This Is My America(78)

The sound of a truck parking, an engine rumbling. Then turning off. Voices carrying, getting closer toward us. Searching for something outside, just like we were an hour ago.

“We’ve got company,” I whisper.

“Back down here.” Quincy points to the narrow gap we crawled out of a minute ago.

Something in me knows I can’t trap us back in that small space again. And if these people find us, we’ll have led them straight to the gun.



I scan the building. The thumping of my heart in my ears gets faster and faster. Light-headed, I lean on Quincy’s arm. Scan the space, studying all the large windows. Then I see an office, and it looks like another exit that I must’ve missed the first time I was here.

“There,” I whisper.

Quincy nods. We head through the office, test the back door. I slowly push on it, expecting it to stay locked, but it opens. Quincy moves to exit. I look back through the building.

“Wait,” I say. “We could stay here, see who it is. Last time I went running out there, I ran right into guns being drawn.”

Quincy squeezes my hand.

We squat, wait it out. A few minutes later the door opens.

Someone’s here.

“Go,” Quincy’s voice chokes out at me. “I’ll stay. Cause a distraction if it looks like we’re in trouble.”

I shake my head. I won’t leave him here.

He begs with his eyes. I don’t budge.

Chris and Justin enter the building.

Quincy and I exchange glances.

Quincy creeps closer to the door. I follow behind as he nudges it open a crack. His T-shirt clutched in his hand, so he doesn’t touch the knob. My breathing gets shallow as I lift my phone and press record.



I swallow hard, hoping this won’t be a full-on crew of people entering.

“It’s not here, man.” Justin stalks around the room. “This place has been searched up and down by cops.”

“I don’t care,” Chris says. “Angela’s phone was found in here. That means she was in here, and we’ve gotta get that gun.”

I squeeze Quincy’s arm. He nods back.

“Maybe Scott got it back,” Justin says. “Just call him.”

“I’m not doing jack with him.”

“You act like he’s the one who killed Angela.”

“Maybe he did.” Chris’s voice is ice-cold.

“That’s fucked up, man. He’s your friend. Why blame him when you know it was Jamal’s black ass? Cops’ll find him.”

“How do we know he’s still running? Maybe Scott got rid of him, too,” Chris says. “Scott’s the one keeping secrets. He knew I was meeting Angela early.”

“Wait, you’re not serious, are you? Thought we were supposed to stick together.”

“He stole that gun. Used it out at the march and got that girl killed. Angela would still be here if he hadn’t done it.”

“No. Angela would be here if she wasn’t messing around on you.”

Chris shoves Justin.

“Sorry. Your new theory doesn’t make sense.”

“Just keep looking. Whether it was Jamal or Scott, my uncle needs that gun. If it’s found by the cops, he could be in big trouble.”



“You hear that?” I whisper to Quincy, who’s texting on his phone. “What’re you doing?”

Quincy shows me the phone. He’s texting Beverly.

Found the gun.

In a vent at the Pike building.

Behind the belt table.

Chris and Justin searching for it now.

Get outta there!

“Quincy,” I whisper. “We can’t get caught in here.”

“I know. Come on, let’s go.” He grabs my arm.

I nod in agreement. We gotta bounce.

We creep to the exit door as they are occupied looking under the forklift. I turn the handle slowly, scoot out. Quincy follows. We close the door behind us. My neck tense from straining in one spot, eyes blinded after moving from the darkness to the outside.

“Run on three.” Quincy counts down with his hands. Then whispers, “Run.”

Mama said my biggest weakness is I don’t have self-control. She joked about me being like Lot’s wife from the Bible. That I’d be just like her, turning my back to watch when God said not to. The burning flames of the city too tempting to watch. Then she turned into a pillar of salt. But when Quincy says “run,” I run. Fast, like I’m being swept by the wind. Don’t stop until we’re safely in the car.



There’s a moment of panic when he starts the engine—no way Chris and Justin don’t hear us—but then we’re peeling out and flying ninety miles an hour down the highway, quickly taking an exit when we see a fleet of police cars coming toward us. When they race past us, I gulp.

Then turn to look back.





COMING HOME


After a quick shower, I meet Quincy outside my house. We sit close on my porch; he wears a borrowed shirt of Jamal’s. My leg leans into his as we try to sort out what we know so far. Our fingers dangle next to each other’s. They touch, and a warm zing goes off inside. A soft smile escapes from Quincy, but we don’t speak. Too much at stake right now.