Jumped In Read online

  “That’s a funny thing to pick. If you’re gonna lie, why not pick something believable?”

  “’Cause black kids can’t be cops?”

  “That’s not what I meant,” he said. “You’re not really a student here. You don’t live in Meem. I checked. Your name isn’t Darius Higgenbotham. You lied to a cop. That makes you suspicious. That right there is enough reason to arrest you.”

  “Fine, I’m going,” I say, and I turn around and start walking.

  “Wait,” he says.

  “What you want now?”

  “Tell you what. I’ll make you a deal.”

  I look at him for a long moment. People never try to make deals unless they think they are going to come out ahead.

  “What deal?”

  “A criminal-justice deal. You obviously care about law and order. You think being a cop is so easy. I bet you’d be great at it. You see those kids over there skateboarding?”

  “Yeah, I see ’em.”

  “Here’s your first criminal-justice assignment. Go over there and tell them to stop.”

  I laugh. “Why would I do that?”

  “Because you’re not allowed to skate on those steps. It’s dangerous, and they’re damaging private property. There’s a sign right there that says No Skateboarding. See it?”

  “Yeah, I see it.” Maybe I was wrong about this guy. Maybe he’s not trying to put one over on me. Maybe he’s just nuts.

  “So, let’s see you strut your stuff.”

  “Man, you crazy. I ain’t about to go over there.” Stupid white-people rules. No Skateboarding. Is he serious? Who cares about skateboarding? Maybe they should put up signs in my neighborhood that say No Crack Dealing. No Gangbanging. No Shooting Nine-Year-Old Girls In The Back. Signs about things that matter. If illegal skateboarding is the biggest problem these people have to deal with, they don’t know how good they got it.

  “Why not?” he says.

  “Because I don’t care if they skate. Besides, you think they gonna listen to me?”

  “Why wouldn’t they listen to you?”

  “Look at me! I ain’t even got a uniform on.”

  “It’s not about the uniform,” says Officer Friendly. “It’s about the way you carry yourself. It’s about being assertive.”

  “You mean acting like a jerk,” I say.

  “If that’s how you need to think about it.”

  “All right. You the expert in that. So how do you do it?”

  “What you do is, you just go over there and look them in the eye. You don’t try to push them around, but you don’t back down either. You let them know by your body language that you mean business. And you just tell them they have to stop. You show them the sign. You tell them to move along.”

  “And if they don’t?”

  “Then you call it in.”

  “Call it in? Are you serious?”

  “Yep. And you ask for their ID and you write them a ticket.”

  “Call it in how? On what? My phone? I ain’t even got a phone plan.”

  “Don’t let it come to that,” he says. “Your job is to make them move. That is the only acceptable outcome.”

  These kids are older than me. Bigger than me. Richer than me. Whiter than me.

  “And what if I don’t?” I say.

  “Well, then,” says Officer Friendly, “I’m gonna kick you off this campus for good, and if I ever see you back here, I’ll arrest you. Because this is private property, and it’s for people who want to learn. Not people who want to scope out chicks and steal food from the student union. You ever wanna come back here again, this is the deal.”

  Uh-oh. I guess he saw me take that muffin yesterday.

  I swallow.

  “All right,” I say. “Here I go.”

  As I approach these kids, I think, I could just keep on walking. He can’t do anything to me. I could just walk off campus and go home.

  But then I can’t come back here anymore.

  And besides, they’re not supposed to be skateboarding. What is wrong with them anyway? There’s a sign right there that says No Skateboarding. People are trying to walk up and down the stairs, and they’re in the way. Making it dangerous for everyone else. Like they don’t even care if they accidentally hurt someone.

  If there’s one thing that really pisses me off, it’s people who make it dangerous for everyone else.

  “Yo,” I say.

  The three of them ignore me. It’s like I’m not even there.

  “Hey. Listen up.”

  They stop. They look at me.

  “Yeah?” says one.

  “You can’t skate here, yo,” I say.

  There is a very long silence. I swear you can hear the wind blowing through my dreads.

  “What?” says one of them.

  “There’s a sign right there says so.”

  The three of them look at the sign. They look at me. Clearly they don’t believe what they are seeing and hearing.

  “So?”

  “Ya’ll are being a nuisance,” I say. “People trying to walk up and down these steps, and they have to go around you. It ain’t right. So take off. Get outa here with them things.”

  “Or what?” says one of the skaters.

  “Or I’m gonna call 9-1-1 on your asses and get you some tickets, that’s what,” I say. “Choice is yours.”

  They look at each other. Then back at me. This goes on for about twenty seconds.

  “Okay, bro,” says one. “Chill out.”

  Then they pick up their boards and start to walk away.

  I stand there and watch them go. I can’t quite believe what I’m seeing.

  I look back at Officer Friendly. He’s half hiding behind a tree. He’s smiling at me like he can’t believe it either. He gives me a big thumbs-up.

  What a weird day this is turning out to be.

  SEVEN

  “So what’s your real name?” Officer Friendly asks me.

  “Rasheed,” I say.

  “Well, Rasheed, you were great,” says Officer Friendly. “A real natural.”

