Tyler Johnson Was Here(26)

I take a few minutes to write down all the names of who I know are in Johntae’s gang. “I hope nicknames will do,” I say.

“That’s totally all right,” he answers me.

When I finish, I ask, “Are you going to start looking for him now?”

He glances around the room. “These kinds of things take time. And by the length of the list of names you’ve provided, it could take anywhere from forty-eight hours to up to a week after interrogation.”

I sit up straight. “So you should start right now, then.” I have to remind myself where I am and who I’m talking to.

“Just a few more questions,” Detective Conaway says.

Mama sighs and I try to match hers, finishing off the small Styrofoam cup of watered-down hot chocolate.

He asks me how long I was at the party and if I stayed the whole time.

“I stayed the whole time, until everything went down.” My chest is tight.

“So, there was a shooting that took place before authorities arrived at the scene. Where did you last see Tyler, then? In the midst of everything?”

Mama makes a grunting sound like she’s going to say something, but doesn’t.

“No. Tyler didn’t have anything to do with the shooting. He’s innocent and he’s missing, but you’re still talking about a shooting.” I shake my head. It gets fifty degrees hotter in here.

He scribbles as he asks me to recount the last conversation I had with Tyler. It’s been replaying in my mind over and over again, and I will never forget seeing him angry and afraid, telling me to leave him alone.

I smell Tyler’s scent again, remembering I’m wearing his hoodie. There’s a moment of silence before the detective asks, “How much influence did the gang have on your brother?”

A lot is what I should say, because it’s the truth, but I don’t want to say it out loud. “I don’t know” is what I say, feeling the lie run through my body.

“I’m sure you’re aware of the lives lost at the party, correct?”

“A little,” I answer. I’ve been forcing myself not to think much about it, because I don’t want to think about Tyler being one of them.

Before Mama and I leave the station, the detective has us write down our contact information and all the places Tyler could be. Five or so minutes later, I leave the police station with Mama. Neither of us says it out loud, but we both know we’re going to have to look for Tyler ourselves if we want him to be found.





Back at home, Mama stays on the couch, talking on the phone with Auntie Nicola about everything. I can hear her voice as I lie across my bed, trying to sleep, but I can’t.

I’m looking at my dingy, dark ceiling, praying to God over and over again, asking for a lead, a sign—something.

A sign doesn’t come, but I know I need faith that Tyler will be safe. I try to close my eyes, letting this very moment hang in the air for a while, allowing myself to breathe and slow my thoughts. Then, Faith slips into my head. I hop up out of bed and slip into my nearest pair of shoes, and without saying anything to Mama, I climb out my window.





? 13 ?


It’s been over twenty-four hours since Tyler went missing, and the moon hangs from its neck in the darkened sky. My thoughts echo like shadows behind me as I mull over the very fact that I’m part of the blame for Tyler’s disappearance. If I’d just kept a closer watch on him, I wouldn’t have lost him. I know it.

When I arrive at Faith’s place, there’s a light on in the living room, and through the window I can see a shadow of her dancing, the music so loud I can hear it from the porch.

I walk up to the door and knock hard, looking around me, up and down the street.

The music clicks off, and I hear a latch being undone on the other side.

She opens the door a little bit, just enough for me to see her eyes.

“Hi. It’s me—Marvin Johnson,” I say, waving and offering a slight grin, as if I’m simultaneously trying to assure her that I come in peace, but also in so much damn panic.

She opens the door all the way so I can see her. She’s in sweatpants and a tank and with no makeup, not like how I remember her at the party, but she’s still fine as hell.

“What’re you doing here?” she says in a confused voice, scanning around outside, too. She grabs her elbows as a chilly gust of wind blows.

My heart thumps loudly. “Please. I need your help.”

She pauses, and I can tell something inside her is fighting the urge to slam the door in my face.

“Come in,” she finally says, eyes searching up and down the block. “No one’s home. My mom’s working and my stepdad is probably either passed out in an alley somewhere or at a casino.”

Her house smells like old grease and candle wax. Everything is brown and gold and beige and beautiful. She’s got a bunch of black celebrity paintings all over her house, like Tupac, Biggie, Beyoncé, and Rihanna, and even older ones, too, like Diana Ross, Gladys Knight, Janet and Michael Jackson, and Prince. Everything is clean and crisp, like it’s brand-new—even the sandy-brown carpet. I follow her to the couch like an amazed little kid at a museum. And I try to hold off from blinking because I don’t want to miss a single second of this moment.

And then she clears her throat and cuts on some music again. The first song that plays is “Keep Ya Head Up” by Tupac. She likes Pac, too. She lowers the volume before she sits next to me on a brown leather loveseat. It’s quiet for a moment, except for Tupac in the background: Look to my future ’cause my past is all behind me. Is it a crime to fight for what is mine?