Dear Martin Page 8

  Jus doesn’t know what to say.

  Wait, yes he does. “So, umm…” He gestures to Manny’s wrapped hand and busted lip. “Those?”

  Manny smiles. “This morning I went in to tell Coach I quit—”

  “Huh?”

  “Dawg, I hate playin’ basketball. Only reason I started is cuz when you’re the tall black kid at school, that’s what people expect you to do. Yeah, I happen to be pretty good at it, but it’s really not my thing.”

  “Okay, then.”

  “Anyway, Jared was in Coach’s office. When I said I was quitting, he made a ‘joke’ about how I couldn’t until Massah set me free. I lost it.” Manny falls back on the bed. “He clipped me once, but I can’t even tell you how good it felt to pound that dude. Coach wanted to keep it on the low cuz he needs Jared to play in tomorrow’s game, so he sent me home and made Jared stay in his office till school let out.”

  “Well, damn.”

  Manny sits back up. “I just wanna thank you, man.”

  “For what?”

  “For helping me get my eyes open. Didn’t like what I saw, so I wanted to shut ’em again, but if it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t know some of the stuff I’ve always felt around those guys is legit.”

  “Okay…You’re welcome, I guess?”

  Manny stands and opens his arms. “Bring it in, fella.”

  “What?”

  “Man, getcho ass up and give ya boy a hug.”

  “You really creep me out sometimes, Manny,” Jus says, complying.

  January 23

  I’ve got a lot on my mind, Martin.

  Last night, Manny’s dad came down to the basement. In almost four years of hanging out at the Riverses’ house, I’ve never seen Mr. Julian in Manny’s “sacred space,” as he calls it, so when he dropped down between us on the sofa, it felt like a bomb was about to go off.

  For a good three minutes, it was dead silent. Then Mr. Julian sighed. “I wanna talk to you boys,” he said.

  I gulped, and glanced at Manny behind Mr. Julian’s head. He looked hella nervous too. “Uhh…sure, Dad.”

  Mr. Julian nodded. “Today I overheard an employee refer to me by a racial slur.”

  “For real?” I said.

  “Yep. White kid, few years post-undergrad. I hired him three months ago.”

  Manny looked pissed. “What’d he call you?”

  “Doesn’t matter, son. Point is, it reminded me of your recent run-in with Jared. I spent the rest of the day wondering if you being in that situation was my fault.”

  “Huh? How the heck could it be your fault, Dad?”

  (I was wondering the same thing, Martin.)

  “There’s a lot I haven’t told you, Emmanuel,” Mr. Julian said. “Not sure if I was trying to shield you or if I hoped things were better, but it’s something I’ve been thinking about since Justyce was unfairly arrested.” He turned to me. “The whole incident came as a shock, right?”

  “Yeah. It did.”

  “When that happened, I kept thinking: What if that had been you, Emmanuel? I know you would’ve been downright mind-blown…but I wouldn’t’ve.” He shook his head. “That didn’t sit right with me because as your father, it’s something I should’ve prepared you for, son. And Jared saying what he said? I should’ve prepared you for that too.”

  “No offense, Mr. Julian,” I said, “but my mama’s been ‘preparing’ me for as long as I can remember. I was still caught off guard.”

  “You were surprised by what Jared said to Manny?”

  “Oh. Uhh…not really,” I said.

  “Exactly. That’s what I’m talking about. I wasn’t surprised to hear that kid at the office today say what he said. There’s no predicting people’s actions, but you can be prepared to face certain attitudes. Perhaps if I’d been more open with my own experiences, Jared’s words wouldn’t have been so astonishing to Manny.”

  Neither of us responded.

  “Both of you know what I do for a living,” he went on, “but very few know my struggle to get there. It took me four years longer than average to secure my position because I was continuously overlooked for promotions. I worked much harder than many of my Caucasian colleagues but rarely received a fraction of the recognition.”

  Again, we kept quiet.

  “There are still people in that office who refuse to look me in the eye, fellas. They’ll show cursory respect for the sake of keeping their jobs, but a good majority of my subordinates resent having to answer to a black man. I was reminded of that today.”

