Dear Justyce PDF

;#1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF DEAR MARTIN  Dear Justyce, tow did you do it? We grew up in the same area. Went to the same elementary and middle school. Even had a class or two together. Why‘d we turn out so different? and Justyce McAllister grew...

;#1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF DEAR MARTIN  Dear Justyce, tow did you do it? We grew up in the same area. Went to the same elementary and middle school. Even had a class or two together. Why‘d we turn out so different? and Justyce McAllister grew up a block apart in the Southwest Atlanta rat=¥io] ayexe)aateXele Mme)mmm A AYZa lu efoto Milal=(e] alam Years later, though, Justyce walks the illustrious halls of Yale University... and Quan sits behind bars at the Fulton ~ Regional Youth Detention Center. Through.a series of flashbacks, vignettes, and letters to Justyce—the protagonist of Dear. Martin—Quan’s story takes form. Troubles at home F-Tave Mmanli-ielale(-1a-}¢-] atollale -Mmr-]mmcyol alee) Me]V1 d= ¥mKe) police encounters and tough fo(=Yol Jie) alam =10) amdal-Ja lndal=1¢-Mcwe- Be [-t-Lo Move!0) and a weapon with Quan’s prints on it. What leads a bright kid down a road to PMultizeClacieleccYan Clacvcuke tenner cs In the highly anticipated sequel to her #1 New York Times: bestseller, Nic Stone delivers an unflinching look into al Bit Toll ol¢-Teidota lale) silenced voices Ta) the American juvenile justice system. ; ALSO BY NIC STONE Dear Martin Odd One Out Jackpot Justyce INTC eS EOINEe This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Text copyright © 2020 by Logolepsy Media Inc. Jacket photograph of boy copyright © 2020 by Nigel Livingstone All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Crown Books for Young Readers, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York. Crown and the colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC. Grateful acknowledgment to Jason Reynolds for use of his work “i am jason reynolds: Day 28 of 30, A Reminder and Reckoning (in need of a rest).” April 28, 2018. iamjasonreyno!ds.com/2018/04/28/day-28-of-30-5 Visit us on the Web! GetUnderlined.com Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Stone, Nic, author. Title: Dear Justyce / Nic Stone. Description: First edition. |New York: Crown Books for Young Readers, | Companion novel to: Dear Martin. |Audience: Ages 14+. |Audience: Grades 10-12. | Summary: Incarcerated teen Quan Banks writes letters to Justyce McCallister, with whom he bonded years before over family issues, about his experiences in the American juvenile justice system. Identifiers: LCCN 2020020509 (print) |LCCN 2020020510 (ebook) | ISBN 978-1-9848-2966-5 (hardcover) | ISBN 978-1-9848-2967-2 (library binding) | ISBN 978-1-9848-2969-6 (trade paperback) | ISBN 978-1-9848-2968-9 (ebook) Subjects: CYAC: Juvenile detention homes—Fiction. | Family problems—Fiction. | Best friends—Fiction. | Friendship—Fiction. |African Americans—Fiction. | Letters—Fiction. Classification: LCC PZ7.1.S7546 De 2020 (print) |LCC PZ7.1.S7546 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]—de23 The text of this book is set in 11-point Berling LT Std. Interior design by Trish Parcell Printed in the United States of America 1098765 43 First Edition Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read. Penguin Random House LLC supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to publish books for every reader. For Danny Ayers. You will always be my hero.  Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2022 with funding from Kahle/Austin Foundation https://archive.org/details/dearjustyce0000ston Dear Reader, I didn’t really intend to write this book. Sound familiar? It should. It’s what I say about writing Dear Martin. It’s as true now as it was then, though my reasoning’s a little different: when I closed the back cover of that story, I told myself I was done with Justyce McAllister and the world he inhabited. He’d reached a place of relative peace and come to a deeper understanding of his role as the captain of his own life ship. I felt good, as a book mom, about setting him free to decide where he was headed next and how he’d get there. But then came the day I received a set of text messages from a pair of boys I’d met because of Dear Martin—and grown to respect and admire. It went like this (literally): D: Aye guys. Z: Whassssuppp Me: FAVORITES! D: I’ve been thinking... maybe, just maybe... You should make a book about us. Z: Yessss D: Like black kids, you know.... Not like Justyce. Cuz Justyce had hope. He went to a good college. Me: Tell me more. D: We don't go to good colleges. We don’t  have a perfect family like everybody else. Z: That's facts. D: Honestly, we don't even know if we'll live past the age of 18. Z: This stuff me and D go through every day. D: You probably can't put it all in a book... but mannnnn. Z: And we got family and friends locked up and everything. D: | know people will listen. You're our voice. Since that conversation, I’ve had the privilege of meeting many boys and girls who are very much not like Justyce. Who aren’t high-achieving and headed toward blindingly bright futures. Who don’t nail their SATs or win debate state championships. I’ve met them, not at preparatory academies or Ivy League universities, but in “alternative” schools and juvenile detention facilities. Which made me realize that while Justyce’s story might’ve come to a satisfactory conclusion (for me, at least), there was someone else—a different character—whose story had not: Vernell LaQuan Banks Jr. If you don’t remember him from Dear Martin (or haven’t read it), don’t worry: you will. He has a story to tell you. NiteNic Stone Even when the condition is critical, when the livin’ is miserable Your position is pivotal, | ain't bullshittin’ you —TALIB KweEL!I  f ns mg ae iy 7 > = * duet. gi omsoery saa, = i “~ Salinaneta ton = tm, ay Uicg / pv frtal ais: cay it bane ry a0 cuore {ine OF. 4:bike oe 2. ae aaa eye Sn apsh ot: Two Boys on a Brand-New Playground (2010) Tt didn’t take much for Quan to decide he was leaving this time. He feels a little bit bad, yeah: knowing Dasia and Gabe are still in the house makes his stomach hurt the way it al- ways does when he finds himself faced with grown-people problems he can’t fix. But Quan’s only nine. Running away alone is hard enough. Trying to bring a four-year-old sister and a two-year-old brother just isn’t gonna work. He’s glad spring has sprung early. Didn’t have time to grab a jacket as he fled. He’s pretty sure there was too much commotion for anybody to notice, but he takes a few un- necessary turns en route to his destination in case Olaf— that’s what Quan calls his mama’s “duck-ass boyfriend” (which is what Quan’s dad calls the guy)—did notice Quan’s exit. What Quan is sure of? He couldn’t stay there. Not with dude yelling and throwing things the way he was. Quan knows what comes next, and he couldn’t watch again. It was hard enough seeing the aftermath bloom in the funny- looking bluey-purple blotches that made Mama’s arms and legs look like someone had tossed water balloons full of paint all over her. He couldn’t really do anything anyway. Though Olaf (Dwight is the guy’s actual name) isn’t too, too big, he’s a whole heck of a lot stronger than Quan. The one 5 time Quan did try to intervene, he wound up with his own funky-colored blotch. Across his lower back from where he hit the dining room table when dude literally threw Quan across the room. Hiding that bruise from Daddy was nearly impossi- ble. And Quan had to hide it because he knew if Daddy found out what really happened when Olaf/Dwight came around... well, it wouldn’t be good. So. He made sure Dasia and Gabe were safe in the closet. That was the most he could do. As Wynwood Heights Park looms up on his left, Quan lifts the hem of his shirt to wipe his face. It’s the fourth time he’s done it, so there’s a wet spot now. He wonders if there will be any dry spots left by the time he gets the tears to stop. Good thing there’s no one around to see. He’d never hear the end of it. He bounces on his toes as his feet touch down on the springy stuff the new playground is built on. There’s a sign that says it’s ground-up old tires, that the play structures are made from “recycled water bottles and other discarded plas- tics,” and that the entire area is “green,” but as Dasia pointed out the last time Mama brought them all here, whoever built the thing didn’t know their colors because everything is red, yellow, and blue. The thought of his sass-mouthed little sister brings fresh tears to Quan’s eyes. He makes a beeline for the rocket ship. It sits off in a 6 comer separate from everything else, tip pointed at the sky like it could blast off at any moment. Inside the cylindrical base, there are buttons to push and dials to turn and a ladder that leads up to an “observation deck” with a little window. It’s Quan’s favorite spot in the world—though he’d never admit that to anyone. When he gets inside, he’s so relieved, he collapses against the rounded wall and lets his body slide to the floor like chocolate ice cream down the side of a cone on a hot sum- mer day. His head drops back, and he shuts his eyes and lets the tears flow freely. But then there’s a sound above him. A cough. The moonlight through the deck window makes the face of the boy staring down at Quan look kinda ghostly. In fact, the longer dude stares without speaking, the more Quan wonders if maybe he is a ghost. “Ubhh... hello?” Dude doesn’t reply. Now Quan is starting to get creeped out. Which makes him mad. This is supposed to be the one place in the world he can relax. Where he’s not looking over his shoulder or being extra cautious. Where he can close his eyes and count down from ten and imagine shooting into space, far, far away from everything and everyone. “Yo, why you lookin’ at me like that?” Quan spits, each word sharp-tipped and laced with the venom of his rage. “Oh, umm..” The other boy’s eyes drop to his hands. 7 He picks at the skin around his thumbs. Something Quan does sometimes that gets him yelled at. Hmm. The boy goes on: “I’m sorry. I just... |wasn’t expecting anybody else to come in here.” ‘Oh!’ The boys are quiet for a minute and then: “I’m Justyce, by the way.” Justyce. Quan’s heard that name before... “You that smart kid they was talking about on the morning announce- ments at school? Won some contest or something?” Justyce again doesn’t reply. “Hellooooo?” Quan says. “You gonna make fun of me now?” “Huh?” Now Justyce looks out the observation window. Quan wonders what he’s seeing. “I wish they would’ve never made that announcement. Winning an academic bowl isn’t ‘cool.’ Everybody just makes fun of me.” Quan shrugs. “Maybe they just jealous cuz they ain’t never won nothin’.” Silence falls over the boys again, but this time, it’s not so uncomfortable. In fact, the longer Quan sits there with Justyce above him, the better he feels. Kinda nice not being totally alone. Which makes him wonder...  “You're a fifth grader, right? You not gonna get in trouble for being out this late?” “Oh, I will,” Justyce says. It makes Quan laugh. “T snuck out,’ Justyce continues. “But it’s not the first time, and I’m sure it won't be the last. I think my mama knows I'll always come back.” “Wish I didn’t have to go back...” It slips out, and at first Quan regrets it. But then he realizes his chest is a little looser. This one time at Daddy’s house, Quan watched a movie about this big ship that hit an iceberg and sunk, and there was this one scene where the main lady was being tied into this thing that went around her stomach and laced up the back like a sneaker. He later learned it was called a corset, but that’s what comes into Quan’s head when he thinks about his life. “My mom’s boyfriend is a asshole,” he continues. The laces loosen a little more. “He’s my little brother and sister’s dad, so like I kinda get why my mama keeps dealing with him...” Little looser. ‘But I hate him. Every time he come around, he mad about somethin’, and he takes it out on my mom.” “Sounds familiar,” Justyce says. “And I be wanting to stick around for my brother and sister but—wait.” Quan looks up at Justyce, whose chin is now propped in his hand.  All eyes (and ears) on Quan. “What'd you say?” Quan asks. “Hmm?” “Just a second ago.” “Oh. I said that sounds familiar.” “Whatchu mean?” Justyce sighs. “My dad was in the military and went to Af- ghanistan. Ever since he came back, he’s been... different. He drinks a lot and sometimes has these ‘episodes, my mom calls them. Out of nowhere he'll start yelling and throwing stuff.” Now Justyce isn’t looking at Quan anymore. “He hits her sometimes.” Justyce swipes at his eyes. Quan stands up. “You ever come here during the day?” “Occasionally.” Jus sniffles. “Sorry for crying.” “Man, whatever. Now I see how you won that ‘academic’ thingy.” “Huh?” “What kinda fifth grader says occasionally?” Quan shakes his head. “I’m gonna head home and check on my brother and sister,” he says. “You should go check on your mom.” The boys meet eyes, and understanding passes between them. “Pll see you around.” Quan ducks and slips through the rocket’s arched entryway. He’s almost back at the edge of the rubber-floored play- ground when— “Hey! Hold up!”  Quan turns around to find Justyce is headed in his di- rection. “You didn’t tell me your name,” Justyce says, out of breath. Quan smiles—“Vernell LaQuan Banks Jr.’—and lifts his hand. “Call me Quan.” “It was real nice to meet you, Quan,” Justyce says, smack- ing his palm against Quan’s and then hooking fingers. “Even, ubh... despite the circumstances.” Now Quan laughs. “You're ten years old, man. Loosen up.” S OOrLy,- “Don’t be.” Quan shoves his fists in his pockets. It’s got- ten cooler. “Nice to meet you too, Justyce.” Quan turns on the heel of his well-worn Jordans and heads home. 1]  i ~~ ’ - ’ N => , , Ee 7 ? G0 5 =F j =I D e ‘7 ag a ‘ a is ‘ Ny ra P Dp re? * Poel if ‘ ian a 7 4 4 4 = ft, a é Pier > _ ys «> ae wig? a ee i ’ ij e "  Doomed Vernell LaQuan Banks Jr. remembers the night everything changed. He’d fallen asleep on the leather sectional in Daddy’s living room while watching Lemony Snicket’sA Series of Unfortunate Events (the movie), and was dreaming about Count Olaf—who’d gotten a tan, it seemed, and looked sus- piciously like his mama’s “boyfriend,” Dwight—falling into a pit of giant yellow snakes like the one from Montgomery Montgomery’s reptile room. Screaming bloody murder as he got sucked down into the scaly, slithery quicksand. Quan’s pretty sure he was smiling in his sleep. But then there was a BOOM that startled him so bad, he jolted awake and fell to the floor. Which wound up being a good thing. Next thing Quan knew, more police officers than he could count were pouring into the house with guns drawn. He stayed down. Hidden. Wouldn’t’ve been able to get up if he tried, he was so scared. 13  There was a commotion over his head—Daddy’s room. Lots of thumping. Bumping. A yell (Daddy’s?). Muffled shouting. Get down! Put your hands in the air— Oww, man! Not so tight, you tryna break my arm? Wham. BAM! Walls shaking. » Was the ceiling gonna fall? Then the tumult shifted to the left. He heard Daddy’s door bang against the wall, then what sounded like eight tons of giant bricks tumbling down the stairs. Slow down, man! Damn- Keep your mouth shut! Quan closed his eyes. Chill out, man! I’m not resisti- There was a sharp pain in Quan’s shoulder as his arm was suddenly wrenched in a direction he was sure it wasn’t sup- posed to go. A thick arm wrapped around his midsection so tight it squeezed all the air out of him... or maybe it all flew out because of the speed at which his body left the ground. He couldn’t even scream. Looking back, that was the scariest part. That his voice was gone. That he couldn’t cry out. That he’d lost all control of his body and surroundings and couldn’t even make a sound to let the world know he wasn't feelin’ it. It’s how he feels now as he jolts awake in his cell at the Fulton Regional Youth Detention Center, unable to breathe. 14  Quan tries to inhale. And can’t. It’s like that cop’s still got him wrapped up and is squeezing too tight. No space for his lungs to expand. Can't. Breathe. The darkness is so thick, he feels like he’s drowning in it. Maybe he is. Maybe Quan can’t draw breath because the darkness has solidified. Turned viscous, dense and sticky and heavy. That would also explain why he can’t lift his arms or swing his legs over the edge of this cotton-lined cardboard excuse for a “bed” that makes his neck and back hurt night after night. What Quan wouldn't give to be back in his queen-sized, memory foam, personal cloud with crazy soft flannel sheets in his bedroom at Daddy’s house. If he’s going to die in a bed—because he’s certainly about to die—he wishes it could be that bed instead of this one. He shuts his eyes and more pieces of that night fly at him: Daddy yelling Don't hurt my son! before being shoved out the front door. The sound of glass breaking as the unfinished cup of gin- ger ale Quan left on the counter toppled to the floor. His foot hit it as the officer with his dumb, muscly arm crushing Quan’s rib cage carried Quan through the kitchen like Quan was some kind of doll baby. The sudden freezing air as Quan was whisked outside in iis) his thin Iron Man pajamas with no shoes or jacket... and the subsequent strange warmth running down Quan’s legs when he saw Just. How. Many. Police cars. There were. Outside. Barking dogs, straining against leashes. A helicopter cir- cling overhead, its spotlight held steady on the team of men dragging Daddy toward the group of cop vehicles parked haphazardly and blocking the street. Quan had counted six when his eyes landed on the van no less than five officers were wrestling his dad into. Wrestling because Daddy kept trying to look back over his shoulder to see what was happening with Quan. He was shouting. It's gonna be okay, Junior! Get in the goddam van! It'll all be fi- One of the officers brought an elbow down on the back of Daddy’s head. Quan watched as Daddy’s whole body went limp. That’s when Quan started Screaming. Two of the officers climbed into the back of the van and dragged Daddy’s body inside the way Quan had seen Daddy drag the giant bags of sand he’d bought for the sandbox he built in the backyard when Quan was younger. 16  Kicking. Cut it out, kid! Wait... are you wet? They rolled Daddy to his back, and one of the officers knelt beside him and put two fingers up under his jaw. He nodded at the other officer, who then hopped down from the back of the van and shut the doors. Flailing. Screaming. Kicking. The taillights of the van glowed red and Quan wished everything would STOP. He was sobbing and twisting, and the officer holding him squeezed tighter and locked Quan’s arms down. As the van pulled off, Quan screamed so loud, he was sure his mama would hear him back home some twenty miles away. She would hear him and she would come and she would stop the van and she would get Daddy out and she would get Quan. All the blue-suited Dad-stealing monsters and blue-lit cars would POOF! disappear and everything would go back to normal. Better yet, Mama would bring Dwight-the-black-Olaf, and she’d toss him in the back of the van in Daddy’s place. And they’d lock him up in a snake-filled cell and throw away the key. Quan screamed until all the scream was outta him. Then he inhaled. And he screamed some more. 7,  His own voice was all he could hear until— “Hey! You put that young man down! Have you lost your ever-lovin’ mind?!” Then the officer holding him was saying Ow! Hey! And Hey! Stop that! And Ma’‘am, you are assaulting a police officer— “L said put him DOWN. Right now!” Ma’‘am, I can't- All right! All right! The grip on Quan’s body loosened. His feet touched down on the porch floor just as a wrinkled hand wrapped around his biceps and a thin arm wrapped around his lower back, a sheet of paper in hand. “You come on here with me, Junior,” a familiar voice said. Ma’‘am, he can't go with you. Until further notice, he's a ward of the state— “Like hell he is! You can call his mama to come get him, but until she arrives, he'll be staying at my house.” The woman shoved the paper into the officer’s face. “You see this? This is a legally binding document. Read it aloud.” Ma’‘am-— “T said read it aloud!” Okay, okay! 18  (The officer cut his eyes at Quan before beginning. Then sighed.) “In the event of the arrest of Vernell LaQuan Banks Sr., Mrs. Edna Pavlostathis is named temporary guardian of Vernell LaQuan Banks Jr. until...” But that was all Quan needed to hear. (Did Daddy know he would be snatched away from his son in the dead of night?) “Come on, honey,” she said, and as she ushered Quan away from the tornado of blue—lights, cars, uniforms, eyes— that’d ripped through everything he knew as normal, every- thing clicked into place. Mrs. Pavlostathis. The fireball old lady who lived next door to Daddy. “Let’s head inside and I'll go over to your dad’s to grab you some fresh clothes so you can get cleaned up. How dare those so-called officers treat you that way. The nerve of those whites—” She trailed off. Or at least Quan thinks she did. He can’t remember her saying anything else. He does remem- ber thinking that under different circumstances, that last statement would’ve made him smile. He’d known Mrs. Pavlostathis since he was seven years old—she was close to eighty and used to babysit him when Daddy had to make “emergency runs” on weekends Quan was there. Despite her skin tone, Mrs. P let everyone know she was Greek, not white. 