by Mark Oshiro
“But it didn’t really work,” Njemile interjected. “Remember, Moss?”
Moss nodded his head. “Yeah. In fact, only a couple people felt sick in that room. That’s how we got out. Daley was distracted because it didn’t do what it was supposed to.”
“Yours is a generation of headphones,” Mr. Jacobs said. “Meaning most of you damaged your hearing enough for it to not work.” He smirked a little. “God bless iPods, I guess.”
This isn’t real for him. The though hit Moss suddenly, making so much sense that he couldn’t believe he hadn’t realized it before. Mr. Jacobs spoke with an easy detachment, a combination of fear and humor that only centered on himself. He can’t even fathom this happening to him, Moss thought. It’s like he’s telling a story.
Moss squirmed in his seat, the uncomfortable epiphany still radiating through him. Would this man save his career at the expense of all of them? Moss stood up again, this time walking over to Mr. Jacobs and grabbing the remaining files as the man was explaining another diagram. “I think you should leave,” he said.
“Moss!” Wanda said, rising herself. “We have more things to ask him—”
“And is he actually going to tell us anything we can’t figure out ourselves?” Moss shot back. “He’s sitting here all smug, making cute little jokes about iPods and talkin’ ’bout how scared he is of losing his job, but is he actually helping?” He turned to Mr. Jacobs, a fire in his heart. “We can read through these ourselves. You better leave before someone catches you here.”
“Oh, come on, Moss,” said Esperanza, rising to grab his arm. “You should let him speak. It’s only fair.”
He yanked his arm away. “Whose side are you on, Esperanza? Fair? You’re gonna tell me about fair?”
Mr. Jacobs sputtered, unable to form a sentence. “No, I just…” He sighed again. “It’s just that—”
Kaisha laughed. “Man, Mr. Jacobs, you really don’t get it, do you?”
“Course he don’t,” Reg said, shaking his head. “Do you expect us to thank you for all this?”
The assistant principal threw his hands up. “Why do you all have to be so difficult? I’m trying to help you.”
“Well stop trying and start doing something!” Moss shouted, and the blood rushed to his face again, the heat rising in his cheeks. “He died, Mr. Jacobs! He is dead and he’s not coming back and you didn’t stop it from happening!”
Moss’s voice echoed in Blessed Way, and the silence that followed it felt endless. He knew they were all staring at him, and he didn’t care. He held up the files in his left hand.
“This has always been our lives, Mr. Jacobs. The police have never been on our side. So what if the technology is new? So what if it’s now in our school? These people murdered my father years ago, lied about it, covered it up, and when the truth came out, they didn’t even apologize to me and my mama.” Moss looked over at Shamika and Martin, who sat together, their heads nodding up and down. They were there. They knew.
But he stepped closer to Mr. Jacobs, looked down on the man. “You think I’m the only one? Or that Javier is the only kid taken from this world by these monsters?”
“No, I never said that—” Mr. Jacobs said, and he scooted away from Moss.
“Go find old issues of the Tribune. Or search online for the last person killed by the Oakland Police Department. You won’t have to go far back. I bet you can find at least a few of them from this summer.”
“I don’t get what this has to do with me,” Mr. Jacobs said. “I didn’t do any of that! Why can’t you just thank me for this?”
“Because you let them on our campus!” Moss screamed. “You let them prey on us, and it was only after someone died that you felt compelled to say something.” He paused, his rage in his throat. “You’re supposed to be an adult, man. You’re supposed to look out for us. We’re just kids. Javier hadn’t even turned seventeen, and now he’s gone, and you’re still here worried about your job. He won’t even ever get to have one!”
Moss raised the files above his head and slammed them down on the ground. It was petulant, he knew it, but he still watched them spread out on the floor, their contents spilling everywhere, and it gave him a momentary sense of satisfaction.
“We don’t need your help,” Moss said. “Get out.”
His face was wet. When had he started crying? He did it so much these days. Moss rubbed at his cheeks, and he didn’t know if he had ever felt so angry in his whole life. This man sat there, his cowering, pale face filled with regret and fear, and at the end of the day, he would still get to go home. He’d still have a job and a life and goals and dreams and hopes, and what did Moss have?
