Tyler Johnson Was Here(55)

? 28 ?


Today, I’m helping Faith study for her college exams. After we run through all the major historic events in the United States, attempting some geography of the world and geography of each other, we turn to economics. An hour or so after we finish studying, I read her the poem “Mother to Son” by Langston Hughes, my favorite poet of all time.

And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

Faith exhales. “You know,” she goes, leaning back against the headboard on her bed, “with as much reading as you do, you should try writing your own poem. Maybe even a book.”

I attempt a laugh. And I just study her for a second, trying to figure out if she’s making fun of me or not.

“I’m serious,” she says. “I bet you could write a book about your life that’d sell a million damn copies.”

I slide my pencil in the space behind my ear, and it stays in place. I inch a bit closer to her and say very softly, “I never thought about it, but maybe you’re right. Maybe I should.” My smile feels like it gets bigger. “And you’ll be in the dedication.”

“Nah,” she says, “that’ll just drive me wild.”

“Why?”

“It just will,” she says. I watch her glimmer.

“Yeah,” I say. I am beginning to notice that my ye-ahs are almost like two separate syllables, like I’ve invented my own dialect to detach myself from the world. One syllable for yes and the other for but everything may fall through in the end.

She nods at me, her head to the side, just gazing and cheesing her cheesy smile.

“What do you want to be in the future?” I ask.

She flickers her eyes. “I want to be a designer.” Her eyes move to scan her room, and I follow them, looking at the cutouts from magazines and newspapers plastered on her walls—things that she has stitched, glued, and taped together into her own creations.

And as she tells the stories behind all of the designs, it hits me: This is how she escapes. She runs away to Teen Vogue and Ebony magazines to disappear into the outside world, far, far away from Sterling Point. Making cutouts.

Right as she starts to explain one of the creations—a man wearing a tinfoil dress, a pair of white Jordans, and an alligator-skin hat—a scratchy voice calls out from one of the other rooms.

“Faith! Girl. Faiiiiith! Come here!”

“It’s my mom,” she says. “She’s home early.” Her shoulders slump and she rises from the bed, a surprised look on her face.

I sink into the bed.

“I’ll be right back,” she says, and winks.

“All right.” I nod, stretching out and admiring the glow-in-the-dark stars on her ceiling. I keep quiet and listen to the back and forth between her and her mother.

When she gets back, she has laundry in her hands. She walks across her room and puts it on her bright pink beanbag chair. “I forgot to take my laundry out of the dryer,” she sighs, brushing her hair back with her shoulder. “She gets super mad about that. It’s old age. I swear.” We share a quick laugh. She comes back over to the bed.

I turn my head slowly, and our lips lock. On impact, we ignite. One thought in mind: This feels a thousand times better than any word either of us could say. And I’m trying my best to kiss her good enough that she forgets where she is, good enough that I forget everything, good enough that I fill with hope.

But I pull back. She puts a hand on mine.

“I know,” she says quietly. “You don’t have to feel guilty. It’s okay to live. If you don’t—then that cop took both your lives.”

I nod, and she kisses me again, and the two of us lie down in her bed, side by side, and slowly tell each other embarrassing stories and then name the plastic stars on her ceiling.

“That one’s Adelina,” she says. “No, Artisha.”

“There’s Marcus,” I say, pointing to a tiny one in the corner.

She laughs. “It looks more like a Devin.” There’s a pause and we’re paying attention to each other’s eyes. Then she breaks our gaze, pointing over our heads. “See those two together right there?”

“Mm-hmm,” I answer.

“They’re twins, and I’m naming them Marvin and Tyler.” She smiles, still looking at the plastic stars on her ceiling.

Faith’s mom, Ms. Gladys, walks in, offering some homemade trail mix. We both take handfuls, and Ms. Gladys does a double take with her eyes before walking out. “No shutting doors if you don’t pay bills, Faith. You know that,” she says.

Faith rolls her eyes and looks back at me with a grin.

“And leave some room for Jesus between y’all.”

Faith and I chill for a little while longer, feeding each other trail mix, and then she drops me off at my place, the sun still on the verge of setting, like it’s confused and indecisive.





? 29 ?


Did she let you do it without a condom?” is the first thing G-mo says as he climbs through my window with Ivy. For all the years we’ve been friends, I still don’t know why they don’t just use the door, but I don’t mind it. G-mo has this huge, sneaky grin on his face, like I am full of dirty little details and he’s about to get an earful.