This Is My America(55)

“Tasha!” I yell after her. She turns back, giving me a hard look, then opens her car door.

“Tasha!” I run to catch up, my feet pounding, and climb into her car.

“Why you riding with me?”

“Tasha. It’s been us, together, always.” She’s hurt about Quincy, obviously. I can’t let that push our friendship aside. It’s clear Quincy’s back in my life, but she’s taking it the wrong way.

“It sure don’t seem like it,” Tasha says. “Since when have you been feeling Quincy?”

“We have history, Tasha.” She’s never really known our history; no one has. Not what we’ve been through. All the things that are unspoken. But I also need Tasha. Tasha needs me.



“You know you’re the reason that fight started. He could’ve been hurt.”

“Quincy’s been helping me with my brother. There’s so much going on you don’t know, but it’s not like I’m trying to keep it from you. We been through a lot, too. And you’re mad, so yeah. I’m going with your stubborn ass.”

Tasha isn’t happy I joined her, but she also doesn’t kick me out.

We drive past Quincy’s Impala, where he’s leaning back on his car, nursing his leg and giving us a nod, but I look away. Won’t let Tasha see how badly I wanted to ride with Quincy.





WE GOT A SITUATION


On Sunday after church, I head to see Dean at work. Dean rings up a customer, then joins me in the corner where I have my favorite view to the street. Steve is out doing interviews, so I don’t mind waiting for him at Evans Antiques. I’ve got my laptop pulled up, searching online for anything around the dates the photos at the Pike were taken and catching up with what I missed after we were all kicked out of Mandy’s party—at least all the Black kids.

“Party didn’t last much longer,” Dean says. “Everybody knows I’m cool with you, so no one said much to me.”

“What about Mandy?”

“She kept to herself. Seemed relieved when everyone started leaving. Scott and Chris stuck around, helping her clean up, but she was jumpy with them.”



“Mandy doesn’t think Jamal had anything to do with killing Angela. She thinks the micro SD card got her in trouble, and all the questions she was asking.”

“You find anything on there?”

“No.” I share a copy of the photos out at the Pike. “Does this spur anything?”

Dean shrugs. “Just a bunch of guys out drinking. The only thing weird is they’re from different cliques. Don’t usually see them all together.”

Dean gets up to help the next person in line. What Dean doesn’t say is that they do have something in common—they’re all white. Just like how the party last night was pretty much segregated. He can’t see it, but the absence of color is striking to me. It also gives me a thought. I search online, up and around a few days before the photo was taken.

Eventually, I see one small reference to a Black Lives Matter peace rally against a hate group planning on marching an hour away. It ended up being a mob of around forty guys. A girl who was part of the peaceful march was shot by a stray bullet that hit the crowd.

I covered the march in “Tracy’s Corner.” It started a debate in history class when white kids asked why it’s not racist to say Black Lives Matter but a problem to say White Lives Matter or Blue Lives Matter. What they don’t get is that those lives have always mattered. Ours are treated like we’re less than equal. Like we don’t deserve the same respect. A school shooter can come out alive but a Black kid in handcuffs on the ground can be shot, unchecked. An AK-47 in a white hand has more rights than a Black kid with Skittles.



I search through social media tags, scrolling until an image jolts me. A guy with a Texas A&M hat with the number 27 on the side. Chris. His mouth opened wide, yelling at the anti-racist protesters, Blue Lives Matter flag in his hand. Right next to him, much clearer now, is Scott with his varsity jacket on, TRACK & FIELD on his shoulder.

I get up to show Dean.

Through the window of Evans Antiques, I see a guy get out of his SUV. He’s dressed in a crisp blue shirt, gray slacks, and shoes too shiny for Texas. I strain to see his face, but his hat and sunglasses are a good cover from this distance. He strikes me as familiar, maybe from around town. He doesn’t head into the Evanses’ store. Instead, he makes his way down the alley.

“I think that’s the guy who had binoculars watching Steve,” I call out to Dean.

“You sure?” Dean comes over and puts a hand on my shoulder, looking over me to see the guy, but he’s too late.

“What else is down the alley?” I ask.

“Garbage. It’s a dead end.” Dean pauses, then looks at me. “And the stairs to Steve’s office.”

I’m certain it’s no coincidence that he’s here as soon as Steve’s gone.

I pull out my cell and call Steve. “Did you lock the office?”



“Why, you need to get in?” Steve asks.

“No. The guy in the white SUV went down the alley behind Mr. Evans’s store. All that’s there—”

“Call the cops and stay away,” Steve says. “I had his plates run. He’s not someone we want near our case files.”