  We’re sitting in the student union. Officer Friendly has bought me some french fries. He’s having a water. Got to keep his manly figure. Me, I could live off french fries. I eat and eat and never gain weight.

  “Thanks,” I say. The fries here are pretty good. I look around as I eat them. Lots of people are looking at us, trying to figure it out. What is that cop doing with that punk? I’m trying to figure it out too.

  “So how did it feel?”

  I shrug.

  “Okay, I guess,” I say.

  “Just okay?”

  “Pretty good, actually.”

  “Why?”

  “What you mean, why?”

  “Why did it feel good?”

  “I dunno, man. What’s with all the questions?”

  “I’m trying to get you to do a little self-reflection,” says the good officer. “Don’t act like I’m pulling teeth or something.”

  Self-reflection. Gah. I had a teacher last year who was always asking us to write papers about self-reflection. Every time you tied your shoe, he wanted you to reflect on the experience and then write five hundred words about it. It drove me crazy. I hate self-reflection.

  But I decide to humor him.

  “It felt good because…I felt like I helped.”

  He nods. “Helped how?”

  “Helped keep people safer,” I say. “Maybe just a little bit. But that’s better than doing nothing.”

  “Were you scared?”

  “A little. Not really.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, I knew you were right there. If I yelled, you would come.”

  He nods. “And now you just learned another lesson,” he says. “The importance of backup.”

  “You ever have backup?”

  He shakes his head and grins.

  “Not me,” he says. “I’m a cowboy. Only time I ever get to ask for help is in a dangerous situation,
like if someone has a weapon.”

  “Does that ever happen to you?”

  “Not yet. But it could.”

  “So when you got to tell people to do something, you’re on your own. And you have to hope they listen.”

  “Not hope,” he says. “I make sure they listen. Try not to leave anything to chance.”

  I finish my fries.

  “You still hungry?” he asks.

  “Come on, man, you embarrassing me,” I say. “I’m not some starving African kid.”

  “You wouldn’t eat a hamburger?”

  “Well…”

  Five minutes later, I’m tearing into a hamburger.

  “So where do you really live?” he says.

  I tell him the name of my intersection. He nods.

  “Rough part of town,” he says.

  “No cops around there,” I say. “We got bigger problems than skateboarding.”

  “You have family?”

  I tell him about my sister and my mom. I leave out the part about my mom being a drug addict. No need to fill every stereotype today.

  “So how come you hang around here?”

  “I wanna go to college someday,” I say.

  I’m surprised to hear myself say that. I never said that out loud before. I never even let myself think it. But he doesn’t laugh at me or look surprised. He just nods again.

  “I figured that was it,” he says. “I knew when you told me criminal justice that you were a man with a plan.”

  “Come on, bro,” I say. “I was just straight up gassin’ you. I never wanted to be no criminal-justice major. I never even thought about it. Not once.”

  “And yet you said it,” Officer Friendly says. “You didn’t hesitate. You just said it.”

  “So?”

  “So I think you were telling the truth. You really do want to make the world a safer place.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” I say.

  “Starting with your neighborhood. Am I right?”

  He looks at me. I’m surprised to feel myself getting hot behind the eyes, like they’re about to start leaking. Damn, is this dude some kind of wizard? I duck my head down and pretend to blow my nose into a napkin. Because for some reason, when he said that my thoughts went right to my sister.

  “Well, hey there,” says Officer Friendly. “How are you today, Lanaia?”

  Oh no. Not now. The worst possible time.

  “Hi there, Officer Townsend,” says Lanaia. She’s got a stack of books in her arms, and she’s looking as perky as ever. “Hi, Darius!”

  “Hi,” I mumble.

  “What are you guys up to?”

  “We were just talking about criminal justice,” says Officer Friendly.

  “Great!” says Lanaia. “Listen, I have to run. I’m late. I just wanted to say hi. Nice to see you guys are friends now.”

  Today is the kind of day when I feel like I can do anything. Did I not just run a bunch of older skate punks off the steps? I am no longer just plain old Rasheed. I am Darius Higgenbotham, unstoppable avenger of justice.

  “Don’t leave yet, girl. I need your digits,” I say.

  Officer Townsend stares at me as if I just started speaking ancient Greek. So does Lanaia. Then she bursts out laughing.

  I feel myself starting to blush. Why did I even say that? It busted out of me before I had time to think. I never was too good at controlling my mouth.

  “Okay, Darius,” she says. “Since you asked, here you go.” She takes out a scrap of paper and a pen from her purse, writes her number down, hands it to me. “Gotta respect a man who knows what he wants,” she says.

  And then she leaves.

  Officer Townsend is shaking his head like he can’t believe what just happened.

  “I have no clue how you just pulled that off, but I gotta give it up to the master,” he says. “That was slick.”

  “I got a way with the ladies,” I say. I don’t want him to see I’m just as shocked as he is.

  “She likes you, man. She stuck up for you yesterday in the library too. She thought you were being treated unfairly.”

  “I was being treated unfairly.”

  “Oh, really? So you really are a student here, and you weren’t trespassing?”

  He’s got me there.

  “What do I do?” I say.

