You in Five Acts(83)

“I’ve got three on the ground in the back!” I heard him radio to someone else.

I didn’t need to remind you to run that time.

? ? ?


We bolted across the street, toward the dark labyrinth of buildings of the East River Houses. I’d played there so often as a kid, I knew the layout cold. If we cut to the left there was a path, a straight shot past the basketball courts to 105th Street. If we cut right we could turn south, coming around the pavilion onto 102th. It was dark enough that once we got past the line of street lamps, we could fade into the background. We could disappear.

I looked over my shoulder once, just long enough to check we weren’t about to get shot in the back, and almost tripped when I saw the scene on 104th. There were four police cruisers, parked nose to nose, blocking off the whole street. Outside T’s building, at least two people were on their knees on the sidewalk; one was lying on the asphalt, facedown, with a cop straddling him.

Are you on your way?

I thought of Mom, sitting there in the restaurant, trying to keeping my brothers from spilling their sodas on the checkered tablecloth, wearing the pearl earrings she wore every time there was a special occasion. Whatever she was picturing me doing, it wasn’t this. Another siren blared as a fifth cruiser sped around the corner two blocks down.

I grabbed your arm and started sprinting, instinctively heading north, toward home, even though I didn’t know what I’d do once we got there. I could tell I was dragging you—you could barely walk, let alone run—and Liv was slowing us both down, and my lungs were burning, but I couldn’t stop. Nothing mattered except getting out. We passed by a court where a couple of guys were playing a late-night pickup game, and they laughed, shouting after me that I’d better get you home quick before you changed your minds.

We were cutting through a courtyard when I felt our chain break. One second you were right behind me and the next I was flying forward, stumbling, looking back to see Liv sitting on the ground, you kneeling next to her, holding her by the shoulders.

“Something’s wrong!” you cried. “She can’t walk!”

“I c-c-can’t m-m-ove them,” Liv said, pausing between each word for a big, hitching gasp.

“Come on, I got you.” I crouched down to pick Liv up when her feet started kicking, shaking violently. She let out a guttural moan. Her skin was cold and clammy, slick with sweat.

“What are you doing?” you asked as I lifted her. “Where are we going?”

“Yo, Five-O, Five-O!” Someone yelled. The basketball court. They were right behind us.

I looked down at Liv—her eyes were rolling back in their sockets. She didn’t need to go home, she needed help.

“There’s a medical center on 99th Street,” I said quickly, my brain reeling. We’d been there with Abuela a couple times, when she had chest pains. But it would mean an abrupt change of course. It would mean doubling back across three blocks. I didn’t know if we had time, but there was no room for hesitation. “Come on,” I said, shifting Liv up onto my shoulder and reaching out for your hand. That time, you took it. We took a step. And then—

“GET YOUR HANDS OFF THAT GIRL!”

The voice pierced through the night, silencing the rest of the city like a hand clamped over a screaming mouth. No shouts, no horns, no sirens. No dogs barking, no kids laughing. Even the subway, which sometimes shook the ground when it passed, seemed to stall on the tracks underneath us. All I could feel was my heart, and your hand. A flashlight shined in my eyes, forcing me to squint. I couldn’t see the cop’s face, just that he was standing twenty feet away, and that he was pointing something else at us, too. He clicked the safety off and yelled at me again.

“PUT YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR!”

“Diego,” you said. It sounded like a question, a warning, a prayer. I felt your fingers tighten around mine and I squeezed back.

“Unnnnnghhhhhhh,” Liv groaned. What did the officer expect me to do, throw her on the pavement? I carefully shifted my weight, balancing Liv between my neck and the crook of my elbow so I could show him my palms without dropping her. It meant letting go of you. I didn’t want to, but I had to.

“This is my friend!” I shouted. “She’s sick! She can’t walk!”

“SHUT UP AND PUT HER ON THE GROUND!”

“She’s having an overdose!” you screamed.

“GET ON THE GROUND!” The flashlight darted over to you, then back to me. The beam shook, and I caught a glimpse of his face in the dark. All I could tell was he was scared, young, and white. I tried to swallow, but there was nothing in my throat.

“We didn’t do anything! She needs to go to the hospital!” Your voice was even louder, full of rage, so hoarse it cracked.

“Joy,” I said as calmly as I could manage. We’d never talked about it, but I figured you knew the rules. If a cop stopped, you didn’t run, you didn’t talk back, and you didn’t ever, ever get angry. White people could do that—hell, they could shoot up a church and then ask for Burger King—but not us. We got killed at traffic stops for speeding, for having broken taillights, for knowing our rights. We were running from a drug bust. True, we hadn’t done anything, but the cops didn’t know that. To them, we were runners. We were criminals. We had no chance. It was already over.