Tyler Johnson Was Here(43)

One night, as sirens blared and gunpowder rained down outside my cracked window, I called out for someone—maybe Mama—to come and fight away the monsters in the dark. But when I called, Tyler came instead of Mama.

He walked in and sat on the edge of my bed, a worried look in his eyes, like he, too, felt uneasy at the sound of sirens. Like he, too, could see the monsters. He checked under my bed to soothe my fears.

And all of a sudden, I’m really fucking hating Marvin Johnson, because I could never be like Tyler, could never be as brave as him, could never soothe his fears. I couldn’t even fucking be there for him when he needed me most.

And I’m reminded of three things: 1) I’m a complete fuckup; 2) monsters can appear in broad daylight; and 3) Tyler will never again physically be here.

We were born together. He wasn’t supposed to die without me. And he wasn’t supposed to go out like he did.





Despite my unwillingness, a couple more days squeeze on by anyway. I spend each day pacing back and forth throughout my house, sitting in silence, refusing all food, and repeating this over and over again.

I’m mid-pace in the living room when the six o’clock news comes on, and I see my brother’s name flash in big red letters again.

I call out to Mama, who’s in the bathroom with the door locked, probably just sitting on the toilet seat with the lid down like she has been for most of the day, sobbing and sniffling into a roll of toilet paper. She runs out and sits down next to me with the toilet paper in her hands; it’s all wet-looking and shredded in random places. She’s wearing a silky white blouse. Her hair is pulled back, straight, strands tucked behind her ears. She looks like she’ll be going to Tyler’s funeral for the rest of her life.

The news reporter is talking about the hearing. This hearing is crucial, Mama tells me, and will determine whether or not we get justice. But this hearing isn’t going to bring Tyler back, so I don’t care as much as Mama does. Mama and I exchange glances before returning to the TV screen.

And I’m left thinking to myself that this is a huge change for her. Yesterday, she signed the papers to have Tyler turned into ashes and placed in a silver urn so she wouldn’t have to put him in the ground, so he could come back home one final time, and she was a turbulent hurricane of emotions, like no one would ever really understand how much she’s hurting. And I couldn’t really feel all the emptiness, because I did not allow myself to.

I don’t think you can ever quite fill the emptiness of something you lost that was everything, everything to you. The hurt still keeps on.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Focus. Focus on what Tyler needs: justice. The whole world screaming his name, knowing that he was here—knowing that he mattered.

I grab my laptop and scroll through Albert Sharp’s website. He hasn’t responded to my e-mail yet, but even if he doesn’t, I know what to do. Decide on a place, decide on a time, send out a message over social media. I know that G-mo and Ivy and Faith will help spread the word. I know they’ll help me make sure no one forgets my brother.





? 20 ?


At Sojo High, I’m no longer the boy whose brother went missing. I’m now the boy whose brother got himself killed. I have to tell way too many people that Tyler did not get himself killed for holding drugs for someone or for whatever the fuck they think, and that he was brutalized and killed by a cop—not because Tyler was doing anything wrong, but because the officer saw my brother as a threat just because of the color of his skin. I don’t know what was going through the cop’s head. But I sure as hell know that Tyler was just trying to go home.

Ms. Tanner finds me in the hallway and tells me that the principal wants to see me in his office. She makes her next class wait just so she can escort me down. Man, this is some whack shit. I don’t feel like talking to anybody, but especially not Dickface Dodson.

On the way, she says in her usual sweet tone, “If you ever need anything, remember that I’m here.” She continues with a small, bittersweet smile, telling me that she hates how the world fuels so much hatred; she hates how she can’t do anything to bring Tyler back to me.

I shrug my shoulders. She has these big eyes that are filled with sympathy. And it makes me feel some type of way, like she’s saying these things only to feel better about herself, as if she’s trying to show me that she’s not a racist, unlike Tyler’s killer. I don’t really want to hear it right now, but I don’t want to be shitty either.

So I nod and shrug again. “Thanks, Ms. Tanner.”

She folds her hands in front of her once we stop at Principal Dodson’s door.

I hear him talking to someone. I can see two shadows through the matte window.

I knock twice on the door.

Dodson’s muffled voice groans, “Come in.”

I look back as Ms. Tanner walks to her room, heels clicking down the long hallway, and I breathe out. I wish more teachers were as kind as her.

My stomach suddenly ties in knots, and I open the door. I see Principal Dodson standing over his desk and the MIT interviewer sitting in a chair on the other side of his office.

“Mr. Johnson, come in,” both of them say in different tones. I can hear the excitement in Mr. Ross’s voice and the dread in Dodson’s.

I take a seat, and everything spins.

“We’ll make this quick, since you have class,” Principal Dodson says while exhaling, his eye twitching. “A Sojo High education is a very precious one.”