Tyler Johnson Was Here(30)

“Who is it?” I hear Faith say through the door.

“Marvin,” I yell. After she opens the door and lets me in, Faith goes to sit on the couch and pats the spot next to her.

“Thanks,” I say, sitting down. I notice the coffee table covered in Teen Vogue and Ebony magazines before looking at her.

Some amount of sadness creeps into Faith’s eyes, but she gives me a tiny grin as she runs a hand through her Afro. She changed her hair today, and it looks so pro-black and so beautiful and I’m feeling it.

“You okay?” I ask, knowing damn well everything’s not okay.

She nods. “Just a lot on my mind. I’m fine, though.”

“Sure?”

She doesn’t answer, just gives a small smile and reaches into her long-strapped purse that’s on the table. When her hand comes out, she’s holding a wad of cash, and my mouth about drops to the floor.

“Faith… I… How?”

“I asked Ms. Bethany for it.”

“Ms. Bethany?”

“Yeah. Johntae’s aunt,” she says. “Johntae’s real folks got killed in an accident when he was just a kid. His aunt, Ms. Bethany, has been taking care of him ever since.”

“Oh. I didn’t know he had any family.”

“Yeah. Even folks in gangs have families,” Faith says.

I pause. “Thank you, Faith. This means the world to me.”

“So what do we do now?” Faith asks, playing with her natural curls. My pulse trembles in my fingertips.

“We go and bail him out so that he can help me look for my brother,” I answer, but I feel so uncomfortable all of a sudden, and I don’t really know why.

She gets up, slings her purse over her shoulder, and says, “Let’s go.”





I stare at my message log on my phone, feeling shittier each time I see an ignored text from Ivy and G-mo. I feel terrible for pushing them away, but I’m just so afraid of all the hurt inside me, and I pushed them away as if they were to blame, as if our friendship was just like grains of sand falling through my fingers. I shouldn’t have done that. I mean, Ivy and G-mo have been my ride-or-die homies since the beginning, spending many nights talking three-way on the phone about the randomest things that come to mind, and we’re always looking out for one another. They’re the ones who keep me afloat, too.

“Texts from your friends?” Faith asks, glancing over.

I put my phone back into my pocket. “Yeah.”

She watches me like she can see all the shit I’m going through. “I know that when you’re hurting, it can be easy to push away the people who care about you—but you’re going to need your friends more than ever now, you know?”

I don’t say anything, and it’s quiet in the car for a long while.

I breathe out through my nose and pull out my phone again and text Ivy and G-mo. I tell them what I’m about to do, that I’m about to bail out Johntae.

And like the true best friends that they are, they don’t wait to text me back. They don’t even seem mad or upset. Ivy asks if I’m okay, and G-mo sends me a funny Harry Potter meme. It puts a smile on my face.

I gaze out the window, watching all the houses blur past. Some of them are boarded up and abandoned. Others are fancier ones that belong to the rich white folks. My eyes meet the sky, which looks like a beautiful mural of violets and oranges. There’s something about it that takes me back to when my dad would drive Tyler and me around in the old SUV on Saturday nights. I miss that, almost as much as I miss the two of them.

It takes an hour, but Faith and I finally arrive at Metropolitan Detention Center, the prison where Johntae is being detained. I’m shaking as I get out the car, and I don’t know if it’s entirely because of the cool breeze.

This place is dusty and grimy and looks like one of those dungeons from the Antigone video we watched in Ms. Tanner’s class. Gnats and mosquitoes clog the air, funneling into some of the light posts surrounding the building.

The inside smells like bleach and salt and sterilized depression, and I stand and walk at attention, my eyes racing from right to left, as I take in everything around me. Darkness, orange jumpsuits, and police officers giving us dirty looks.

Faith talks to the officer sitting at the front desk.

“We’re here to bail out a close family member,” Faith lies.

The woman sits behind a glass wall with a speaker in front of her. She has a huge, pissed-off frown from years of seeing people like us bail out criminals.

“Name?” she booms in an annoyed tone.

“Mine, or…?” Faith goes.

“Both,” the lady says, chewing hard on a stick of gum.

Faith gives her the information.

“You may be seated in the waiting area. Wait to be called up,” the lady says. I wipe beads of sweat from my top lip, looking around at all the people who’re also sitting in the waiting area, which is just a big rectangular room with chairs around the perimeter.

Faith and I sit in the only two empty seats. The room is packed with people and shuffling feet and rustling bags and a wailing baby. My legs shake and my eyes frenzy around the room. Is this what the waiting room would look like at my dad’s prison? Will I have to sit in a waiting room like this to see Tyler again, if he’s put in jail, too? Is this what I’m going to have to do for the rest of my life—sit in waiting rooms?