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“Not me. You did it, Bakari,” Coach said, pointing a long finger at him. “It’s your time, young man. I see a lot of players in this office, and I worry about a good number of them. But I don’t worry about you.”
It was so damn nice not to be a disappointment for once. Bakari sat up a little straighter. “I appreciate it. I think my pops will be proud of this.”
“Of course he will. But I’m sure he’s proud of you no matter what happens on that field.”
Bakari snorted. “You don’t know him like I do.”
Coach Bryant didn’t respond, but the lines in his face deepened into something resembling a frown. Bakari smiled to lighten the mood. “But we’re good. I can’t wait to tell him.”
“Good. Alright then,” he said, clapping his hands together loudly, as was his way. “Get your ass outta here and into that weight room.”
“Yes, sir.”
As he made his way through the locker room, Bakari felt a burst of energy. He was damn near skipping by the time he got to the weight room.
Danielle was wrong. Hedidstill love football. And maybe more than that, he loved succeeding at something. And somehow, the Stockton Panthers had made the playoffs with a 6-5 record, so he also had the post-season to look forward to. This was it. This was what he had been working so hard for, and it was right there within his grasp.
Bakarihadslidhiskey into the lock of his front door a million times, and that night was no different. But when he pushed that door open, an unnerving silence greeted him. His mother was usually bustling about in the kitchen, and his father was always poised like a vulture, ready to swoop down on him and devour the most minute details of his day. Especially football practice. But today, his parents weren’t there, the kitchen was dark, and the aroma of dinner was missing from the air.
Bakari frowned and closed the door quietly behind him. “Hello?” he called, hoping nothing was wrong. He crept slowly down the hall and waited for someone to answer.
He turned and walked back toward the foyer. As he always did, he set his book bag and practice bag on the bench by the front door and took off his shoes. His mother was a stickler about that. He went ahead and took off his socks for good measure. Just as he slid the left sock off his foot, he heard it.
“Bakari.”
It wasn’t a question or a greeting. It was more like a painful utterance, the guttural cry of a person in distress. He looked up and saw his mother, and the look on her face sent a jolt of fear through his soul.
Her eyes were wide and wet. Her makeup was running down her face. Her lips trembled violently, and she was clutching her cell phone so tight, her knuckles were white.
He slowly rose to his feet, not wanting to ask but knowing he must. “What’s wrong?”
Iesha stuttered and stammered, her eyes filling with tears. “Th—there’s a…a warrant out for your arrest.”
Oh, God.
“They think I killed her? I didn’t kill her, Mama, I swear.”
“What? Kill who?”
“Nyleah.”
“No, boy, this isn’t about Nyleah.”
“Well, what? What did I do?” he asked, desperate and confused, like a little boy whose punishment has come down without warning or explanation.
Some little boys are so used to getting into trouble, they don’t even ask questions anymore. They just take their lumps and try not to make things worse. But sometimes little boys vow to be good, and they start to behave and find themselves on a good streak, only to come home to their parents’ wrath once again. And even though they’ve been good, they still find themselves resigned to their fate, because they might not have done anythingthistime, but they’ve been plenty bad before.What now? What did I do? I’ve been good, I swear.But also,did that old thing finally catch up to me?
“Bakari,” she began, as the bottom dropped and his head swam. “It’s your teacher. She’s accusing you of rape.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
WhenAviannaJonesenteredthe office for the second time, the haughtiness had dissipated. A terrified young lady stood in her place, and Webb figured it wouldn’t take much to get the truth out of her.
“Have a seat,” he told her as they entered his cubicle. The quarters were tight, and they barely fit, but the conference room was in use, and he didn’t think she’d do well in an interrogation room. She looked like the type who would be particular about where she sat. Following behind sex workers and meth heads probably wasn’t her bag.
Ms. Jones stood next to her daughter. Will stood with his back against the flimsy cubicle wall. They all stared at Webb like they were waiting for him to ruin their day.
“Avianna, I asked you in today to clear up a few inconsistencies in your original interview.”
