Tyler Johnson Was Here(44)

And I really want to grunt something sarcastic back, but the interviewer clears his throat and extends his hand for me to shake.

“Great to see you again, Mr. Johnson,” he says.

“You too,” I reply, shaking his sweaty, warm hand.

“Mr. Ross from MIT is here to check in on your application, and to see if you still have interest in MIT.”

“You’re a very popular young man these days,” Mr. Ross says. He clears his throat. “I’m sorry for your loss, Marvin.”

It hurts. I don’t want to be popular—not for the reasons I am. “Thank you, Mr. Ross.”

“There’re quite a few people at MIT who would like to have you strongly considered, given your background, your twin brother’s tragedy—and your excellent test scores. It’s all a great story. It’s almost… symbolic, wouldn’t you say?”

I have no fucking idea what he’s talking about. “Yeah. Sure. Symbolic.”

Mr. Dodson sits and leans forward. “But I was just explaining to Mr. Ross that you no longer have interest in attending MIT—isn’t that right? Especially after your involvement with Mr. Johntae Smith’s party.” Principal Dodson stares coldly, like he’ll hurt me—or worse, murder me—if I don’t agree with him.

I turn away from him to face Mr. Ross. “I’m still interested, sir.” And then a lie slips in: “I had no involvement, sir—I was just at the wrong place at the wrong time, and my application is coming right along.”

Mr. Ross perks up and puts his files back in his attaché case. “Excellent, that’s all I wanted to hear. You don’t seem to respond to e-mails.” He sort of laughs, adjusting his blazer.

“Yeah,” I lie, “broken computer, and my neighborhood barely gets Internet access.” I’ve seen the e-mails—I just haven’t been able to get myself to respond.

“I do understand, Mr. Johnson,” he says, beaming.

I catch Dodson rolling his eyes.

I’m not in Dodson’s office for long. Mr. Ross gives me his business card and an MIT pen, and I leave after the late bell rings.





I walk into the Lion’s Den, ignoring the stares that follow me, and stop at my usual lunch table with G-mo and Ivy.

“You missed it,” G-mo says to me, putting down his hot dog drenched in ketchup and mayo. “There was just another fight that broke out. Some freshman beat up Lance Anderson. He got dragged out of here with a bloody nose. Yo, it was awesome!”

Ivy laughs. “That’s what his ass get, too.”

She pulls up a chair for me, and I sit down.

“Him getting kicked in the balls by a freshman was my favorite thing ever,” G-mo says through a mouthful. “That’s probably the highlight of this school year for everybody, yo. Shit, I would’ve done it myself.”

“You don’t have the balls,” Ivy says, tossing grapes in her mouth.

“Yo, I have great balls. My balls hang like they don’t have a curfew,” G-mo answers.

Ivy play-punches him while laughing.

I shake my head and look around. I honestly would’ve loved to see Lance Anderson get his racist ass kicked. I would love watching that video over and over again, rather than Tyler getting shot. Three times.

“You okay?” Ivy asks me. “You’re pretty quiet. I mean, rightfully so, but—”

“I’m a’ight,” I lie.

“You sure you a’ight?” Ivy presses. “I told you you don’t need to lie to us.” She opens up a bag of Sour Patch Kids and offers me some. I reach in and grab a few, making sure I don’t take any yellow ones.

“Yeah, is there anything we can do?” G-mo adds.

I look up and they’ve got these concerned looks on their faces, and G-mo completely stops chewing. But before I can say anything, my phone vibrates. I pull it out of my pocket and see an e-mail. An e-mail from Albert Sharp. Instantly, my heart is beating fast and my hands are starting to shake.

I read the e-mail out loud, my eyes wide.


Dear Mr. Marvin Johnson,

Thank you for contacting me. I have been following this case, and I feel I must help you in this fight for justice. I have scheduled a community demonstration for December 25, 2018. I believe in the power of reminding American citizens that black families are grieving while others are celebrating. The details are attached to this e-mail. May your loved one rest in peace and power.

Albert Sharp

Director of the National Crisis Foundation



I gasp.

And a quick grin appears on my face, and then fades.

I open the attachment and see that we’re going to have a protest on the entire block by Sojo High, and it’s on the same day as Lance’s protest in defense of the cop because he got arrested for what he did. It’s about a month away. After the hearing.

“We gotta protest. We gotta protest for Tyler,” I say. I’m so glad Mr. Sharp is willing to help us I could cry.

Ivy lets out a breath and nods, twisting her Nautica hat backward.

I squeeze my hands into my pockets and try to slow down my heart, but it doesn’t seem to work. I’m so mad that I feel this weak.





? 21 ?


A Not-So-Happy Thanksgiving comes and goes—Mama and I having to fill the emptiness at the table with stories about Tyler, like how he’d eat all the dinner rolls up every year and about how he’d remind us how thankful he was for his family. Two weeks later, in early December, the preliminary hearing finally comes around. The grief comes in calmer waves now, though it still wreaks total havoc on my life. I’m numb and broken and it gets physically hard to breathe at times, but I still manage to get dressed in the morning. I put on an old suit and tie—the one and only suit and tie that I’ve ever owned, one that I got when my grandfather passed away. It’s a bit too tight around the cuffs, and the legs are a lot thinner than I am. I squeeze into it and just stare at myself in the mirror.