  “You fired that guy, right?” Manny asked.

  Mr. Julian shook his head. “It’s not the first time it’s happened, and it won’t be the last. This is what I mean by preparation.”

  Manny was livid. “But, Dad—”

  “The young man knows I heard what he said. I have no doubt he’ll be on his best behavior going forward. People often learn more from getting an undeserved pass than they would from being punished.”

  “That’s kinda deep,” I said.

  He shrugged. “Kill ’em with kindness. My point is the world is full of guys like Jared and that employee, and most of them will never change. So it’s up to you fellas to push through it. Probably best not to talk with your fists in the future…” He nudged Manny. “But at least you have an idea of what you’re up against. Try not to let it stop you from doing your best, all right?”

  He rubbed both of our heads and got up to leave.

  I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it, Martin. Frankly, it’s pretty discouraging. To think Mr. Julian has all that authority and still gets disrespected? Hearing it made me realize I still had hope that once I really achieve some things, I won’t have to deal with racist BS anymore.

  That’s obviously not the case, though, is it? What do I do with that? I have no doubt you would’ve done exactly what Mr. Julian did, but if it had been me? Well…I mean I punched a guy for using the n-word recently, didn’t I?

  The conversation reminded me of something Doc asked me a few days ago: all the work I’m doing to try and get ahead in life, who am I doing it for?

  Better yet, what am I doing it for? To prove myself? Gain some respect? Be able to shove it in the faces of people like Jared?

  I don’t even know anymore, Martin.

  (Side note: Don’t ask about SJ. Still getting cold-shouldered. It’s whatever.)

  —J

  Jus knows something’s wrong the moment he climbs into Manny’s car Saturday morning. Which is kind of unfortunate because it’s a really nice day. The guys are supposed to be hitting Stone Mountain, but if Manny’s holey wife-beater, flannel pajama pants, house slippers, and scowl are any indication, hiking isn’t real high on his to-do list at the moment.

  “You mind if we just drive for a while?” Manny asks once Justyce’s door is closed.

  “Course not, man. What’s goin’ on?”

  Jus gets his seat belt fastened, and Manny pulls out of the lot. “My folks got a call this morning. Mr. Christensen is pressing charges against me for ‘assaulting’ his son.” He takes his hand off the wheel to do the air quotes.

  “You serious, man?”

  “As a heart attack. I tried to get in touch with Jared, but Mr. Christensen answered his phone and told me not to call anymore. Said they’d take out a restraining order if I did.”

  Justyce is dumbfounded. “Dawg, that is some straight bullshit.”

  “You tellin’ me, man. I’ve never seen my dad so fired up.” Manny shakes his head. “All those years that man has looked me in my face and called me his ‘other son,’ and this is what happens.”

  “I don’t even know what to say, man.”

  “You know what? I really don’t either. I’ve had my little awakening over the past week or whatever, but this is like…Man, I wasn’t prepared for this. All I can think about is that one Socio Evo chat where SJ said Jared and me could do the same crime, but I’m likely to get the harsher punishment. You remember that?” />
  “I do.” How could he forget?

  “Anyway, sorry about Stone Mountain. I just need to drive and clear my head a bit.”

  “All good, Manny. All good.”

  Jus settles down into the seat and enjoys the wind in his face as Manny turns on some music.

  So catch that ball, Nigga; shoot that shot.

  Put on them gloves, Boy; knock off ya brotha’s block.

  Lace up them track spikes; get ready to run.

  Here comes the fun, wait for the sound of the gun…

  “This the new Deuce Diggs?” Jus asks.

  “Yeah, dawg. Shit’s poppin’.”

  “Crank that up.”

  Manny turns it up so loud, the whole car shakes from the bass.

  When the Range Rover rolls to a stop at a traffic light, Jus looks out his window to find the driver of a white Suburban—white dude, probably early fifties—giving him a dirty look.

  He turns the music down. “Damn…dude over here is muggin’ hard.”

