Tyler Johnson Was Here(3)

And it’s in this moment that I realize that 1) the cop has definitely confused us for some other kids, 2) he is racist, and 3) we’re going to die.

“Sir, we were just heading home, I swear,” I say, pleading, taking huge gulps of air in between words. “We didn’t… do… anything. You have… the wrong people. We were just… heading home.” I try and try and try so hard to explain, but nothing, no remorse, no sympathy, no second thoughts, no step back, no removal of the gun from innocent kids’ faces, absolutely fucking nothing.

My arms start to feel numb from being raised so high, so straight, so still. But I keep telling myself over and over again that if I move a single muscle in my arms, it’d be the end of me. I’m not ready to die, so I keep still even though my arms burn.

And then out of nowhere, the white kid lunges up from the ground and tackles the cop like an ass-kicking prodigy or something.

A shot is fired, but I don’t see where it came from and I don’t know where it landed. But I move. And that means I’m fucked one way or another. And I keep cussing myself under my breath, saying I just gave the cop a reason to shoot me, to just fucking kill me, no further questions or commands.

The skinny white boy screams, “Run!”

It takes me a minute to realize that he’s talking to us.

And as the cop has another problem on his hands, the four of us grab our bikes and skateboard and cut out, shouting “Oh fuck” too many times for a single lifetime.

I look up at the moon as I pedal, pedal, pedal the fuck out of my bike toward home, and I force myself to believe that I’m okay, that I’m still whole.

I’ve never felt so terrified in my life, and stepping foot inside my house has never given me so much relief.





When I get in, Mama isn’t expecting me to be crying and struggling to catch my breath, words flying out of my mouth at warp speed.

I tell her everything that happened. And she has a hard time believing me at first. Even though G-mo, Ivy, and Tyler are telling her the same story, she finds a way to say things like “What the hell?! This can’t be for real!” I think it’s more for her own sanity. She likes to pretend that her sons are safe in a world where they really aren’t, so she tries to force oblivion.

Mama calls the local police department to file a complaint anyway, tears streaming from her eyes—like it finally sinks in that she almost lost both her sons because of a mix-up and a crooked officer.

But the lady on the other end of the landline tells Mama that she has to wait thirty days and then file a complaint in person. So Mama hangs up, cussing under her breath, a pissed look on her face that I’m too familiar with, eyes watering and everything. For the longest while, I watch her chest heave as she rests her head in her palms.

Ivy and G-mo call their mothers to pick them up and take them home, and I watch their faces as they explain in full detail what just went down—anxious looks and tears falling from their eyes.

I can’t stop thinking about what happened, my thoughts trailing off into the details, replaying it all like a movie, my face getting hotter.

Two seemingly racist cops.

An unconscious black boy.

A near-death experience.

A second chance to live.





? 2 ?


It’s the middle of the night, and someone’s pounding on the front door.

“Police!” I hear. The pounding gets louder, faster.

I curse under my breath, my heart skipping beats, and I feel around in the darkness to turn on my nightstand lamp. I cut it on with one tug of a string.

My alarm clock blinks at me: 2:47 AM.

“Oh my God,” I whisper-yell to myself. “Three o’clock in the fucking morning.”

And then I hear some movement outside my bedroom door, and I see the red and blue flashing lights illuminating everything. Tyler comes into my room, wearing a tight white tank and some basketball shorts, a black do-rag on his head.

“Don’t get the door,” Tyler says, sitting down on the edge of my bed. “Mama said not to open it.”

Mama’s wise—a bit too wise when it comes to random police visits to the house. She’s become familiar with them over the years. I mean, it’s routine, the way they come banging up on your door in our neighborhood for literally anything. Crackhead found dead. Some white kid from Sojo High ran away. The car outside our house has a flat tire. Some white woman down the road says she saw a suspicious black man.

And for Mama and Tyler and me, we worry more about police visits to our house than the gang-infested streets. And Mama has already started crafting a plan for how to get out of being pinched by the po-po just because of who my dad was, if that time ever comes, a time we all pray never does.

The pounding goes on for a whole ten minutes, and I end up slipping out into the hallway, taking step after tiny step, making sure I’m not breathing too hard. But Mama is already standing at the end of the hallway, arms crossed, side-eyeing Tyler and me for being hardheaded and trying to go to the door anyway. It’s like we can’t ever get anything past her.

She does one of her famous eye-rolls and then exhales in frustration before walking to the front.

“What y’all want?” Mama yells to the police through the door, keeping her distance. She closes her bathrobe tightly, like she feels too exposed. “Stay away from the door,” Mama whispers to me.