19  She was also one of Daddy’s clients (“A little ganja’s good for my glaucoma, Junior”) and, Quan had noticed over the years, the only neighbor who didn’t look at him funny—or avoid looking at all—when Quan would play outside or when he and Daddy would drive through the neighborhood in Daddy’s BMW. It was something Mama always grumbled about when she’d drive the forty minutes out into the burbs to drop Quan off. I don’t know why your daddy wants to live way out here with all these white folks. They're gonna call the cops on his ass one day, and it'll be over... As he and Mrs. P made their way over to her house, Quan wondered if Mama’s prediction was coming true. And in that moment: he hated his mama. For saying that. Wishing the worst on Daddy. For staying with duck-ass Dwight. Putting up with his antics. For working so much. For not being there. Especially right then. ‘Tll run ya a salt bath,” Mrs. P said as they stepped into her house, and fragrant warmth wrapped around him like a hug from a fluffy incense stick with arms. “I know you’re not a little kid anymore, but it’ll do ya some good. I just made some dolmas, and there’s some of those olives you like, the ones with the creamy feta inside, in the fridge. Put some- thing in your belly. I’m sure you're starving.” 20  In truth, food was the furthest thing from Quan’s mind... but one didn’t say no to Mrs. P. So he did as he was told. He stuffed himself with Mrs. P’s world-famous (if you let her tell it) dolmas—a blend of creamy lemon-ish rice and ground lamb rolled up into a grape leaf. He ate his weight in giant feta-filled olives. And when the salt bath was ready, he stripped down and climbed into the fancy claw-foot tub in Mrs. P’s guest bath- room. Quan closed his eyes. Swirling police lights and Daddy’s collapsing body flashed behind them. Van doors shutting. Taillights disappearing. Would Daddy go to prison? For how long? What would happen now? Quan wasn’t sure he wanted to find out. So he sank. It was easy at first, holding his breath and letting the water envelop him completely. Even felt nice. But then his lungs started to burn. Images of Dasia and Gabe popped into his head. He remembered telling Gabe he’d teach him how to play Uno when he got back from Daddy’s house this time. Little dude was four now and ready to learn. Quan’s head swam. 21  Dasia would be waiting for Quan to polish her toenails purple. That was the prize he’d promised her if she aced her spelling test. And she did. His chest felt on the verge of bursting, and everything in his head was turning white. And Mama... Dwight— Air came out of Quan’s nose with so much force, he’d swear it shot him up out of the water. As his senses returned to normal, he heard water hit tile and the bathroom at Mrs. P’s house swam back into focus. He took a breath. Well, more like a breath took him. He gasped as air flooded his lungs, shoving him back from the brink of No Return. It’s the same type of breath that’s overtaking him now. Here: In his cell. And as oxygen—a little stale from the cinder block walls and laced with the tang of iron—surges down his throat and kicks the invisible weight off him, Quan knows: He won't die now just like he didn’t die then. He can breathe. 22 January 12 Dear Justyce, Look, I'm not even gonna lie: this shit is weird. | don’t write letters to my mama, but Iw writing one to you? Smnh. (Wait, can | even write that? This ain't a text message...) (See? Weird.) (You better not tell nobody | wrote this.) Anyway, | had this dream last night and when | woke up, the first thing | saw was that notebook you gave me with all the Martin Luther King letters in it. Sidenote: | really do appreciate you popping by to see ya boy before you headed back to that fancy college you 90 to. Ol’ smarty pants ass. But for real, it was 900d to see you. It, uhh... did alot for me. Gets more than a little lonely in here, and | don’t get many visitors, 0 you coming through was— well, that was real nice of you, dawg. Now back to this notebook you left. At first |thought it was wack CTHOSE” black guys, huh?), but the more | read, the more interested | got. Likeitwas a lot of shit in there about Manny—my own cousin!—that |didn’t know because | ain't really KNOW him, Know him. That was kinda wild. 23  And YOU! Man, we got way more in common than | woulda thought. It was one letter in the notebook that made me wanna write this one to you. Not sure what happened (you mentioned doing the ‘wrong thing”), but there’s a line you wrote: ‘Those assholes can’t seem to care about being offensive, So why should | give a damn about being agreeable?” | don’t know what it is, but that shit really got me. I’ve never told anybody about the night my dad got arrested. It was a couple years after you and me met in the rocket ship. | was eleven. Cops busted up in the house in the dead of night like they owned the place and just... took him. And | haven't seen him since. They gave him 25 years in prison. eee It’s only one other time in my life | ever been that scared, J. It all happened too fast for me to figure out what | could ao. | think deep down, | knew he was prolly going away for a long-ass time—I was fully aware of his “occupation,” and while | was sure the cops wouldn't find any contraband in his actual house (he was real careful about that), he dealt in more than [ust green, and the net was wide, $0 it was only a matter of ‘time. | really miss him, though. | dream about the whole scenario a lot. Did last night, in fact. And when | woke up and looked at the date? Today is the Sixth anniversary. 24  Shit hit me harder than it usually does. Probably because it also means I’ve been up in here for almost sixteen months. It’s the longest stretch I’ve ever done, and | don’t even have a trial date yet. | do my best to just cruise—not really think about where | am and what it’s actually like to be here. But today | couldu’t help but notice how bad the food is. tow heavy the giant iron doors are, and how... defeated, | guess, everyone up in here seems, even though a few of the others talk a 900d game about getting out. | keep thinking, like: What would my dad say if he could See me now? tow disappointed would he be? Yeah, what he did for a living wasn’t exactly “statutory,” as he used to say. But if there’s one thing he was hell-bent on, it was me NOT ending up like him. We talking about a dude who used to drop my ass at the library when he had to make some of his runs. (Head librarian had real bad anxiety and was one of Dad's clients so she took 900d care of me.) Don’t nobody know this, but | used to eat up the Lemony Snicket “Unfortunate Events" joints like they were Skittles. You ever read those? Them shits 90 hard. Kinda wish | had my collection here. Anyway, that was all him. Vernell LaQuan Banks Sr. tte’s the reason they tested me for Accelerated Learners and | wound up in that Challenge Math class with you. He wanted me to do 900d. To 90 far and be better. But then he was just... gone. 25  (Sorry for getting sentimental, but like | said before: you better not tell nobody | wrote all this. Or that | used to read books about little rich white kids.) That night he got arrested turned everything upside down. | knew things were about to get bad because my dad had been like the duct tape holding our raggedy shit together. He paid for a lot and gave my mom money, and he really was the reason | stayed out of trouble. The minute that van drove away with him tn it, | felt... doomed. It’s why | stopped talking to you. Everybody else too, but especially you. | woulda never admitted this (honestly don’t know why I’m admitting it now....), but |kinda looked up to you. Yeah, you were only a year older and you were dorky as hell, but you had your shit together in a way | wanted mine to be. | knew if | could just be like you, my dad would be proud of me. Seeing what you wrote in that post-whatever-the-hell- set-you-off letter...1 dunno, man. If YOU felt that way, maybe everything my dad tried to push me toward really was pointless. cy Don't really matter now anyway. I'm prolly gettin’ WAY more time than my dad did. Guess it’s whatever. | don’t even know if lmma send this. Maybe | should. You better write back, though. Cuz otherwise | ain’t never writing you another letter again. 26  Got me over here pouring my heart out and shit. Sw. (There | 90 again!) Later, Yernet tahun Banks QUAN P.S.: |know you already knew my government name, but don’t ever call me by it. P.S.S. Cor is it P.P.S.? Yo, you ever heard that song “0.P.P."? | love that song.): REMINDER—don’t tell NOBODY | wrote this! Za  Y Downhill It’s not like Quan didn’t try to keep it together at first. He really did. Yeah, he kinda withdrew into himself a little bit. Didn’t talk or interact with people as much. But that’s because he was trying to stay focused. It was the only way he knew how to cope: control what he could, ignore what he couldn’t. So for a while, he did his homework. Kept his and Gabe’s room straight—even though sharing space with a little kid meant cleaning every single day. Played Connect 4 with Dasia. Took both of them to the playground as often as possible. And even there, he was working: keeping the rocket ship cleaned out. He knew some of the stuff he found inside it suggested some not-so- playground-appropriate activities, but he did his best to make sure at least that part of the play area stayed kid-friendly. Weekends he was supposed to be at Daddy’s, he spent with his nose buried in books. No matter what else he 28 strayed to, he always returned to A Series of Unfortunate Events. Something about watching those kids escape by the skin of their teeth over and over again helped Quan keep his head above water even when everything around him seemed to be crashing down. Because everything did. Seem to be crashing down. Crashing and tumbling downhill like good ol’ Jack and Jill. Shortly after Daddy’s arrest, Dwight moved in. Which Quan figured would happen eventually: the only reason he wasn’t living with them already was because Daddy told Mama he’d stop giving her money if she let that piece of shit occupy the same space as my son. With Daddy gone, though, money was getting tight. And Olaf-ass Dwight used that to his advantage. Told Mama he’d help with the bills— But | can only do that if | don’t have my own rent to pay. (Quan overheard the whole conversation. When it was over, he climbed down from his hiding place up on the high shelf in the coat closet where Mama kept the extra bed comforters and went straight to his rocket ship, kicking the hypodermic needle he found inside it right out the entrance even though he knew a little kid might find it.) Pa)  (He used a discarded Takis bag to pick it up and