole thing. They don’t really understand what happened, and to be honest … I don’t even know how to explain it all to them.”
“Are they not here?” he asked.
She pointed to the rear corner at the south end of the church. Rebecca and Jeff tentatively raised their hands, waved at Moss. He returned the gesture with a single wave.
“Well, at least they didn’t turn this into one of their crusades,” she said.
He shrugged. “Not like they could have done anything to help,” he said.
“At least they’re trying?”
She didn’t sound convinced of what she was saying. “Maybe, but your parents can be pretty clueless every once in a while.”
Esperanza frowned at him, and then sighed. “I hate agreeing with you,” she said. “It feels like I’m betraying them.”
The squeal of feedback from the microphones at center stage pulled their attention away from each other. Reverend Okonjo and Wanda stood at the pulpit together, and just their presence alone inspired the audience to quiet down. As Esperanza headed back down to her seat, Kaisha managed to get up onstage, and she planted a kiss on the top of Reg’s head before sitting down between him and Ms. Perez.
Reverend Okonjo raised his hands, and the last few people chatting and gossiping quieted down. You could hear every shift in the seats in that church, every cough, every sniffle. “We have a difficult task ahead of us,” the reverend said, his voice carrying throughout the room. “We are angry.” There were shouts of affirmation. “We are in mourning. We are tired.”
A few folks said “Amen!” in response, and he continued. “It is during this time that we ask for compassion. For understanding. For empathy.” He cast a glance in Moss’s direction, and Moss inclined his head. “It is going to be very easy for all of us to be consumed with rage over what has happened in this community. And I don’t blame anyone for feeling despair and anger. I am not here to tell any of you what to feel. All I am asking”—he gestured to the entire room, his arms spread wide—“of all of you, is to have patience. Just for the moment. Just for the next few hours. Give one another a compassionate ear, and let those who wish to speak do so.”
Moss gazed out at the sea of people. Teachers. Students. Parents. Administrators. Tax preparers and barbers, convenience-store owners and stay-at-home moms. They whispered to one another. Hands shot up, like those of eager students in a classroom.
“I know many of you are eager to speak,” the reverend acknowledged, “but I’d like Ms. Wanda Jeffries to say a few words before we get started. She’ll be leading the conversation, so we’d like to set a few ground rules now.”
He stepped out of the way, and Moss’s mother took her place at the pulpit. Her poise was firm, direct, and carried an authority to it. She didn’t speak at first and instead cast a powerful gaze over the audien
ce, taking in every face she could.
“I want to begin by thanking each of you for being here,” she finally said, her hands softly gripping the sides of the pulpit, the muscles in her upper arms flexing. “You are part of something special, and right now, our community needs it.” She let the mumbling and muttering that followed her words die down. “We may feel raw and desperate at this moment, but I believe that through a conversation between all of us, we can find a solution to this … this…”
In the quiet space of the sentence that died on her tongue, someone chimed in. “Nightmare.”
Wanda nodded her head. “So let us take this one at a time, like we did before. It helps no one if we talk over each other, even if we agree. Please conduct yourselves with respect, and I promise, we will get to each of you. Jermaine has set up a microphone again, and we ask that you line up behind it if you want to speak.”
She then turned to the four of them at the table. “I also want to introduce some people who will not only speak tonight, but who will be able to provide you with answers if you need them. I’m sure y’all remember my son, Morris Jeffries, Jr., or Moss, as he goes by.”
Moss didn’t know what to do. He awkwardly raised his hand to the crowd. Lord, why don’t they teach classes on this? he thought.
“Next to him is Reg Phillips, who was the reason for our last meeting here, and many of you remember his partner Kaisha from that evening, too. If you don’t mind, though, I want Ms. Eugenia Perez to go first.” Wanda gestured to her. “Go ahead.”
Eugenia pulled a piece of paper out of her pocket. As she unfolded it, it echoed through the church, amplified by the nearest microphone, and each pop and crinkle felt large and awkward. “Thank you, Wanda,” she said, casting a glance at Moss’s mother. “And thank you, Moss, for … for loving my son.”
He had wanted to hold it together for the entire meeting, to present himself with confidence and certainty, to be the kind of person the community could depend on. He wanted to be like his mother. But Moss had never said that he loved Javier once, not to anyone, and yet as Eugenia said it, he knew it was true. He was in love with Javier. The stone in his throat came back, so sudden that he didn’t know if he could hold it back.