Tyler Johnson Was Here(15)

And it finally hits me. I can’t even call him because I have our phone. I try to call Johntae. He doesn’t answer. My heart has pounded its way numb—everything feels like I’m being closed in, and my skin burns like the moment I saw the look in Tyler’s eyes when he last walked away from me. The emptiness. I want to scream.

“Shit, shit, shit!” I yell, walking back and forth in the living room.

G-mo and Ivy are waiting on the couch for their parents with horrified looks on their faces, both on the verge of tears.

“What the actual fuck?” G-mo repeats on loop, holding his arms together as if to make sure he’s still in one piece.

I pause in place, taking a deep breath for what feels like the first time. My entire body is shaking, a chill shooting through me. I turn back to look at the front door. “Where are you, Tyler?” I wait for him to barge through at any moment.

Ivy gets to her feet, rolling up the bottoms of her pants. And with so much shock in her eyes, she says, “He’s fine. He probably just left the party after Johntae treated him like shit.”

G-mo keeps his bushy eyebrows raised. “What the fuck.”

I gasp. And I gasp, and tears are coming out again because my thoughts are just too damn much right now. And I don’t even bother to be ashamed. I don’t even turn away from Ivy and G-mo.

My phone buzzes against my thigh. I snatch it from my pocket to see if it’s Tyler, hoping he’s somewhere safe with a working phone.

But it’s not. It’s Mama.

I don’t even know if I should answer.

She hangs up before I give in.

Eventually, G-mo’s and Ivy’s parent pick them up from my place, leaving me to pace the living room, not sure of what to do. What should I do?

When Mama gets back home, she’s still wearing her teal Tweety Bird scrubs, a pink headband on. I can tell she’s had a few shots of Hennessy. I know the look when I see it.

“Where’s your brother?” she asks, placing her purse on the kitchen table.

I don’t know. I can’t tell her that. But I can lie.

“He stayed over at a friend’s place.”

“What friend?” She looks up at me, squinting. “Don’t you lie to me either!”

I have to look away. “Someone from school. They had a project or something. He said he’ll be back by morning.” Even I almost believe it.

Her fists clench, but all her other muscles loosen and she’s breathing normally again, not wheezing with frustration, like she normally does right before she lights a cigarette.

“Does he at least have ya’ll’s phone?”

“No. I do.”

She cuts me a side-eye so hard. “Ya’ll ain’t got the sense God gave you,” she says. “He better be back by the morning.”

I nod, hoping so badly that he will be.

I head to my room, where it’s dark and cold because I left my window open. I call Ivy and G-mo. Neither of them pick up.

I stare at my ceiling, and it starts to fully sink in that I don’t know where the hell my brother is. I press my palms together and interlock my fingers. I pray—no, beg God to watch over Tyler, wherever he is, to make sure he stays safe, to make sure he gets back to us okay.

My eyes get all heavy and tired, but I try to force myself to stay awake, replaying my conversation with Tyler, replaying the screaming, replaying the gunshots. I tell myself I don’t deserve sleep, and I just stare at my alarm clock, hating myself a little more every time the numbers go up, waiting for him to come back home.





? 8 ?


Before I know it, the sun is slapping me in the face and my eyes are heavy with sleep even though I don’t remember closing them for longer than a few minutes. They’re sore, and it hurts to blink.

It obviously takes a damn herculean effort to move and think, but I do it the best I can, peeling back the layers of blankets on top of me. It’s like at some point in the night Mama came and tucked me in.

I go and see if Tyler’s in his room. He’s still gone. And Mama is still asleep.

I get back to my room, feeling like I’m being smothered, my heart palpitating. Ivy calls me.

I answer quickly. “Hello?”

“Hey, Marv. G-mo’s on the line, too.”

“Why didn’t you guys answer last night when I called you?”

“Phone died,” Ivy says. “And it takes forever to charge. Sorry.”

G-mo doesn’t even bother to answer the question. “We’re officially criminals,” he says. “I won’t survive in jail. None of us will. But especially not me.”

“We’re not criminals,” I reply, my heart throbbing as I walk to my window to look out onto the street. Four little girls play hopscotch, and Mr. Jennings, a middle-aged man who lives across the street, collects trash in his yard.

“We’re criminals by association, according to the cops,” he says back. “They’ve already started arresting people who were at the party.”

I pause. “We’re not going to jail,” I say. I back away from the window when Mr. Jennings makes eye contact with me.

“Anything new on Tyler?” Ivy asks.

And I struggle to say the words for the first time. “Tyler…” I stop and exhale.