  Manny checks the guy out and laughs. “Homeboy’s got no appreciation for a lyrical genius such as Deuce Diggs.”

  “Apparently not,” Justyce says, shifting in his seat. The way the guy’s scowling at him reminds him a little too much of The Incident. “Man, these red lights are long as hell.”

  “You right, dawg.”

  When it finally turns green, Manny turns the music back up.

  The white Suburban is riding alongside the guys now, and the driver seems pissed. “This dude is giving me the creeps!” Jus yells over the music. “He’s red as a pepper, and he keeps glaring at me with those bulgy eyeballs.”

  “I bet he’s totally profiling us right now. Probably thinks we’re drug dealers or something.”

  Justyce’s eyes go to his wrists, and Manny glances over and stops laughing. “My bad, dawg,” he says. “I didn’t mean…Sorry, I wasn’t thinkin’.”

  “It’s all good, Manny. You’re prolly right.”

  They pull to a stop at the Thirteenth Street traffic light.

  “Will you assholes turn that goddamn racket down!” the guy in the Suburban shouts.

  “Assholes?” Jus says. “How are we assholes?”

  Manny leans over the center console to shout out Jus’s window: “What’d you say, sir? I couldn’t hear you over the music!”

  The guy looks like he’s about to ignite. “I SAID TURN THAT SHIT DOWN!”

  “You weren’t lying about him being red!” Manny laughs. “It’s like all the blood in his body has rushed up into his face.”

  Jus turns to the man again.

  What would Martin do, Jus?

  “Maybe we should turn it down,” Jus says.

  “Man, please. This is my car,” Manny says. “I’m done bending over backwards to appease white people.” He pushes a button on the steering wheel, and the music gets louder.

  “YOU WORTHLESS NIGGER SONS OF BITCHES!” the guy shouts.

  “I know that muthafucka didn’t just say what I think he did,” Manny says.

  Jus’s heart jumps up between his ears.

  What would Martin do what would Martin do what would Martin—?

  “Forget that guy, Manny. Let’s just stay calm—”

  “Naw, man. Screw that.” Manny leans over Jus. “Hey, fuck you, man!” he shouts out the window, giving the guy the finger.

  “Manny, chill.” Why is this damn light so long? “Let’s just turn it down till we get away from this guy, all right?”

  Justyce leans forward to reach for the volume knob.

  “Oh SHIT!” Manny shouts—

  BANG.

  BANG.

  BANG.

  Transcript from evening news, January 26

  Good evening, and welcome to the Channel 5 News at 5.

  In our top story, tragedy in Oak Ridge this afternoon, where two young men in an SUV were shot at a traffic light.

  The incident occurred just after noon at the intersection of Thirteenth Street and Marshall Avenue. According to the wife of the shooter—who was riding in the passenger seat—there was a brief dispute over loud music before shots were fired from one vehicle into the other.

  The identities of the wounded are being withheld pending further investigation, but we’ve received reports that one of the teens was pronounced dead en route to the hospital, and the other is in critical condition.

  The shooter has been identified as fifty-two-year-old Garrett Tison, an officer with the Atlanta PD. Officer Tison was not on duty at the time of the shooting and was taken into police custody at the scene.

  More on this story as it continues to develop.

  February 1

  DEAR MARTIN,

  He’s gone.

  Never did anything to anyone, and now Manny’s gone.

  —

  I can’t do this anymore.

  Twenty-seven days.

  That’s how long the Riverses keep Manny’s body in a mortuary cold chamber, waiting for his best friend to recover enough to attend the funeral. Frankly, Jus wishes they’d gone ahead and had it without him. He really doesn’t wanna be here.

  The first words out of the pastor’s mouth were “We are not here to mourn a death. We’re here to celebrate a life, gone on to glory.” Manny didn’t even believe in heaven and hell. Jus can imagine him saying: The only place I’ve “gone on” to is that overpriced casket.