put it in the trash can later.) Even at twelve, it didn’t escape Quan’s notice that the men in his mama’s life—Daddy included—used money to get her to do what they wanted her to. It bothered him no end. But he wasn’t sure what he could do about it. Which became. a running theme: not knowing what he could do about anything. So he stayed focused. Nights Dwight would come “home” smashed out of his mind—and smashing things as a result—Quan would stay focused. Mornings Quan would wake up and find Mama’s bed- room door locked, but a note from her asking him to get Dasia and Gabe “clothed and fed and on the bus” because she wasn’t “feeling too hot,” Quan stayed focused. When the light would hit Mama’s face just right and he’d see the bruises beneath her caked-on makeup, Quan stayed focused. And it paid off Mama might’ve been a mess, but Dasia and Gabe were just fine. Despite their daddy being a human garbage disposal, they laughed and smiled and were doing good in school... All because Quan stayed focused. Quan was also kicking academic ass and taking names. Because despite Daddy’s absence, Quan was determined (maybe now even more determined) to make the old man 30 proud. Become the upstanding dude Daddy wanted him to be. Quan even considered going out for football once he hit ninth grade. Daddy had played in high school and even been offered a scholarship to college, but then Mama got pregnant and Vernell Sr. decided to stick around, take care of the son he’d helped create. Unlike my dad did, he told Quan once. What better way to pay Daddy back than to achieve the dream Daddy didn’t get to live—because of Quan? So Quan stayed focused. Then there was The Math Test. It'd been a little over a year since Dad’s arrest. Quan was the only seventh grader in the Algebra I Challenge Math class, and he’ll admit: the shit really was a challenge. He was averaging high Bs but was determined to do better. A week before The Math Test, Ms. Mays, Quan’s favorite teacher on earth, went on maternity leave. (Quan still hasn’t forgiven that damn baby for taking her away at such a criti- cal point in his life.) Before she left, she held Quan after class one day and told him how much she believed in him. That she couldn’t wait to hear how well he did on the upcoming test. She knew he’d been struggling with the material, but, “I know you aren’t gonna let this stuff get the best of you. You, Quan Banks, are gonna show those letters and numbers who’s boss, am I right?” And she smiled. cul  Even though it made him feel like a little-ass kid, Quan nodded. Because with her looking at him that way, like he could do anything, Quan wanted to prove her right. It was the same way Daddy looked at Quan when Quan showed him that 100 percent he got on his contraction test in first grade. Quan missed his dad. Quan wanted to—had to—ace that damn algebra test. So he studied. Hard. Harder than he’d ever studied for anything in his life. And you know what happened? 98%. Quan almost lost his twelve-year-old MIND, he was so excited. He floated through the rest of the day. Anticipating the moment he would show the test to Mama. The pride that would overtake her face. He’d show it to Dasia and Gabe and tell them it represented what could happen if they worked real hard and did their very best. Then he’d write Daddy a letter and he’d put it—with the test—in an envelope and he’d mail it to the address Daddy’s lawyer gave Mama when he dropped by a few nights ago. Yeah, the impromptu visit had really set Dwight off— Your punk-ass son is enough of a reminder— tell that nigga’s attorney not to come by here no more! 32  —but getting to send The Math Test to Daddy would make it all worth it. As soon as Quan was off the bus, he broke into a sprint. Wanted to get home as fast as possible. He knew Mama would be home. She didn’t leave the house when her body carried visible evidence of Dwight’s “anger issues,” and when Quan had left that morning, her wrist was in a brace and she could barely open her hand. The test would lift her spirits too. Quan was sure of it. She’d see what he’d accomplished, and it would give her hope that things could get better. That he’d eventually be able to take care of her and Dasia and Gabe. When he walked in the door, she was waiting for him. “Ma, you'll never believe it—” “You damn right I won't!” The tiniest hole appeared in Quan’s joy balloon as his mind kicked into gear, trying to figure out what she could be upset about. Had he left the bathroom light on again? He sometimes accidentally did that on mornings he had to get his siblings and himself ready for school and out the door on time. Their bus came thirteen minutes before his, so it was a lot to do. But he remembered turning it off. He hadn’t put the milk in the fridge door—Dwight hated when he did that. And he’d made sure all of his socks were in the laundry basket. 33  So what could it be? “I’m so disappointed in you, Junior,” Mama continued, furious. “What do you have to say for yourself? Did you think they wouldn’t call me?” “Mama, I don’t—” “You had an algebra test. yesterday, yes? Got it back today?” Things were looking up! Quan straightened. “Yes, ma’am, I did, and I—” “Cheated!” The word was like a sucker punch. “Huh??” “You heard me! Your teacher called. Told me you cheated on the test!” “I didn’t cheat, Ma!” “Don’t give me that BS, Junior! The man told me he saw you looking on a classmate’s paper!” Which... Quan couldn’t deny. There was a point when he’d looked up and seen the brawny, neckless white man who looked more familiar with loaded-down barbells than linear inequalities glaring at him. But the sub had it all wrong. Said classmate was actually trying to cheat off Quan. He was an eighth-grade dude named Antwan Taylor. Bruh flat out whispered to ask Quan what answer he’d gotten for number six and then turned his paper so Quan could see the (wrong) answer Antwan had written. “T really didn’t cheat, Ma! I promise you!” “Lemme see the test,” she said. 34  Quan removed it from his bag. Held it out to her. “Ninety-eight percent, huh?” She looked him right in the eye. “You really expect me to believe you didn’t cheat, LaQuan?” Quan couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Are you serious?” “You ain’t never brought nothin’ higher than an eighty- seven percent up in here. I’m supposed to buy this sudden improvement hook, line and sinker, huh?” “Tl studied—” “Yeah. Your neighbor’s paper.” “The MATERIAL, Ma! I studied the MATERIAL!” “They gave you two days of in-school suspension. And you have to retake the test.” “But I didn’t cheat, Ma!” “Yeah, and my ass ‘fell down the stairs.’” She held up her injured arm, and all Quan’s other rebuttals got snatched right out of his throat. His mouth snapped shut. Jaw clenched to keep it that way. “If I ever hear about you cheating again, you can forget about this football shit you been on recently. Your ass will be on lockdown, you hear me?” Quan’s teeth ground into each other so hard, he won- dered if they would break.. “I said DO YOU HEAR ME, LaQuan?” Quan gulped. “Yes, ma’am.” Gio)  “Get your ass outta my face and go ‘study’ for real this time.” Quan turned to head to his room, but her next words were like being shot with arrows from behind: “And best believe your father is gonna hear about this. Might even send him the evidence of your indiscretion.” Quan could hear the paper crinkle as she surely held it up in the air. “Cheating. | can’t even believe you—” And that was all he heard. Because in that moment everything crystallized for Vernell LaQuan Banks Jr. It didn’t matter what he did. Staying focused didn’t give Quan any control at all. 36 Snapshot: One Boy Alone ina Library (2012) The discovery that his favorite librarian is no longer at the branch—that she retired—is what pushes Quan over the edge. His last (relatively) safe-place gone. And he knows it’s gone because the lady now standing behind the main desk frowned at him when he came in, and a different lady has walked past the castle nook in the children’s section where he’s balled up with Unfortunate Events #13— The End—three times since he started chapter four. And like... why? She think he’s gonna steal damn li- brary books? Stuff ’em in ziplock baggies and sell ’em outta his middle school locker for $10 a pop or something? Get your dime-bag literature here! He turns a page. This isn’t a welcoming place. Not anymore. It sucks. He closes the book and grabs his backpack. Walks out without a backward glance. If nothing else, now they have a reason to give him dirty looks: He left the book on the floor instead of putting it on the reshelving cart. oo February 8 Dear Justyce, First: yo, thanks for them graphic novel joints you Sent. Them things have made me the coolest dude on the (cell)block. Everybody is especially into the black girl lron Man ones. Aha the black Batman and black Robin one ts also a hit. | got your other “gift” as well. Bruh, what kinda dude sends a whole-ass teacher to his incarcerated homie like it’s a box of commissary snacks? You clearly need to be president. Anyway, | do have to admit: your boy Dr. Dray—“Doc,” he said you Call him (and | call him now too)—is pretty dope. He got on my nerves a little bit the first few times he came, asking all them dawn questions and making me think about shit | didn’t really want to. (Who the hell wants to sit around pondering all the ways this wack-ass country “is currently failing to uphold the standards set forth in its foundational documents’? That was a for-real question on one of the homework sheets!) But then today he noticed your Martin notebook in my Stack of stuff, and he started smiling. That's when he told me the truth: he'd been you and Manny’s teacher, and you talked to him about me. About my other tutor deciding to guilt on me. | was mad at first knowing you told homeboy something | shared with you in confidence. But then | started really thinking about it, and | decided to write this letter. To thank you. 40  Well, partially to thank you. The other part has to do with something Doc and | talked about in our Class session today (and the fact that he said | should write to you about it). Last time he was here, Doc brought this book for me to read. Native Son, it’s Called, and it’s about this black dude who accidentally kills this white girl and then shoves her dead body in a furnace and starts a whole plot to try and blame her white boyfriend (shit's brutal, but roll with me). When he gets found out, he runs and tells tls girl, but then panics and winds up killing her too. They catch him, of course, and he’s eventually convicted of murder and sentenced to death. (Bloop! SPOILER ALERT!) But the wildest part was even though it’s set in like the 1930s or something, | really felt like | was reading a book about NOW. Dude