  “What do you mean, what do you do? You call her.”

  “Yeah, but…then what?”

  “Don’t you think you better start by telling her your real name?” he says.

  “Yeah,” I say. “That would be a good start.”

  EIGHT

  There’s only one way I’ll be able to call Lanaia, and that’s if I get a phone plan.

  I can’t afford a real plan. But I can get a card with prepaid minutes.

  For that I need at least ten bucks. Maybe twenty.

  So how do I get twenty bucks?

  In my neighborhood, there’s one way to get money, and that’s to work for the Locals. But that’s not the kind of work you can do on a part-time basis. And you can never quit. Once you’re in, you’re in.

  The Locals have been trying to get me to join them since I was a kid. They have runners as young as eight or nine years old. These kids never had a chance at a normal life. They’ll be in and out of juvy and prison until they die too young. Along the way they’re going to get hurt a lot. And they’re probably going to hurt a lot of people.

  That was my dad’s life story. He grew up in this neighborhood. This was before crack got big, but things were still rough. I heard enough stories to know what it was like. A lot of turf wars with other gangs, both black and Mexican. And always fighting with the cops.

  I never knew my daddy too well, but I knew he was a Local. Back when it was actually something to be proud of.

  I don’t remember much about him. But I remember him telling me once that gangs were not there just to cause trouble. They were there to protect people. When everything around you was on fire, and you had no one else looking out for you, you had to stick together. You and your people. That’s what gangs were first—protection. A family.

  It’s been a long time since the Locals had that kind of honor. Now they’re just a bunch of wasted punks.

  I wish I knew which one of them fired the gun that hit my sister and ruined her life. All of our lives. So many nights I lie awake in bed, filled with anger, listening to them whoop it up outside like they don’t have a care in the world. Shooting off their guns. My sister lying in her own bed, crying in fear. Worried another bullet is going to come for her and finish the job.

  No wonder my mom is on the pills. How could a normal person take this kind of life? It’s no different than living in a war zone. Only no one is ever coming to save you. You’re stuck, forever. No one cares.

  I wish for the millionth time I could make a lot of money real fast. I would get us the hell out of this neighborhood.

  What would I do if I could find the one who shot my sister?

  Criminal justice. That’s what.

  Next morning I wake up still thinking about twenty dollars.

  There’s milk in the fridge that’s still good. Cereal. I make breakfast for myself. The meal-delivery service comes with Daneeka’s breakfast. They drop it at the door, ring the bell and leave fast. I’ve never actually seen these people. I’m surprised they still even come into this neighborhood. But the Locals leave them alone too. They don’t carry money, and their food isn’t worth stealing. Daneeka’s Medicare pays for it. It tastes like cardboard. No one would want to steal that.

  I bring Neeks her tray and put her old one back on the steps. The service will pick it up when they come with her lunch. Neeks and I have the same conversation we have every morning. We ask how the other slept. She asks what I will do that day. I lie. It’s like talking to a recording.

  My mom comes out of her room to use the bathroom, grabs a few pills, goes back inside. She doesn’t say a word to either of us. She smells like she needs to shower.

 
Just a normal morning in my house.

  What would people on old TV do if they needed twenty dollars?

  I think about all the episodes I’ve seen. They would hold a car wash. Or a bake sale. Or form a singing group and enter a contest.

  Screw that. All those things would get me shot around here.

  I end up earning it the old-fashioned way.

  I head to the main drag and walk up and down until I pass a lady who isn’t paying close enough attention to her purse. It’s simple to reach in and help myself to her wallet. She doesn’t even notice. I am that good.

  I hold the wallet close until I’m around the corner. Then I stop, lean against the wall and check it out. A few credit cards. I won’t touch those. Too easy to trace. Three worn twenties and a handful of change. Well, she wasn’t a millionaire. But more than I need.

  I toss her wallet in a sewer. Then I buy a phone card from a convenience store. With the money left over, I get myself a real breakfast at a diner. Scrambled eggs, pancakes and bacon. I don’t get to eat like this too often.

  I don’t feel bad about stealing. There is the law, and then there is justice. Just because some things are illegal doesn’t mean they’re wrong. What’s wrong is that some people have so much while others have so little. Sometimes a little stealing can actually make things right again.

  I know old Officer Friendly wouldn’t see it that way. But he doesn’t understand my life. Fine, so he’s not the hardass I thought he was. He took the time to sit and talk with me. Then he probably went home and told his wife what a great guy he was for giving food to a poor black kid.

  I don’t need charity. I need a break.

  I punch in the card number. Then I call Lanaia’s phone. I’ve never called a girl like this. I feel like I have two pit bulls fighting in my stomach.

  She doesn’t answer. Dang. Maybe it’s too early. I’m thinking about hanging up, but I hear her voice, all chipper and perky, telling me to leave her a message. So I do. I don’t even know what I say. Something stupid. My brain stops working. Talking to girls is hard.

  I head out of the restaurant and down the street. I’m not going anywhere special, so I’m in no hurry. Maybe back to my hideout behind the Seven. Maybe somewhere new. Definitely not home.

  A few minutes later I get a text.