  Jus didn’t have it in him to go up and look at the body during the viewing. He knows the cause of death—“gunshot wound to the head”—because he asked to see the death certificate, and the Riverses consented. To see Manny laid out all serene after knowing there was a bullet somewhere in his head? Yeah, there’s no way. Jus can’t do that.

  He would love to just get up and walk out. Keep going until his legs fall off or he dies from thirst or starvation or exhaustion or some combination of the three. Problem is there are media people everywhere outside. Based on some of the “speculation” he’s heard—Manny threatened Garrett Tison, one of the boys threw something into Tison’s Suburban, Justyce had a gun, etc.—he’d rather not be seen.

  Not that being inside is much better. People keep peeping over their shoulders at him where he’s sitting at the back of the church with Mama. He has sunglasses on, but he can see them sneaking glances. Marveling at the Boy Who Survived (that’s what they’ve been calling him on the news).

  Mama squeezes his good arm. He’s still relearning how to use his other one, which is currently in a sling. The shot to the chest cracked a rib and punctured his right lung, but the bullet he took to the right shoulder messed up a bunch of nerves. After three surgeries, he finally regained feeling in his fingertips.

  As the pastor leaves the pulpit and the choir stands, Justyce looks around the packed interior of the church. He takes in all the dark suits and dresses, the tearstained faces and shaking shoulders, and the collective sorrow hits him so hard, the room blurs out of focus. The one thing he can see clearly is the face of Sarah-Jane Friedman. She’s watching him.

  It triggers a series of flashbacks from his more heavily drugged days in the hospital: SJ standing over him, weeping, his left hand gripped in her right one, her left hand stroking his face (Mama was obviously not around); the sound of Dr. Rivers saying, “We’re so glad you made it, Justyce.” Mama crying and asking his forgiveness because she had to go back to work. Melo being escorted out because she wouldn’t stop wailing.

  Speaking of Melo, Jus can see her too. Honestly, if it weren’t for Mama, he’s sure she’d try to glue herself to his side. She organized the group of Atlanta Falcons football players who came to escort Jus home from the hospital in a luxury party bus.

  Of course it made the news.

  As Mr. Rivers approaches the pulpit to deliver the eulogy—he asked Jus if he wanted to do it, but there was no way in hell—Jus sees Jared and the “bros.” They’re all sitting near the front with their parents, and he wonders if Jared and Mr. Christensen feel like the assholes they are. If it hadn’t been f
or that damn phone call, Manny and Jus would’ve been headed to Stone Mountain. They wouldn’t have been on the same road as Garrett Tison.

  Manny would still be here.

  Jared turns around like he can feel Jus jabbing arrows into the back of his head. The moment they see each other (though Jared wouldn’t know because of Justyce’s sunglasses), fury wraps around Jus so tightly, he almost can’t breathe. Even from a distance, Jus can tell Jared’s eyes are haunted. Like the floor has opened up beneath him and there’s no bottom to his agony.

  Jus recognizes the expression because he’s feeling the same way. It makes him want to burn the world down.

  —

  Once the service is over, Jus walks with Mama to the bathroom before they head to the burial site (he doesn’t want to go). As soon as she steps in, who steps out but Sarah-Jane Friedman. His mouth falls open a little, and when she sees him, she freezes.

  Jus takes his sunglasses off. She’s in a navy pantsuit, no makeup, dark hair pulled back into a bun. Her eyes—which are red from crying—rove over his face, and he’s so relieved to see something other than pity burning in them, he almost reaches out to hug her with his good arm.

  It’s quite the predicament: wanting to touch and hug and kiss a white girl after a white man shot him and killed his best friend?

  “Hey,” he says.

  Her eyes fill with tears. “Hey.”

  “You okay?”

  “Pretty sure that’s what I should be asking you, Jus.”

  He looks away. Shrugs.

  Moments pass that feel like hours. Days. Years. Centuries.

  She sighs. “So I know we haven’t talked much bu—”

  “I miss you, S.”

  Her head snaps up.

  “I mean it,” Jus says. And why shouldn’t he tell her? He’s already lost his other best friend.

  SJ opens her mouth to speak—