had all these obstacles he couldn't seem to get past no matter how hard he tried, and it was almost as though falling into the life of crime everybody expected from him was (sorta) unavoidable? | know it probably sounds crazy to an upstanding young gentleman such as yourself, but for real: based on the systems in place—the “institutions of oppression,” as my former mentor, Martel, would say— homie’s situation and how he ended up kinda seemed like destiny. (Don’t tell nobody | used the word “destiny.”) As | was telling Doc today, | could relate for real. | look back at my life, and though people like my wack-ass 4] ex-counselor think I'm making excuses, | can’t really see where | could’ve just ‘made different choices.” It’s not like | didn’t try. |remember this one time a teacher accused me of cheating because | got a 900d grade ona test. And my mama believed HIM. | know | also told you about that one prosecutor who called me a “career criminal” the second time | got arrested. I'd stolen one of this white dude’s TWO phones. And only because | hoped to sell it so | could get my brother and sister some new shoes for school. | reread your response to my very first letter where you admitted to busting up on some white boys at a party, and it made me wonder if that felt inevitable to you. | flipped back through the Martin journal, and there was even a reference to my CUZZO, may he rest in peace, using his fists at one point. Were these “incidents” bound to happen? Anyway, | told Doc ali this, and he goes, “tum,” and rubbed his beardy chin all scholarly-like. Then he says, “So considering all that, would you say Bigger Thomas" (that’s bruh from the book) “is a killer?” ‘mean, he definitely did some killing,” | said, mulling it over, “but ‘killer’ just sounds so... malintentioned. Like it’s something dude decided to do after giving it some serious thought.” Then he got me, J. Locked me in with them weird green-ass eyes and said: “What about you, Quan? Are YOU a killer?” Thing is, | couldn't really answer. Part of me wanted to 42 flat out say “Wo, 'm not,” but there was still this other voice saying “What if you are, LaQuan? What if it’s inevitable?” And of course “inevitability” isn’t an excuse, and the consequences are (obviously) still the consequences, but | dunno. In a weird way, the whole shit makes me feel kinda better about my situation and Now | got in it. But it also makes me wonder: ttow did YOU do it, Justyce? | still remember when we met in that rocket ship (MY rocket ship that YOU invaded, by the way). We'd both left our houses after the streetlights were on because of stuff going on with our mamas. We grew up th the Same area. Went to the Same elementary and middle school. Even had a Class or two together. Whyd we turn out so different? Was it “pure choice" like that counselor would say? These questions are probably pointless now, but that’s what's been going through my head. lama get back to this World of Wakanda joint you sent. Ill tell you one thing that’s inevitable: pretty sure Ayo and Aneka are gonna hook up. Looking forward to your next letter. (But you better not tell anybody | said that.) Holler back at me, Quan 43  3 Disrespect Quan was hungry the First Time he did it. So were Dasia and Gabe. It'd been a good year and a half since Dwight moved in, and Mama hadn’t worked in four of those months. She said she’d been laid off, but Quan wasn’t stupid. He knew one could only take so many “sick days” before a company de- cided to tell them to take off permanently. In addition to taking his frustrations out on Mama, the COAN had started withholding access to money in response to “disrespect.” (That’s Count Olaf-Ass Negro, a name Quan secretly took to calling Dwight.) Anything could qualify: disagreeing with him in any way (this was the offense Mama was most often guilty of); moving something from where he’d left it (Quan’s cardinal sin—which he couldn’t seem to help after years of Mama drilling that “everything has a place” and “if you take it out, put it back!”); even failing to step over the groaning spot in the living room floor when he was watching TV. 44  Quan hated Dwight with every ounce of his being. And Quan couldn’t just take Dasia and Gabe and leave the house anymore: Dwight suddenly decided he didn’t want my damn kids spending too much time with Delinquent Junior. (Clearly Quan wasn’t the only one in the house capable of negative nicknaming.) Of course, if Quan disappeared by himself for too long, Dwight also felt disrespected. Which is how everything that led up to that First Time got started. Mama had applied for assistance (she always said the word like she was trying not to gag on it as it left her throat), and they got a special debit card they could use at grocery stores—EBT, it was called. Electronic Benefits Transfer. Appar- ently back in the day, the system involved actual slips of money-sized paper everyone referred to as food stamps. But she made the mistake of sending Dwight to the store with the card on one of the days she was incapacitated. And he’d refused to give it back. It was probably the Olaf-est thing he’d ever done at that point. He was controlling. Conniving. And based on some- thing Quan overheard Dwight say that day— | know you know where that son of a bitch was keepin’ all his shit! —Quan was convinced Dwight thought Mama had ac- cess to some treasure trove Gicash and jewels that belonged to Daddy. 45  He needed a break, Quan did. From the shiver of unease that permeated the whole house like some awful supersonic vibration. From Dasia’s newfound grown-ness to Gabe’s in- sistence on being a baby brother-barnacle, gluing himself to Quan’s side as often as possible. From Mama’s anger-cloaked weariness. From Dwight’s... existence. So he told Mama—who for the first time in weeks wasn’t actively healing from a COAN encounter—that he was going out. And he headed to his former favorite playground place. Stepping over the latest evidence of unsavory activity inside his rocket ship (at least there wouldn’t be any ba- bies or diseases?), Quan climbed up to the observation deck. Largely to hide himself from anyone who might take issue with/make fun of an almost-thirteen-year-old hanging out in the grounded space vessel. But once he got up there, Quan relaxed so much, he fell asleep. And by the time he woke up— the sun had gone down. It was a cloudy night, so the streetlights—the ones that worked anyway—were his only source of illumination as he 46 sprinted home. He wished they would all go out. That he could run straight into a darkness so thick and complete, it would swallow him whole. Dwight wasn’t there when Quan arrived. But it didn’t matter: the damage was already done. Mama was on the couch, eyes glued to the television... which would’ve been unremarkable if not for the busted and puffy left side of her mouth and the fact that her left arm was cradled in her lap like she maybe couldn’t ‘se 1 Quan stopped a good distance away from her. He couldn’t figure out what to think or how to feel. “Ma?” She didn’t respond. Didn’t even shift her eyes away from the TV. Quan dropped his own eyes. “Ma, I’m sorry. I fell asleep on the playground.” Nothing. Quan sighed and forced his feet to carry him to his bed- room, where he knew he was gonna find something that would morph the guilt hanging over his head into some- thing solid that would drop down onto his shoulders like a cape made of lead. And he was right. His siblings were in his closet. Dasia was cradling Gabe, who'd fallen asleep. She wasn’t 47 crying, but not three seconds after Quan pulled the door open, Gabe’s body shuddered with an aftershock from what Quan could only assume was quite the sob session. “Great, I can go to my room now,” Dasia said, rolling her eyes as she shifted Gabe off her so she could get up. Quan knew there was no point in asking her if she was okay. He knew all that attitude was her porcupine skin. Her way of letting people know they needed to back the hell up. She shoved into his ribs in passing with her bony eight- year-old shoulder, and he took it. Absorbed that bit of her anger and let it throb without making a sound. He knew if he spat out the I'm sorry turning sour in his mouth, she would suck her teeth and say something like Don't nobody need your wack-ass apology, and right then, there was no way Quan could’ve dealt with how grown-up she was. So he scooped Gabe up—little dude’s body shook with another post-cry series of rapid-fire sniffles—carried him to his bed, and climbed in with him. Dwight stayed gone for over a week. Under normal circumstances, this would’ve made Quan the happiest dude maybe on all of earth. 48  But the COAN had taken the EBT card with him. He’d also somehow found the minor cash stash Mama kept in one of the shoeboxes on the top shelf of her closet. There'd been a note in its place: Oh, so now you keepin shit from me? We gon see about that. First few days, they were okay. They had Hawaiian rolls. Half a dozen eggs. Quarter jar of peanut butter. Two TV din- ners and three pot pies in the freezer. Day four, it got tight. Day five, Dasia and Gabe split the final pot pie. (Quan didn’t eat.) Gabe complained that he was still hungry, so Quan gave him the slice of crap pizza he’d smuggled from school. (Quan stayed hungry.) Day six, Quan smuggled home two slices. And after getting Gabe in bed—Dasia plopped down on the couch, turned the TV on, and crossed her arms when Quan said it was time for bed (She was still hungry.)—Quan left the house. He walked six minutes to a corner store he knew was owned by an elderly man who lived in the neighborhood. He'd been there a bunch of times, sent by Mama with $10 in his pocket to grab some milk or hot dogs or jelly when they were on the verge of running out. 49  Wasn’t no money in his pocket now, but he went in anyway. The old man smiled and waved at Quan as he entered. Then he excused himself and went to the bathroom. Leaving the store wide open to Quan. Trusting him. As soon as the door to the storage room shut behind the old man, Quan gulped. He looked left. He looked right. Then he grabbed a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut but- ter, and he walked out of the store. His First Time. Stealing. Dasia cried as she bit into the peanut butter sandwich Quan handed her after waking her up. She’d fallen asleep in front of the TV. Arms still crossed. Day seven, the COAN came back. With groceries. 