Tyler Johnson Was Here(22)

I run down the aisle to check on Ivy and help pick her up from the floor, her hands wrapped around her head.

The cop and the cashier run over, too, and the cashier slips on a few bags of Tropical Skittles. Her head hits the floor hard enough to bleed, no, hard enough for a concussion, no, hard enough for all our melanin to be blamed.

The police officer clutches his side as he bends down, saying, “Ma’am, are you okay? Ma’am, are you okay?”

And I just stare as I lift my friend up, thinking—Man, there are three people on the floor. And all you see is this white woman.

The woman has a split on the side of her head, and blood starts to ooze out. She bites her lip in pain, shaking her head, her bottom lip trembling like she saw a ghost and it knocked her down or some shit.

“Oh. My. God,” the boy says, confused, his hood falling off his head.

And before the boy can scoot closer to the woman to check on her, she tosses her hands up and says, with so much irritation in her voice, “I’m all right—”

“That doesn’t look so good,” the cop interrupts, examining her head.

G-mo places a hand on my shoulder and Ivy lowers her head, taking off her Los Angeles Lakers hat. And the three of them are not looking at us, and everything inside me is saying to run.

The cop helps the lady stand up.

“I think he was trying to rob me. He looks like one of them hoodlums who came in here the last time,” the lady says, holding her head. And I think, Well, maybe it’s a concussion talking. ’Cause I certainly didn’t see any sign that he was trying to rob this place.

Ivy, G-mo, and I exchange looks.

The cop kicks the boy in his ankle as he tries to lift up from the ground. “What’s in the bag?” he shouts.

“Sir,” the boy says softly, his hands at his sides, “I didn’t steal anything. And I wasn’t ’bout to either. I promise.”

“What’s in the bag?” the cop repeats, louder.

“My bag?”

“Yes, your goddamn bag!”

“CDs,” the boy answers, “just CDs. That’s how I’m funding my college.” And he points to the words running across the front of his hoodie: PENN STATE.

The cop snags the bag from the boy as he stands. He unzips it and turns it upside down, dumping everything out all over the candy-covered floor. Sure enough, a few dozen loose homemade CDs fall out, and so does a little dime bag of weed.

The cashier woman walks to the freezer and pulls out a pint of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream and puts it to the side of her head. Then she walks back to the front of the store, trusting that the cop will get everything settled.

The cop picks up the dime bag, shoves it in the boy’s face, and then puts it in his uniform pocket. His dispatch radio is giving him orders, but he doesn’t listen. “You forgot to mention the part where you’ve got drugs in your bag, too,” the cop says. He blinks his pale blue eyes faster.

“But… sir… can I…?”

“Shut up!” the cop barks, coming closer to him.

I can feel my heart beating in my chest, and the three of us take steps back, crushing packs of M&M’s and gummy bears, wanting more than ever to flee this place but not wanting to leave the poor kid all alone.

I slip out my phone quick enough to snap a photo of the boy and the officer to post in case things go horribly wrong. And I think maybe this is my subtle way of showing the boy that I see him, that I am here, that he’s not alone in this—a boy, with a tear-streaked face, miming with his hands that he has an explanation to stay alive.

“But, sir,” the boy says.

“You deaf? I said shut up!” The officer kicks the boy in the ankle again, harder this time. The cop rolls his eyes and coughs two words: “Damn thug.”

“No, you don’t understand,” the boy says. He has this confused expression, like he’s unsure of what’s actually happening. He struggles to collect all of his CDs from the floor, like maybe he’s worried about them getting scratched up.

“Boy, sit your ass back down.”

“I promise I wasn’t trying to rob this place. I was just getting some snacks. See—look,” the boy adds, reaching into his pocket—maybe too quickly, too black, I don’t know, but in seconds, the cop shoves the boy into a rack of chips and then body-slams him to the floor. Face-first.

We jump back as we hear the smack.

There’s blood and another crunching sound, like bones being split in half, ringing in my ears. The cop has the boy tied in a submission lock, his arms twisted tight behind him, the boy crying real tears now and screaming, fighting out of the hold.

“Yo!” G-mo yells at the cop. “You’re hurting him. He wasn’t doing anything to you. Let him go, man.”

The cop ignores G-mo, still slamming and kicking the boy around like a rag doll, a plaything. A thing to be brutalized.

“OH MY GOD. WHAT THE FUCK! WHAT THE FUCK!” I find myself screaming this over and over again as everything happens in front of my eyes, open wide—so wide.

“Stop it!” Ivy screams, picking up candy packages and throwing them at the cop’s head. “He’s just a kid.”

And that rings in my head: He’s just a kid.

He’s just a kid. He’s just a kid. He’s just a kid. He’s just a kid.