Tyler Johnson Was Here(10)

“What?”

“You different,” Johntae says before waddling down the hallway toward C-Quad, his pants nearly tripping him at his ashy ankles. And he chucks me the bird, muttering, “Pussy-ass bitch.”

Man, ain’t this some fucked-up shit.





Just when I get ready to head home, I look both ways and see Tyler in the distance.

He’s standing around with Johntae and his crew, pants sagging lower than usual, wearing his gray sports hoodie and a snapback. I don’t understand how, even when it’s been so long since he’s played sports, Tyler still manages to wear that hoodie.

Tyler looks at something in his hand as Johntae talks to him, poking him in the chest. It’s like he’s in trouble, big trouble for some shit. And my heart is beating so hard.

Tyler pulls out a folded baggie and slips it into his other palm, closing it tightly, and then he eases it over to Johntae. It’s all shady as hell.

Johntae smiles, nodding in appreciation.

Tyler nods back, but in fear. My heart thuds in triplets now.

And then I catch Johntae slip Tyler a wad of cash.

God, please, no.

I stand there, just watching Tyler talk and laugh with Johntae. But instead of waiting for my nuts to drop and rescuing Tyler, I end up walking home, taking a shortcut through a series of backyards, climbing fences, and cutting through gated communities.





? 5 ?


I look around me, taking in everything I see, until I start to breathe this neighborhood, exhaling it, knowing it through and through. Little girls playing hopscotch written in multicolored chalk on the sidewalks. Older boys playing football on opposite sides of the cracked street, dividing them even more, degrees of separation between them. Parents sitting in lawn chairs on their porches, sipping cheap coolers. Fake smiles. Fake nods. Fake happiness.

When I walk into my room, I see that G-mo’s already made himself a ham sandwich and Ivy’s lying across the foot of my bed, flipping through a Game Informer magazine, her phone blaring “Hip Hop Ride” by Da Youngstas as loud as it can.

“Did you know there’s a new Call of Duty game coming out?”

G-mo’s eyes get wide and he lunges up from the floor to look at the magazine.

I shake my head and shrug. “Those games would be so much better with less CGI. I always get nauseous playing.”

“They need more CGI. I need to see more blood and guts,” G-mo says back through a mouthful of sandwich.

“It’s hot as balls in here.” I can feel the sweat already forming on my forehead.

I sit my backpack in the corner of the room and crack open my window since we don’t have A/C. The bill doubled this month, and Mama doesn’t make enough to pay it. Besides, there’s a nice, steady breeze out right now.

“I saw something and I don’t know what to do,” I say.

Ivy turns off the music and eases up off the bed a bit, giving me a concerned look.

“What?” G-mo whisper-yells. “Mr. and Mrs. Hornberg were having sex in the gym again? If so, you kind of have to expect that at this point. I mean, yo, look at their last name.”

“No. I think Tyler’s a drug dealer.”

“What the fuck? Like, for real?” Ivy goes, her nostrils widening.

“When he was with Johntae and his crew, I saw them exchange some package. I swear it was drugs or something.”

“Dude. What’re you going to do?” G-mo asks.

“I—”

There’s a knock on my bedroom door, which is cracked open. It’s Tyler.

“Hey, bro,” he says with this desperate look on his face, his do-rag still on. I didn’t realize he’d started wearing it during the day, so it catches me off guard for a moment.

I blink back my focus on him. “Hey.”

“You seen my ham? I don’t see it in the fridge. I hid the last piece so no one would eat it.”

Ivy snorts and covers her face with the Game Informer. I look back at G-mo, whose face goes from This sandwich is bomb to I’m fucked, and I roll my eyes before turning back to Tyler.

“Mama told you about hiding food,” I say, looking up at his fivehead.

“Yeah, but you know every time Mama buys something sweet, she’s always hiding it in her room, too. Soda, candy, the whole nine yards.”

I have a two-second crisis with myself on what to say back now. G-mo’s looking at me, pleading with his eyes, but I can’t lie to Tyler.

“G-mo ate it,” I admit, and a laugh slips out.

“Fuck you, Marvin! I thought we were never-snitch homies, like Harry and Ron,” G-mo shouts, jumping to his feet, swallowing the last piece of sandwich as if to destroy all evidence. “Look, Tyler, I promise, bro, I didn’t know it was yours. I had this really disgusting-looking whatever-the-fuck-it-was for lunch and I—”

“It’s cool,” Tyler interrupts him, and smiles. “It’s cool. I’ll get some from the store next time I go.”

Not sure where this sudden burst of kindness comes from, but I like it. This is the Tyler Johnson I know and love. Suddenly, I’m remembering when we were in elementary school, when we lived on the South Side and had to share a bedroom. Some nights, after Mama made sure all the lights were out and our eyes were shut, and Tyler and I knew Mama was in a deep sleep, we would sneak out the window to shoot some hoops with the court set we’d gotten the previous Christmas. One night, I played barefoot, and after a jump shot, I came down on a smashed beer bottle. I couldn’t see much, but I could feel wetness everywhere. After Tyler and I snuck back in, he cleaned out the cut with alcohol and peroxide, bandaged it, and helped me back into bed. I limped for a whole week, and every time Mama noticed she would say, “Boy, what the hell wrong with your foot?” Tyler said we were messing around and he accidentally stepped on it.