He felt a hand in his. Bits. Their eyes locked with his. No pity. No sadness. He looked back at Mr. Jacobs, who stood awkwardly, legs shaking. The man said nothing else, only grabbed his jacket off the pew in front of him and walked quickly down the aisle. When the door shut behind him, the silence swallowed everyone.
Moss sniffled. “I may have overreacted there,” he said, and he chuckled as a bolt of awkward energy surged in his chest.
Wanda was at his other side. “No, you didn’t,” she said. “Well, maybe throwing all those papers was a bit dramatic.”
“Moss? Dramatic?” Rawiya said. “You don’t say!”
A ripple of nervous laughter rolled through the church, a catharsis for Moss. He let go of Bits’s hand and knelt down, gathering the pages scattered at his feet.
His mother knelt beside him to help as the others began to chatter away about what had just transpired. “I didn’t realize this would be so upsetting for you,” she said softly, and she ran a hand down his back. “I should have taken more control.”
He smiled at her, but shook his head. “No, it’s okay. I need to learn to deal with my anger better.”
She handed him a sheaf of pages. “Do you, though?” Wanda asked him. “Mr. Jacobs needed to hear that.”
He stopped. “You really think so?”
“I do,” said Rawiya, who came over with her own pile. “So do my parents.”
He looked to Afnan and Hishaam, who smiled at him. “That man was a smug asshole,” Afnan said. “I bet no one has ever told him otherwise.”
Wanda nodded. “Yeah, he may have been trying to help, but why wait so long? It’s like he expected us to bake a batch of cookies for him.”
Moss cast a glance at Esperanza. She was avoiding him, but he wouldn’t let his irritation distract him. “So what are we supposed to do with all this?” Moss asked. “We don’t even know what all of this stuff is.”
“I can start reading it,” said Kaisha. “There’s gotta be something here we can use.” She grabbed the pile from Moss and sat down near him. Without another word, she started to go through the files that Mr. Jacobs had handed them.
“For what, though?” Moss scratched his head. “I don’t even know what the next step is supposed to be.”
“Well, we gotta start planning,” said Wanda. “We gotta go bigger.”
“But what about Daley?” Moss asked. “We still don’t know where he is.” Moss groaned. “Mr. Jacobs said he knew where he was, and I chased him away.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Martin. “It’s not like we could go kidnap him or anything.” His eyes went wide. “Or could we…”
Shamika punched him in the arm playfully. “Shut up, man,” she said. “You tryna get us all arrested with your plots of kidnapping a cop.”
“Well,” said Moss, “the longer we wait, the more likely it is that he gets away with this.”
“Maybe,” said Wanda. “But we’ve got to be patient and careful about this. We’re dealing with some powerful people, Moss.”
“It’s not the first time folks in this city have gone after the police,” said Shamika. “Just ask your mama about the cost of that.”
He saw his mother shoot a pointed look at Shamika, and Shamika raised her hand to her mouth and grimaced.
“Wait, the cost of wh
at?” Moss said.
“It’s not that important,” his mother said. “Ask me later.” She turned away from him and wandered over to Kaisha.
He’d never seen his mother act so cagey about anything. “No, I saw that,” he said. “You just gave Shamika that look. The one you give me when I’m runnin’ my mouth and you want me to stop.”
She sighed. “Look, Moss, it’s not really the time for it,” she said, briefly looking up from the files. “We need to focus on reading through this so we know what we have.” His mother grabbed a few folders from out of the pile. “Who else has time to read?”
Njemile took a couple, and Rawiya and her parents each took another. Soon, each person in the group had part of the whole except for Moss, who still stood in the aisle, a suspicion creeping into him.
“You want something to read, Moss?” Wanda asked him.
“Mama, what aren’t you telling me?” The nerves came back, and his anxiety started to climb up his body. “I don’t like this.”
“You need to be patient, honey,” she said. “Let’s get through this and figure out what we’re doing with it, and then we can talk. Just you and I.”
