Tyler Johnson Was Here(11)

I breathe in and ask Tyler if he wants to go play ball later tonight.

He hesitates. “Not tonight—I’m busy. Another time, though, all right?”

Busy? What kind of busy? I can feel my throat drying, my eyes growing wider by the second, and it’s getting harder to shrug off my thoughts.

Before I can even ask him, just to reassure myself that it’s not what I think it is, that he’s dealing drugs or whatever, he stops me. “Oh yeah, Johntae is having this party on Friday and he said I could invite whoever I wanted. I want you three there. It’ll be lots of girls there. I’m tellin’ you, it’s about to be so damn lit.”

Ivy and G-mo shout, speaking over each other. “Holy shit? Us? Johntae’s party? Girls? We are in.”

My heart picks up its pace. Tyler’s standing there, grinning in my face, like he’s not best friends with the neighborhood drug dealer and everything’s fine, and it takes everything for me not to punch some sense into him. And Ivy and G-mo are behind me acting like some invisible person is twerking on them, shouting how we are going to get laid.

“No, we’re not going,” I say, interrupting their moment. Tyler’s smile wipes clean off his face, and he gives me this hurt look.

“WHAT?!” G-mo and Ivy say in unison, like it’s the single most bonkers thing they’ve heard in their entire lives. Like accepting a drug dealer’s invite to a party is the same as accepting an invitation to Beyoncé and JAY-Z’s wedding. Like it’s a fucking honor.

Then, Ivy adds, “Dude, why the fuck not? We’re going. We need to meet some girls.” She pauses. “Weekends are for parties and meeting girls.”

I blink.

My weekends normally consist of waking up, eating breakfast, doing chores, writing letters to Dad, reading letters from Dad, filtering through our old letters, more chores (because those are never done, according to Mama), getting ahead with homework, looking up photos of Megan Fox and Zoe Saldana, and unashamedly masturbating. But still. Johntae’s party isn’t worth the risk of ruining my chances of getting into MIT, if something were to happen.

“Fuck Johntae. Fuck his party. I don’t care.”

“Yo! You are legit tripping right now.”

“Why won’t you come, Marvin?” Tyler asks, still looking hurt. “Quit acting like that.”

I don’t turn around to look at G-mo and Ivy, but I hear all of their annoying pleading.

“I’m not going to a fucking drug dealer’s party, Tyler! One, Mama would beat the black off me if she found out, and two, nothing good can come from going.” I turn to G-mo and Ivy. “But if that’s what you two want to do, go the fuck ahead!” I throw my hands up.

Tyler walks closer to me, and he gets so close I can feel his breath on my face. He clamps his hands down on my shoulders. “Look, Marvin, it’s not easy without Dad around, and Mama can’t support us on her own. You see her struggling. Can’t pay the bills, let alone send you to college. Johntae’s going to help with that. So that’s all this is.”

“I call bullshit, Tyler.”

He exhales deeply with frustration, rolling his eyes. “You’re just like Ma. So negative. You know, you’re both like prison wardens.”

“What? Tyler, sound it the hell out. These. Are. Gangsters.”

There’s a pause. I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. I look back at Ivy and G-mo, and they’re glancing down, chins in hand, as if they’re soaking in the moment.

“I’m having Johntae text our phone the address. Show up, if you change your mind. All of you.”

There’s another pause as an electric volt shoots through my body, and a huge sigh slips out.

Tyler walks away, readjusting his do-rag. I stand in the same place until I hear him walk out the front door.





? 6 ?


Mama used to say, “Families that eat together stay together.” But Dad’s not here. Tyler’s not here. It’s just her and me at this silent table, looking at each other and eating spaghetti grilled cheeses made with leftover spaghetti. (I’m not complaining. It was either this or cabbage-water soup.) But after Mama questions me about Tyler’s whereabouts for the second time, and after I lie that he’s staying late to study for the SAT with friends, he shows up.

His shirt is torn and his backpack is covered in mud. He smells funky, like recently lit weed and armpit.

“Where’ve you been?” A frantic look forms on Mama’s face. “You late.”

Tyler’s eyes fall to the floor, and he scratches the back of his neck, his backpack falling off him a bit. “Studying,” he lies. I don’t even know why he bothers lying. Mama is like a living, breathing lie detector.

Mama folds her arms in her seat. “Studying, huh?”

Tyler just nods. Still scratching away.

And this shabby little house of ours gets twenty degrees hotter all in a matter of seconds. I can see his eye twitch. I bet Mama can, too.

“Who was you with?” she asks.

Tyler tosses his backpack back over his shoulder, and his voice gets all low and apologetic. “The guys.”

“The. Guys?” She punctuates her words, slow and jabbing. This is about to be ugly. I can feel it in my queasy gut. “What’re their names? Where do they live? And why don’t I know them?” Her voice gets louder and shakier.