Tyler Johnson Was Here(28)



Down the hall, in the kitchen, Mama tells me that the police said they’ve been searching and interrogating people, and they may or may not have a lead.

Mama’s face is like a thesis, and I know every sentence. The lines on her face are telling me she feels exactly how I do.





Monday comes around, and I’m running through all the clothes in my closet to find the perfect thing that matches how I feel on the inside. I end up going with some black joggers and a John Cena hoodie Tyler got me from a donation center as a joke one year because he knows how much I hate WWE.

Mama says a prayer before I head to school, asking for the Lord to give wisdom and knowledge to the police looking for Tyler, and before the two of us can say Amen in unison, we’re both a hot-ass mess of tears and sobs. We hug it out for the longest, and man, I wouldn’t mind if this would last longer.

“It’s gon’ be a’ight. They gon’ find him and everything’s gon’ be a’ight,” Mama says to me, and it’s only a little bit reassuring to both of us.

I grab my backpack and slip into some sandals, and then I’m out the door. When I get to school, I’ve got about thirty seconds before the first bell rings for class. G-mo and Ivy are waiting for me at my locker, phones in their hands.

I nod at them, not really able to return their stares. I know I’ve been ignoring their calls and text messages. “Hey.” I shove my backpack into my locker and pull out my textbooks.

“What’s going on?” Ivy asks.

“What do you mean?”

“Where’ve you been?”

I just shrug, and they exchange looks.

“We’re worried, Marv,” G-mo says, placing a hand on my shoulder and offering a small smile. We haven’t been this serious around each other in years. Not since G-mo’s dad got deported.

“Thanks,” I say, trying to ignore the thick ache in my chest.

The bell rings, and we’re late to English, but Ms. Tanner doesn’t even care. She knows what’s going on—everyone does at this point. And she lets the three of us slide in without making a big deal about it like she normally would.

The entire class is whispering during Ms. Tanner’s lesson on vocabulary words. And I know they aren’t talking about how cool the words are. I know they’re talking about me and about Tyler.

Ms. Tanner rolls out an old-school TV and VHS player to make us watch Antigone by Sophocles, telling us that we have to actually pay attention because this will be part of our final exam. If the play were actually hopeful, it wouldn’t be so bad to watch. I just fucking need some sort of hope right now.

But no.

Spoiler alert: EVERYBODY DIES.

And that’s what really gets me. That’s all I’m thinking about: death.

And I feel sick to my stomach, like at any moment I’m going to hurl.

Before the end credits start to roll, I get up from my chair and sneak out the classroom toward the restroom. The bathroom’s oddly empty, one white dude pissing a river behind me. I stare at myself in the mirror, splashing handfuls of cold water on my face. I look—and feel—like a slobby, sloppy mess.

“Be strong, bro,” the guy says to me once he stops peeing and washes his hands.

I nod, unable to speak without the pain pouring out.

“Sometimes it’s hard to hear people tell us to stay strong. But you never know how strong you really are or can be until it’s the only choice you have,” he adds, straightening his Sojo High jacket.

The guy grabs a handful of paper towels and walks out of the bathroom, leaving me all alone in this place that smells like shit, leaning over a sink full of murky water.





I’m exchanging books at my locker when I hear a voice behind me.

“Mr. Johnson,” Principal Dodson says. “May I have a word?” And he raises his eyebrow hard, like he’s demanding and not asking.

I follow Dodson to his office. I stare at his chest ’cause today’s tie is mustard or egg-yolk yellow, and today his office smells like eggs, too.

And on his walls are pictures of white students who have graduated and gone on to some of the best colleges in the nation.

“Take a seat, Mr. Johnson.”

I sit in my usual place.

He sits on the edge of his desk, looking down on me like he’s about to give me a whack or something, but he just breathes his egg-salad-sandwich breath all over me.

“What’s going on?” I bunch up all the muscles in my face, bracing myself to hear some spiel about how Tyler deserves to be missing or something shitty like that.

“Are you aware that Ms. Tanner signed you up for an interview with MIT at the college fair on Thursday?”

I forget to breathe for a moment. “No, sir?”

“No, sir, what, boy?” he shouts, and I flinch a bit.

“No, I was not aware.”

“I’ve tried calling the MIT admissions office, and they won’t allow me to cancel your appointment with their admissions representative. You know what that means, boy?”

A confused pause. My mind trips on the thought of even having an interview with MIT. And in my head, I stumble on the idea of not being emotionally ready. And so I just sit and stare and breathe and wonder and forget that I have to answer.

“I know you hear me talking to you,” he says with a sneer, clutching a coffee mug, his face wearing irritation. “I said, do you know what that means?”

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