“No.” He said it plainly, without hesitation. “No, I want to know now.”
He saw the exasperation spread in his mother, saw the chasm grow between them. “Moss, I promise you, this is not the time. Please sit down and help us out.”
“No, Mama. Not until you start talking.”
“Can’t this wait until later?” Esperanza said. “It sounds like something personal, Moss, and I’m sure your mom has her reasons for not sharing.”
He glared at Esperanza, and for the first time during their entire friendship, he hated her. It was a bitter sensation, a sourness in his mouth and heart, and he knew he wore it all over his face. “You’re not exactly unbiased when it comes to questioning your parents,” he said, and he knew it was a petty, underhanded thing to say.
“Moss, come on,” she said. “Parents are complicated, that’s all.”
“So that’s your justification for your mom getting Javier killed?”
The anger spread over her this time. “My mom didn’t do that,” she said, “and you should take that back.”
“No,” he said, stepping up to her. “I hate your mother, and if her nosy, white savior ass hadn’t called Mr. Elliot, Javier might be alive today. What was she thinking, getting herself involved?” He pointed a finger at her. “You even said it yourself: Your parents can’t avoid making things about themselves.”
She grimaced. “Moss, you’re upset, I get it,” she said. “But you don’t need to take it out on me. I’m not the bad guy here.”
He didn’t even think about what he said as the words came spilling out. “You sound a whole lot like your parents.”
Her mouth dropped open, then shut, hard. She grabbed her bag and stomped out of the room without another word.
He saw all the eyes locked on him. In another situation, he might have felt self-conscious, but his anger pushed him forward. “Why does no one want to tell me the truth?”
Wanda stood up and raised a hand in front of her, toward Moss. “Honey, please,” she said, her voice shaky and uncertain. “I’m sorry, I should have been more considerate—”
He took a step away from her. “How long do I have to wait?” He looked at each of them, but no one said anything at first.
“Maybe we should just focus on one thing at a time,” said Shamika, her eyes downturned, shame in her voice.
“Is that how you all feel?” Moss asked, and his hands shook at his sides. He clenched his fists, released, clenched them again.
“I don’t know, man,” said Reg. “I know this is a lot to handle sometimes, but maybe we should just like … I dunno. Just let your mom do this.”
“This whole thing scares me,” said Kaisha. “Maybe we should just rely on the adults here.”
“It’s not a bad idea,” Rawiya chimed in. “They have experience with this sort of stuff. We should let them do it.”
“Do what?” Moss shot back. “We have no plan. Y’all have all these secrets you won’t tell me. What about how I feel?”
“No one’s saying you can’t feel anything,” said Martin. “But your mama’s got more experience with this, so maybe we should—”
Moss didn’t let him finish. “Wait. Just wait. Is that what y’all are gonna say?” He started to move away from the group, a fear blossoming in the silence that followed. “I been waiting years for someone to take responsibility for Papa. I waited for school to get better. I waited for my brain to stop being broken. I’m gonna have to wait for this damn city to do something about Javier. And now I gotta wait for my own mother to just be honest with me?”
He backed up into his messenger bag, then quickly knelt down and scooped it up. He saw his mother try to leap over Njemile’s leg, and Moss turned away from them. “I’m done waiting,” he said, the rage spilling over, consuming him, and he bolted for the doors of Blessed Way Church and shoved his way outside. Moss ran to the corner and unlocked his bike as quick as he could, jamming Javier’s bike chain in his bag, and he did not look back to see if anyone had followed him. He just rode.
29
He pedaled. He headed toward the lake for no specific reason, just because it was in front of him and he needed to keep moving. The breeze whipped at his face, and tears sprang to his eyes. The cityscape before Moss blurred, each of the lights twisting into a sparkle, its edges sharp. The stoplight at Grand flashed green and he pushed harder, spun his legs faster, enjoyed the burning sensation in his thighs. It made him forget about the pain from the knots on his knee and shin.