50 Snapshot: Two Boys Not Speaking (2013) BS 4 ‘S a = me u > It’s not that Quan doesn’t like his cousin Emmanuel. He just don’t know what the hell to say to the dude. They occupy different universes, the boys do. Despite being blood. Emmanuel’s—excuse him: Manny’s—mama is Quan’s mama's older half-sister. From what Quan under- stands, the two women didn’t grow up together. His grand- father was apparently a bit of a “rolling stone,” as Quan’s mama put it, and she, Trish, was the product of one of said rolls into a different flower bed. Granddad stayed with his original family, aka “Aunt Tiff” (Quan’s never called her that. He’s never called her any- thing.) and her mom. Tiff hadn’t even known Mama—Trish—existed until Mama’s—Trish’s—mama died and Tiff/Trish’s shared daddy had a crisis of conscience and spilled the beans. There was one time Mama had one glass of wine too many, and Tiff called to “check in.” As soon as Mama hung up, she looked at Quan and said, “You ever wonder if my ‘big sis’”—she’d used air quotes and everything—“only keeps in touch cuz she feels guilty about the fact that she had a daddy growing up, and I didn’t?” Quan didn’t answer. He was eight at the time and had just returned from a weekend at his daddy’s house. 53  Anyway. Manny. All Quan really knows is Manny’s a year older and they have nothing in common. They accidentally made eye contact once. Quan looked away faster than the speed of light. He’s looked everywhere but at Manny since the two boys and their mamas took their seats around the table at this fancy-ass restaurant. Quan knows the place is mad fancy cuz the entire back wall where they’re sitting is made of glass and he can see the smooth surface of a river just beyond it. Shit is always fancy if it’s on a river. “You really don’t have to cover us, Tiffany,” Mama says. “Nonsense,” comes the reply. Aunt Tiff flicks the thought away like some irking insect, and the light catches on the boulder in her diamond ring. Rings. Cuz there’s more than one. “I haven’t seen you in forever, baby sis,” Tiff continues. “Lunch is the least I can do.” And it truly is. The least. Quan knows Aunt Tiff and her husband got mega money. That they live out in Oak Ridge, which everybody knows is the most expensive part of Atlanta. That his cousin-he- don’t-have-nothin’-to-say-to climbed out the passenger side of a Jag that surely has booty-warmers in the seats. 54  What would Manny say if he knew Mama’s comment about Tiff not covering them was for show? They barely had food at home, so there’s no way in Quan’s universe they could afford to eat at this river restaurant. Would big ballin’ cuzzo bug out if he knew the real rea- son Mama’s wearing a long-sleeved, turtleneck dress that goes down to her ankles when it’s eighty-three degrees out- side? Quan knows Manny’s dad is some financial investment big shot. Does Manny know Quan’s daddy is locked up? Quan is sure Manny’s eyes would go all big if he knew Quan sometimes stole stuff. That Manny’s butt would clench up and all the moisture would leave his mouth (with them white-ass, straight-ass, perfect-ass teeth) if he knew that the moment Quan saw the ice on “Aunt Tiff’s” fingers and wrists, his mind started calculating. Running through all the stuff he could afford for himself and his siblings with just one of her rings. Quan has never stolen jewelry or any- thing with value like that before, but still. Different universes. The food arrives: sweet potato fries and a lamb burger for Quan (without the fig jam and goat cheese that were sup- posed to be on it, because what even is that shit and why would anyone put it on a burger?). Asparagus (gross), some creamy white stuff that ain’t mashed potatoes, and a hunk of pink fish with the silvery skin still on top for Manny. 3D  Salmon, Quan remembers. Because Manny ordered it without even looking at the menu. This clearly isn’t Manny’s first time at the river restau- rant. But Quan’s 98 percent sure it’ll be his (Quan’s) last. Quan sighs. Manny does too. But they don’t see each other. And they certainly don’t speak. 56  L Defiance The only other time in his life Quan felt fear as mind- numbing as the night they took Daddy? His own first arrest. The whole thing was so ridiculous. He was thirteen. Eighth grade. (Which he barely made it into. Looking back, it’s wild to Quan how drastically shit had changed inside him.) On this particular day, he was just... mad. It got like that sometimes. Nothing had to happen—or trigger, as Doc says when Quan slips up and starts talking about his feelings. There were just days, moments, when rage would overtake him and his vision would literally go white at the edges. Quan wasn’t a violent dude. Yeah, he’d been in a fight here and there, especially when kids would talk shit about Daddy being locked up. But he wasn’t one to explode: screamin’ and cussin’, hulkin’ out, flippin’ tables, throwin’ chairs and swingin’ on teachers like this one dude in his 57 class, DeMarcus, who got expelled a month before Quan’s (dumb) arrest. No. That wasn’t Quan. Instead—he stole. Never anything major. Some days he’d swipe a pencil from a classmate’s desk or grab one of the markers from the metal tray beneath the crusty old dry-erase board. He’d tail a mom and kid into Rite Aid just close enough for it to look like he was with them, then he’d slip off and pocket a tin of Altoids or a fresh tube of Burt’s Bees lip balm. He’d get the double tingle with that one... one in his fingertips as he made the grab, and another on his lips once he applied the stuff. Magic. On THE day, he was particularly furious. His eyes burned with it, and his ears rang, and for hours, he’d had the taste of metal in his mouth. The convenience store he walked into wasn’t new, but it’d been remodeled. There were flashy new gas pumps—they had diesel now—and a bright new sign. The storefront had new windows and doors Quan was sure were bulletproof, and on the inside, the back wall was inset with new slushy (twelve flavors), soda, juice, and coff-uccin-cciato machines. Real shiny. While the snack aisle was tempting, Quan found himself drawn to an end-of-the-aisle display filled with... novelties is the only way to describe it. There were something called Pez, which looked like weird toys but apparently involved candy. 58 There were bags of variously colored marbles. There were packages of dice and oddly shaped lighters. There was even some... paraphernalia. Brightly colored glass pipes and bowls. What caught Quan’s eye? A deck of playing cards. To this day, he has no idea why. There was nothing special about them. There were three or four full decks at home, so it’s not like he was getting anything he didn’t have. He just knows they called to him. Beckoned. His finger- tips got to tingling. He checked all around to make sure no one was looking— outside of an older woman buying cigarettes and a baby- toting mom grabbing a Sprite, he was the only one in the store. Then he grabbed a pack of the cards and slipped them into his pocket. He thought he was in the clear, Quan did. He even popped into the bathroom to make it look like his reason for being in the building was a need to pee. But on his way out, the brown-skinned (but definitely not black) clerk stopped him. ‘Young man..2.z' And Quan turned. “Don’t move any further,” the dude said. “I’m calling the police.” He had his hands on the counter. One of them around the handle of a gun. Bo He never pointed the pistol at Quan. Just kept it where Quan could see it. What Quan hadn’t realized—and felt stupid about later: the fancy remodel came with a fancy security system. One with cameras. So the clerk could watch just about everything happening in the store on a screen behind the (definitely bulletproof) glassed-in checkout area. He saw Quan pocket the cards. Which... was it that big of a deal? They were $2.99. He could put ’em back, promise to leave and never return, and be on his way. Did dude really have to call the damn cops over a deck of Bicycle playing cards? That can’t-do-shit rage expanded in Quan’s chest and pushed up into his throat, but he couldn’t get his mouth open to let it out, so it whistled up past his ears and tried to make its escape through the inside corners of his eyes. But he wasn’t about to let himself cry. Not with a dude mad over three-dollar cards staring him down like he’d busted in with a mask and a Glock and tried to rob the place. “Hey, man, can we just forget this? I don’t even need the cards, I can put them ba—” 60  But then the bell connected to the door chimed, and in stepped a police officer who looked like someone had stuck a bicycle-pump tube in his rear and pump pump pumped him up. Perhaps even using the air that had been in Quan’s lungs: he suddenly didn’t have any left. He locked eyes with the cop, and the Bad (Dad) Night washed over him, and his chest locked up the way it had when kid-snatcher cop had Quan’s scrawny eleven-year-old torso wrapped in that death grip. Wasn’t the best time for it either. Swole Cop took Quan’s inability to answer questions— We got a problem here, son? You hear me talkin’ to you? So you're a tough guy then? Not gonna answer my questions? —as an act of defiance. Quan found air the moment Swole Cop’s ham-ish hand locked around Quan’s (still scrawny) upper arm in a death grip. Sucked that air in with gusto as he gasped from the sud- den burst of pain.. And then he let it out. “OWW!” 61  “So now you can speak?” He jerked Quan around and snatched him out of the store with more force than necessary considering Quan wasn’t resisting in the least. He was too scared. He blinked and saw Daddy’s body go limp. When they reached the squad car, the guy shoved Quan against it and yanked his hands behind his back. Then dude put Quan in handcuffs. And for the second time since pre-k, Quan wet his pants. Swole Cop spun him around. And noticed. “Did you just piss yourself?” The tears started then. What would Mama say? Was there a way to keep Dwight from finding out Quan got himself arrested? He’d certainly see this as “disrespect.” What would Dasia think? She definitely had opinions now—and would certainly share hers with Quan when she found out about this. And then there was Gabe. Despite having way fewer damns to give than in the past, this wasn’t exactly the ex- ample Quan wanted to set for his baby bro... “Whatcha cryin’ for, huh?” Swole Cop spat. “Not so tough now, are ya? You delinquents strut around like you own the goddamn world—” “It was just a deck of cards!” 62  “Deck of cards today, some lady’s purse tomorrow. Get your ass in the car.” And he opened the back door and pushed Quan in. Two hours, Quan was at the precinct. Alone. In a room with a table and two chairs and a mirror he was pretty sure was a window from the other side—he’d watched plenty of Law & Order: SVU. The cuffs had been undone for all of fifteen seconds so they could take his backpack off, but then Swole Cop just cuffed him in the front. Led him to the sterile-ass space, plopped him in a chair, and left the room. Nothing but his churning thoughts, gnawing fear, and growing rage to keep him company. How had he even gotten there? What was he supposed to do? Was anybody coming for him? Would he go to jail? Would that mean arraignment-indictment-plea-trial-verdict- sentencing... all the stuff Daddy had to go through? It was a deck of cards. Cards. Fifty-four. Stacked. Against him. Four suits. Two jokers. 