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“I’m not ‘defending’ cops,” I say. “I’m just trying to bring some kind of common sense to the situation.”
Jayden’s eyes narrow. “Here’s some common sense. My little bro is dead because some cop put a bullet in him.”
The amazing thing is this: I understand exactly how Jayden feels. But here’s the other thing: my dad is a cop. And my dad is a good man. I know that he’d feel horribly if it’d been him that killed Grady. I understand that I feel safer with him around. But, oh, man, this is not the time or place to try to deliver that lecture.
In the next second or two Jayden grabs me hard by my shoulders. He holds me, and I’m thinking—again, in the span of that same second or two—that if this guy takes a swing at me, I’m toast. Maybe I could shake him off after a couple blows and run away. But if I can’t, if I’ve got to stay here and fight, I know I don’t have a chance.
How did I end up here? In this situation? How did this whole thing grow so big, so fast? And how the hell do I end it? Stop it? Fix it?
But there’s no way I can figure it out now.
“Break it up! Break it up!” I hear. The voice is very loud, forceful. And everybody recognizes it. It’s the familiar voice of Coach Hassim. From the crowd come a few weak shouts of “Fight! Let ’em fight.”
And it is just at that moment, the moment the coach yells his last “Break it up,” that I bring both my arms up—as hard as I can—to break myself free from Jayden’s grip on my shoulders. Then I give Jayden a weak shove, not actually in anger, just to get myself away from him. Jayden stumbles backward. Not a big stumble. He gets himself together really quickly. But this all occurs at the precise moment that Coach Hassim is sizing up the scene.
Of course it clearly looks like I’m the one who was looking for a fight.
Coach recognizes Jayden and his friends. He tells them to go on back to their own school. Then he tells me to follow him to his office. What’ll happen to me? Demerits? Detention? Breakfast club? A stern talking-to?
Whatever. It can’t be as lousy as what happens next. As Coach Hassim and I walk through the suddenly quiet cafeteria, all eyes are on us. One of those pairs of eyes belongs to Sienna. I see her. She is looking right at me. I give her a small smile. But she just frowns and shakes her head and then looks away.
IT SEEMS LIKEthe subject of gangs has become the most important thing in my life. It wasn’t always that way for me, but I gotta say that it’s always been important to my dad and the people he works with.
Grown-ups have a lot to say about gangs. And my dad sure is one of those grown-ups. He’s always saying how serious the issue is, how if you could get the gangs under control then we’d improve the city 100 percent. Whatever—the topic has not cooled down. And this shooting has made it hotter than ever… with everybody.
Of course, as we know, I’ve got some very specific concerns about the gang shooting at the Stanton Houses. Namely, did my father see me at the gang shooting? Did he hear me sneak out to meet Gabe that night?
I’ve also been starting to wonder, did he hear Nana Mama and me talking whenshecaught me sneaking back in? Did somebody from the school call my dad and tell him about the scene in the cafeteria?
I’ve been waiting for one of these possibilities. And if Dad does find out about what’s been going on, it might mean an Ali-and-father conversation will follow. Or not follow. Or… listen, he is a solid dad. And a fair person. Like he says, “I am a reasonably reasonable person.” But I know from experience that he is also a little awkward at man-to-man, father-to-son conversations.
Don’t get me wrong; we talk. We talk a lot. But it’s usually about easy stuff like basketball and funny stuff that happened at school or in the neighborhood. Sometimes we’ll talk about my friends (he’s cool with most of them). Sometimes I’ll ask him a question, and he’ll give me short, simple opinions. If I don’t agree with his short, simple opinions, he’ll say, “Well, that’s what I think, and you shouldn’t have asked my opinion if you didn’t want it.”
Not mean or angry or anything. Usually just with a shrug.
Anyway, since we’re not that big on planned sit-down conversations, I’m surprised (and a little freaked) when, after supper tonight, my dad says, “Ali, I could use a cold glass of milk to help wash down Nana’s chicken. Pour me a tall one and bring it into the living room, if you please. Get yourself a glass, too, if you want one.”
Hmmm? No nasty note to his voice. No drama. Nothing threatening. But if I had to guess, my gut is telling me that he’s heard about what went down in the cafeteria today. He probably got a phone call from Coach Hassim or even Ms. Garrity, the assistant principal.
I pour the milk and bring it into the living room.
“Hey, you even remembered to put an ice cube in it,” he says with a smile.
“I know you like it that way, ice cold,” I say.
“Your mama always thought I was foolish to put ice in milk. She said the ice would melt, but I always told her…”
I finish the sentence. “You always told her it doesn’t water down the milk if you drink the milk real fast.”
“Precisely,” he says, and I figure that maybe this sweet memory of my mom is just a detour for him. Maybe he’s having second thoughts about lecturing me about something.
But maybe not. He keeps on talking.
“You know, Ali, you and I have yet to discuss the shooting in the Stanton projects,” he says. “And I’ve discussed it with just about every other person I know. People on the force. Nana. Detective Sampson. Even Jannie. Yet you and I have avoided the subject.”
Okay. He knows. I know he knows, and he knows I know he knows. He also… I finally jump in. Simple. Straightforward. This will be my smartest move.
“You saw me there, didn’t you?” I ask.