Someone hollered at him as he went by. He ignored them. It felt invigorating, even if it was nothing more than a simple distraction. He blew through the light at 20th. A car screeched to a stop, its horn blared, and Moss didn’t even look. What if they had hit me? Moss wondered. Maybe this nightmare would end.
But he’d been through it before, and he knew what would come next. Wasn’t it always going to be the same? He slammed on his own brakes, and they squealed in protest. Moss pulled up to a bus stop near Jackson and let his bike fall to the ground beside him. He was heavy with grief and anger, and he allowed the world to pull him down onto the sidewalk.
He was sick of crying, tired of feeling sad, but it was like second nature to him now. What was he supposed to do? How was he ever supposed to make this feel right? It hadn’t worked when his father died; why would this be any different?
The moon reflected over the lake, which sat still in the darkness of the brisk night. Moss shuddered and remembered: the feeling of Javier lying on his chest, on the couch, in his arms, a body somehow cooler than his own. Moss had hated how warm he ran, how easy it was for him to wake up in the night, covered in sweat, and it was like Javier was meant for him. The perfect temperature to counter his own. But the world had shown Moss that he was not meant for Javier. If he had been, why was Javier now gone? He was consumed with sobs again. Moss wanted nothing more than for Javier to hold him, to see Javier’s goofy face, to run his hands over his arms. The finality of it all was too overwhelming. I have to accept this or I will never get over it.
Moss pushed himself up from the curb and coughed. Wiping the snot and tears away, he closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath, let it out. Once. Twice. Three times. He kept going until his heart settled down before he opened his eyes.
The lake still shimmered quietly in its own indifference to him. The world was still here. He was still here. He sucked in another frigid breath, felt the air fill him.
He was alive, still.
Moss leaned over and picked up his bike. He couldn’t go back to the church, at least not yet. He couldn’t face Esperanza, and the shame of yelling at his mother—Moss knew better than to do that—dulled the sadness. At least this was a new emotion, one he could focus on.
He shook his head as he turned on Jackson and headed toward 14th, rising to pedal up the hil
l. Moss knew he was going to have to apologize to his mother for his behavior at the very least. With Esperanza … he wasn’t sure. He’d felt himself growing farther and farther from her in the last couple of weeks. They needed to talk, eventually, but he was fine to let her simmer in frustration for once.
But as Moss pulled up to a stop at 14th, he didn’t feel so certain that his burst of anger was merely a tantrum.
He’d been through this cycle already with his father, and it was true that Moss had never gotten closure. How many times had he been taunted by Morris’s death? How many people had told Moss that his father deserved it? After all these years, he wasn’t any closer to a sense of justice, was he? It didn’t seem like a feasible outcome, just some nebulous idea thrown about by people who had never experienced this kind of heartbreak. How was the horror of Javier any different this time around? It didn’t matter how much evidence there was; it didn’t matter that by hiding, Daley more or less confirmed his guilt. Even if Daley came forward, would it fix this?
Moss wished more than anything at that moment that he could force the hand of the Oakland Police Department. The rally at his school had been a failure, and he didn’t know how many people would be discouraged from future protests because of what had happened on campus. They’d won, hadn’t they? There was no power in another walkout. The police would just do the same shit all over again, the cycle would continue, and it would pass to another family once the police killed someone else.
The light turned green and Moss pedaled through the intersection. A couple of guys walked hand in hand to his right, both of them black, wearing wide smiles on their faces. The taller one leaned his head back, and a deep laugh roared out of his mouth. Moss craned his neck to watch them. Were they newly in love? Had they maintained it for years? It felt unfair, to see two people so in love with each other when Moss had nothing. He knew it was unfair to judge them from a single moment. They had found something in one another, and it wasn’t their fault that he was in so much pain.
It’s not their fault. He thought it first, then said it aloud. “It’s not their fault.” They weren’t responsible for what he was feeling. He pedaled harder, an idea forming in his mind, one that felt big and silly and ludicrous. A jolt shot down his spine, sending a chill through his skin, bumps rising on his arms. Who’s actually responsible? Moss asked himself. Who did this to us?