63  Joke... was on him. What was he supposed to do?... good in school got him a cheating accusation and in-school suspension. _.. his very best wasn’t ever good enough. _.. what he could felt as limited as his hands did in the cuffs. What Was Quan Supposed To Do? Mama wasn’t gonna get rid of Dwight no matter how often he hurt her (though Quan didn’t get WHY), but Quan knew telling somebody else would not only hurt her, but him and Dasia and Gabe too. Because they’d get taken away. Split up for sure. Both of Mama’s folks were gone, so Quan would prob- ably go to some random relative of Daddy’s he’d never met (since Daddy’s folks were also deceased). No clue what would happen with Dasia and Gabe. Quan wasn’t sure Dwight actually had parents—seemed more likely he was the spawn of demons or the result of some test 64 tube experiment gone wrong—so whether there were fam- ily members they could go to on their dad’s side, he didn’t know. Only shared living relative Quan could think of was “Aunt” Tiff, and though she seemed nice, he doubted she’d want to open her nice-ass house to three little hood kids (though he didn’t doubt she had the spare rooms). He was sure his salmon-on-a-river-eating cousin didn’t want any- thing to do with the likes of him. And wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. About any of it. He was in a police station. In handcuffs. Arrested. The deck of cards he slid into a pocket sealing his fate. “Delinquent Junior,” Dwight had been calling him for years. Was that who he was for real? There was no denying the impulse to take what wasn’t his. Was the D in his DNA for delinquent? The Jr. shorthand of “Junior” for just repeating? Maybe Daddy had been wrong. Ms. Mays too. There was no way out. No way up. Maybe a way through.. _but he had no idea what to. Could he really be anyone different than who he was? Who even was he? 65  The door to the room opened, and an officer in slacks and a button-down, badge clipped to his belt, stood aside so a brown-skinned woman wearing dark sunglasses could lean her upper body into the room. “Let’s go” was all Mama said. And as she and Quan stood waiting for a cop who clearly was in no rush to retrieve Quan’s meager-ass belongings, the doors to the lobby opened, and a commotion ensued. There was shouting— “Man, get your filthy hands OFF me. | ain’t even do nothin’!” —then feet shuffling and a bit of a struggle as two cops pulled a darker-than-Mama brown-skinned boy into the booking area. He wasn’t quite kicking and screaming, but— “Y'all always be comin’ at me! Tryna pin some shit on me!” “Let’s go, LaQuan.” (From Mama.) “Get on my damn nerves!” That’s when the boy—because he was definitely a boy; maybe a year or two Quan’s senior: age fifteen at most— caught sight of Quan. And smiled. “Hey, | know you!” he shouted across the space. And he did. Quan knew him too. Well, knew of him. 66  Quan wasn’t completely sure of his name—either Dre or Trey—but he’d definitely seen him around the neighbor- hood. One particular instance came to mind: one of the last times Quan was permitted to take Dasia and Gabe to the playground, he’d seen one guy—definitely older—duck out of the rocket ship with a black book bag slung over his shoulder. Quan could see inside then, and there was another guy counting money. A boy. He’d looked up, and Quan froze. Money-counting boy had just smirked. Like he was the new captain of Quan’s spaceship. Same way he was now smirking at Quan in the precinct. “See you on the outside, homie,” he said. Then he quit resisting the cops and disappeared. 67 March 12 Dear Justyce, Bruh. | think | might be in love. Her name is Liberty Ayers. Gorgeous, long dreadlocks. Eves $0 dark theyre almost black. Skin the color of a roasted hazelnut. (But don’t tell her | said that shit cuz when | mentioned it to her—and you know your boy mentioned it to her—she looked me dead in my eye and said, “You're childish. Women don't like being compared to food.”) I'm not gonna talk about her body cuz she caught me checkin’ her out and “read me the riot act,” as Doc said later when | told him how homegirl lit into me. But |will say, if |WAS gouna talk about it, I'd be saying some excellent things. | can’t ask her to marry me yet because she’s my case manager's intern, so it would create a “conflict of interests.” (Again: Doc’s words.) But talking to her makes me wonder how different my life coulda been if I'd met somebody like HER instead of Trey at thirteen. She’s his Same age—nineteen going on twenty—and a sophomore at Emory University. Now. When she was younger, though? tomegirl was a menace. 68  And her story... Looking at her, you would never expect it. She was raised by her granddadaly cuz both parents were locked up, but he had real bad diabetes and was wheelchair- bound, so she did more taking care of him than the other way around. Actually messed me up a little bit hearing her talk about her younger self because she sounded a lot like my baby Sister. Anyway, Libz (you ain't allowed to call her that, though) Started getting into fights and shit in third or fourth grade. First time locked up, she was twelve... fight went too far and she broke some girl’s arm (BRUH!). Second time was for second-degree criminal damage to property. Third time? Grand theft auto. At fourteen. (BRUVOUUUE! |!) But she said something that got me: the twelve months she had to serve for that final offense were some of the hardest but BEST mouths of her life. She lost her granddad and everything, but she said even THAT made her wanna make some changes. And all because she met someone who wouldn't let her “continue to bury my bright spots,” as she put it. (She got away with words too, dawg. Total package.) Now while I'm not buying all the happy-happy-joy, *meet- one-person-and-turn-your-life-around|* bullshit, it got me thinking about my own Situation. | do think me wihding up 69 in here was inevitable, but now | can’t stop pondering, if you will, all these what-ifs. Did you know the first time Trey and | ever spoke, we were at the police station? tte was being booked, and | was being released. STILL mad about the dumb shit they arrested me for, but he was there because of a breaking and entering charge. After he was let 90-—because in that case, he hadn't actually done it—he sought me out. And even though | knew his ass was trouble, | started kicking it with him. Going wherever he asked me To. Listening to Liberty talk, | feel like | started to get why. She was telling me how HER case manager—the one who helped her make a turnaround—taught her that people have this drive to do stuff so other people know we exist. (Bet you forgot a dudie was smart, didn’t you? #G4otEem!) it really made me think about the years between being a KID kid—like that age when you and me met—and a for-real growh-ass man (even though when you black, SOME folks wanna act like you're a grown-ass man before you actually are). tow when you're in that like middle to high school range, the people you're connected to REALLY influence what you wihd up doing. After my dad got locked up, | aint really have no positive connections—nobody who was a 900d influence or who called out Some 900d they saw inside me. Honestly, except for ONE teacher—who just had to 90 and have a baby—wasn't nobody 70 paying me no mind AT ALL, let alone saying anything positive or uplifting or encouraging or pick your feel-good term. Which | think is where Trey came in for me. Nah, he wasn’t no good influence, but he did... see me. If that makes any sense. Libz’s life shifted to its current direction because somebody saw HER and like noticed the GOOD shit in her. Started pointing it out. 4 positive connection, she called it. Which makes me wonder: Would MY life Nave gone ina different direction if I'd made more positive connections? Cuz Trey was really just the first in a string of NOT-positive connections that led to some not-9great decisions. Don’t make no difference now because here | am. But ‘food for thought" (#ShitDocSays) nonetheless. Yo, speaking of Doc, homie has really grown on me. It’s too bad | didn’t meet him sooner. —R 7\  5 EE EATS TIE TE ELIE Delinquent Trey was waiting for Quan inside the rocket ship. How he’d known Quan would eventually come there is still a mystery to Quan, but three days after their brief encounter at the precinct—if you could even call it that— Quan stepped onto the playground intending to vanish into his personal outer space and found Montrey David Filly. Sitting. Back pressed up against the curved inner wall. Long legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles. Hands clasped over his midsection. Chillin’. Quan stopped dead the moment he saw Trey in there. He was still a good few yards from the rocket. Which didn’t matter at all. “Took you long enough,” the older boy quipped, smile he slanted. A wicked glint in his eye. “I been comin’ here every day.” Which gave Quan pause... but also made him feel kinda good? “You were looking for me?” Trey rolled his eyes. “Man, get your little ass in here,” he said. And Quan went. Trey couldn’t have known it (or maybe he could’ve?), but in that moment, Quan didn’t actually want to be alone. He needed a friend. Someone who cared. Because from the moment Mama and Quan had stepped out of the fluorescent-lit law-and-order lair into the crisp Georgia evening, it was crystal clear to Quan that she no longer did. For the first ten of the fifteen-minute bus ride home, they hadn’t exchanged a single word. In fact, Quan won- dered if it looked like they were even together. He’d been his mother’s son for thirteen years and knew when her re- fusal to look at him was rooted in anger. That felt like sitting next to a dragon whose hide was radiating heat because it was fighting hard to keep the fire in. This, though? It’d been like he wasn’t even there. There was no heat of motherly fury. No fire at all. There was... ice. 73  And it got colder and colder—the void growing larger and larger—the closer they got to home. When the bus took the turn before the turn before their stop, Quan had literally shivered. Little hairs on his arms raised up and everything. “Mama, I’m sorry,” he’d said, eyes fixed on what looked like a wad of gum so stomped into the grooved floor, it’d become a part of it. She’d reached up and pulled the stop-cord that wrapped around the interior of the bus. “That’s what your father used to say.” Then she’d stood up and walked to the rear exit door. That’s how things continued over the next few days. Dwight