Tyler Johnson Was Here(18)

I’ve been forgetting a lot lately. I don’t know if I told you yet, but they’ve got me my own lawyer, too. She’s a nice white lady. She makes me feel like I am a real person, like I can choose to be a hero or a villain as I please. And it’s nice because I want to feel like I am a real person—a good person, because I am.

So much love,

Daddy



My mind goes blank as I approach the park, everything around me starting to spin.

I hop off my bike quick, slamming it into a rusty bench, my heart ringing in my ears, and a couple minutes later I see G-mo and Ivy biking and skating around the corner, panting, the sun illuminating the sides of their faces enough for me to see their troubled expressions, like they, too, share my guilt and shame and anxiety.

They crash their wheels into the same rusty bench and then attack me with questions, their eyes watery and heavy. It gets harder and harder to breathe.

“Are you really sure he’s missing?” G-mo says, his forehead wrinkled.

“What would you call it?” I say, stale-faced, pacing in a slow and steady circle.

Ivy slaps G-mo on the shoulder. “Nigga, missing is missing.”

“We have to find him,” I say.

Ivy straightens. “Where do we look first?”

“We have to go back to the Pic-A-Rag,” I answer.

The three of us pedal and skate as fast as we can. The whole time, my chest feels like thick vines are twisting and tangling inside.

When we make it make to the abandoned Pic-A-Rag building, there’s yellow caution tape everywhere, glass littering the ground, the empty windows boarded up, a few bullet holes mazing the outside like the graffiti in the city.

I hop off my bike, allowing it to fall to the ground, watching people walk up and down in front of the building as if this is a normal scene.

I look around, checking for cops. “All right, let’s go in,” I say, feeling sourness in my stomach.

“Are you insane?” G-mo hisses. “That’s illegal, Marvin.”

“Illegal?” My brother is fucking missing, and he’s over here talking about some illegal.

“This is a damn crime scene. Look!” He points at the area around us.

“You know what? Fine. Just stay here and be the lookout. Ivy and I will go inside.”

Ivy cuts him some side-eye while shaking her head. G-mo shrugs.

The two of us go underneath the caution tape and walk into the building, glass cracking and wooden boards splintering beneath our shoes. The inside is exactly how I thought it would look: like a tornado came through and shook everything. Tables flipped upside down, red Solo cups and beer bottles littering the floor, shoes that were left behind. I wander around, careful not to mess up the crime scene and not to put any of my fingerprints on anything. My heart thumps louder, harder.

Only a little natural light from outside shines in through some of the cracks in the walls around us. Pushing through upside-down tables, through the rubble, through the dust, I make my way to the wall where I saw Johntae threatening Tyler. I place my hand on it, running my fingers across the blue paint, cold against cold.

“Nothing over here,” I say, replaying the memory from last night so clearly in my mind. I can feel my hands shaking as I step back, taking deep breaths to keep from bursting into flames.

I’m not sure what I was expecting to see. Ghosts. Dead bodies. A wounded Tyler with his arms outstretched, waiting for me to save him. But the Pic-A-Rag is empty.

Ivy grabs me by the shoulders. “We’re going to find him, Marvin. He may not be here, but he’s somewhere.” She gives me this warm grin, but nothing can calm my nerves.

I swallow hard, blinking back tears, as we meet up with G-mo, empty-handed and back at square one. I want so desperately to believe what Ivy said, but something doesn’t feel right.

G-mo and I hop on our bikes and Ivy gets on her skateboard, and we ride down the block a little bit, going toward G-mo’s apartment, stopping by places I know Tyler likes to hang around, even looking in alleyways and on the basketball court and on corners where I’ve seen him before, but he’s nowhere to be found.

The sidewalk is narrow, so we’re riding single file. Ivy squeezes in on one side of me. “Let’s stop at G-mo’s and wait for a bit. He’s going to turn up, Marvin.” She gives me a small smile.

Time is slipping past and I can’t waste any of it, so I agree to Ivy’s plan.





Stepping into G-mo’s place, I get a huge waft of spices. His apartment is completely empty, and it feels almost lifeless, even though the walls are plastered with teapots with the Colombian flag painted on them and portraits of the Virgin. We rush up the stairs to G-mo’s room in a single-file line, still unsure of what to make of the last two hours of our lives.

And stepping foot inside his room, I burst out in all of my frustration, crashing onto G-mo’s New Kids on the Block–themed bedspread, which smells like a blend of Cheetos and Axe cologne. “WHAT. THE. HOLY. FUCK?”

Once, back in early middle school, my dad got a little too wasted and beat Tyler and me with a broomstick for talking back. But I’ve never hurt all over—inside and out—as much as I do right now.

G-mo turns on an episode of A Different World. It’s the one where a hurricane comes and destroys their entire campus, and Ron and Freddie end up confronting their differences while trapped together. Well, there’s a hurricane inside me right now, and I’m really wishing Ron and Freddie could be Tyler and me.