had vanished again (though Quan was sure he’d come back eventually) so it was more peaceful around the house... but Mama wouldn’t even look in his direction. She wouldn’t speak unless spoken to, and then only with short, emotionless responses— Yeah. Nope. Dunno. and then Quan’s least favorite: I don’t care, LaQuan. Dasia followed her lead. Gabe still loved Quan, but he Was also afraid. Of what, Quan didn’t know, but the fact that the little dude would check to see if Mama or Dasia was around before interacting 74 with his big bro felt like a stab straight to the heart with a Lego sword. Quan was utterly and completely alone. (Over a deck of damn cards.) “You not gone cry, are you?” Trey asked as Quan sat down beside him, more than ready to blast off into oblivion. Quan dropped his eyes and shook his head. “Nah.” “It’s cool if you do,” Trey said. “I ain’t gone tell nobody—” And he shrugged. “—] cried after my first arrest.” Quan sniffled then. And hated himself for it. “T get it, li'l man,” Trey went on. “First time is scary as fuck.” “Yeah.” “I was eleven. Damn cuffs barely fit.” Silence. (Quan didn’t really know what to do with that informa- tion.) “I seent your mom’s demeanor,” Trey continued. “She not really speakin’ to you now, right?” Quan sighed. “Yeah.” “Mines was the same way. Your pops locked up?” Crazy. “Yeah.” “Figured.” “What'd you do?” Quan asked, not really thinking. “When you were eleven?” “Skippin’ school and an MIP.” ES  “MIP?” “Minor in possession of alcohol. I did this pretrial diver- sion shit that included Al-Anon meetings—they wanted me to ‘see how alcoholism affects other people’—so they wound up dropping the charges, but the arrest itself? Scari- est shit I ever been through, man.” “How old are you now?” “Fifteen. You what, twelve?” “Just turned thirteen.” “It’s crazy, ain’t it? I had this white lawyer once—really wanted to help kids like us, so he took my case pro bono. I was thirteen at the time, and he told me he had a son my age who’d just had his bar mitzvah, you familiar?” Quan shook his head. “Nah.” “Tt’s this ceremony where a young Jewish dude becomes ‘accountable for his actions.” He used air quotes. “So he goes from ‘boy’ to ‘man,’ essentially. Lawyer homie is sitting there all geeked, telling me about it, and I’m thinking to myself: So your son is a grown man by Jewish standards, yet still gets treated like a kid. Meanwhile ain’t no ceremonies for kids like us, but if we get in trouble we get treated like adults.” Nothing Quan could say to that. “Funniest part is the only reason dude was even workin’ with me is because I got caught with a dime—that’s a little baggie of weed that costs ten bucks—” “I know what a dime is, man.” 76  Trey smirked. “Yeah, all right. Well, like I was saying, as the cop frisked me, he said, ‘You wanna act like an adult, the law will treat your ass like one.’ When I asked lawyer dude if he’d ever say anything like that to his son, he was shook.” So was Quan. “Anyway, you in it now, li’l dude.” Quan swallowed hard. Was he in it? What did that actu- ally mean? “I gotchu, though, all right?” Trey threw an arm around Quan’s shoulders then. “I been where you at, man. And I know where you goin’. Ain’t a whole lotta pathways for nig- gas like us, you feel me?” And Quan did. Feel him. So when Trey would come a-knockin’, Quan would al- ways go. While that first arrest did wind up on Quan’s record, no charges were filed. With the second arrest, he got lucky (and Trey did too because the boys had just parted ways): he was charged— juvenile possession of a firearm... not that he had any intention of using the.22 caliber he’d gotten from Trey that was about the size of his palm—but it was a misdemeanor. The juvenile court district attorney was two hearings from retirement and wanted “to go out on a restorative note,” so 77 she dropped the charges, gave Quan community service, and told him to get his life together “before it’s too late, young man.” The charge attached to his third arrest stuck—breaking and entering tended to do that—and Quan did his first ninety-day stint in a youth detention center. He spent his fourteenth birthday there. But looking back, it was the fourth arrest that solidified his course. He was at the mall. Group of white dudes in suits were laughing all loud and shit in the food court. Which irritated Quan: if it’d been a group of dudes like him, seated in the same positions, talking and cackling at the same volume, they would’ve been asked to leave. Once his eyes caught on the two phones in the open bag of the dude seated at the head of the table—Idiot.—the ir- ritation made it that much easier to decide on the bump- and-snatch move he (thought he’d) perfected. Perfect diversion—lady pushing a stroller— went by at the perfect time. Bump... Quan— tripped ceremoniously and the single wheel on the front of the stroller hit the table just as he’d planned. 78  “Oh my goodness, ma’am!” And he straightened quickly, slipping the extra phone in his pocket on his way up. “I’m so sorry!” Lay it on thick, Trey had told Quan. Really sell it. And he did. He swears he did. The lady was asking if he was okay. He made it out the mall and halfway up the hill to the bus stop. But then a small SUV pulled up alongside him. Mall security. Petty theft was the charge. Delinquent was the proclamation. (After career criminal, of course.) Twelve months in a regional youth detention center was the sentence. And Quan came out... different. Enlightened. To darkness. His own, and how it affected things. There was Antoine (about as dark as him), age thirteen— doing eight months on an aggravated assault charge. DeAngelo (a little darker), age fifteen—ten months on “trafficking of a controlled substance.” Alejandro (not as dark, but still brown), age twelve— twelve months on “participating in criminal gang activity.” (And he hadn’t actually done anything. Guilty by association.) v9  And then there was White Boy Shawn (Black Boy Shawn—sixteen—was headed to a juvenile section of the adult prison for his involvement in a drive-by shooting that left two guys dead). Seventeen. Stabbed his dad eight times with a butcher knife. _ While the man was sleeping. Shawn’s final charge and sentence? Simple assault. Sixty days. And not even in detention. At a Youth Development Campus. There was a part of Quan that wished his awareness had a knob he could just crank down to zero. But for Vernell LaQuan Banks Jr., there was no not noticing the number of brown faces that came and stayed compared to the number of not-brown ones that came and left. Twelve months in before he was out. And Trey had also had an interesting year. His grandma had passed. And his mom hadn't taken it well. (So he hadn't either.) 80  When he tripped over a desk at school and it was discov- ered that the clear liquid in the bottle he constantly swigged from wasn't water, they expelled him. (He’d been on his final strike.) (Not that he really gave a damn about school.) (Or so he said.) “That was the final straw for Moms,” Trey told Quan as they sat outside the rocket ship—they’d gotten taller and couldn’t both fit inside anymore—passing a vape back and forth between them. (That was another thing: Quan had sworn off blunts. Something about carcinogens.) “Her ass moved to Florida and wouldn't take me with her.” “Wait, for real?” inhaaaale.. exhaaaaaale. ‘Yap. “Damn, bruh. So where you livin’ now?” inhaaaale... exhaaaaaale. “Here and there. Speakin’ of which—” Trey looked at a watch on his wrist. “I gotta go meet my boys.” It was... sparkly. Trey noticed Quan noticing. “Shit fire, ain’t it?” He turned the thing back and forth so it caught the light. 81  “Where'd you get it?” “New, uhh... business venture,” Trey said, pushing to his feet. “Matter fact—” He looked down at Quan. Rubbed the patch of hairs that had appeared on his chin since Quan last saw him. He looked a little too calculating for Quan’s liking in that moment, and Quan’s muscles tensed of their own accord. It'd been a long time since Quan was in the presence of someone he considered a friend. He didn’t really know how to act. Trey nodded. “Yeah,” he said, answering a question Quan wasn't privy to. “Come on.” “Where we going?” Trey smiled. “It’s some folks I want you to meet.” 82 Snapshot: A Boy Meeting a Man (2016) Quan is nervous as hell walking up the “Hallowed Hallway,” as he’s heard the guys call it. He’s been on the porch before, but to be invited inside? Huge. It’s different than he expected, though he can’t articulate how, even in his mind. He’s been kicking it with Trey and them for a minute now, and has pieced together bits about the inner workings of their crew and their operation. But seeing framed images of ancient Egyptian kings and queens hung across from a poster that reads The racist dog policemen must withdraw immediately from our communities, cease their wanton murder and brutality and torture of black people, or face the wrath of the armed people. —Huey Newton... Well, Quan don’t really know what to make of that. There’s no one in the living room when he gets to it, but within a couple seconds, a deep—and he’ll admit: smooth— voice comes from somewhere else in the house: “Have a seat, young brutha. I’ll be with you in a minute.” Quan does as he’s told, choosing a spot on a well-worn sofa. Then he takes in the room. It smells... flowery? Quan is suddenly smacked with a memory of the first time he stepped into Ms. Mays’s classroom in seventh grade. The scent inside was so different from anything he’d ever 85 smelled before, it made him feel like he’d stepped into an- other world, as corny as that sounds. Turns out, Ms. Mays had this flower-shaped device plugged into her wall that had these interchangeable glass bulb joints filled with liquid fragrance. Quan spots one sticking out of an outlet opposite him. And now he’s really confused. Especially since it’s plugged in beneath a framed poster of a beret-wearing dude sitting on what looks like a woven throne. Homie’s holding a spear in one hand and a shotgun in the other. “Quan, right?” Quan jumps and a yelp slips past his lips. Standing beside him—and chuckling—is a bearded brown-skinned dude in white pants and a V-neck shirt that looks like it came straight outta Africa. He hands Quan a glass bottle, then goes to sit in a round chair that looks like it’s made of bamboo. He’s holding a glass bottle too. Quan peeks at the label on the one in his hand: JAMAICAN GINGER BREW. “Drink up,” the man says. So Quan does. It’s... good. Kinda spicy, but also sooth- ing in a weird way. He relaxes a little. “That your given name?” the man asks. “Huh?” “Quan. That’s what’s on your birth certificate?” Quan shakes his head. “No, sir.” 86  “Dispense with the sir, little homie. You can call me Mar- tel or Tel. Take your pick. What’s yo