“How come you don’t never answer?”
Anthony didn’t say anything. Sometimes it was best to ignore him. They came to a brick-strewn and muddy lot with a low fence. “Let’s cut through,” Anthony said. “I need to hurry up and hit the bathroom.”
“Pee right here. Ain’t nobody looking at you.”
Anthony made a face. “I ain’t gotta pee, dawg.”
Mookie nodded, but he still kept to the sidewalk. “Naw man, you can make it. It be big-ass rats in there at night.”
Anthony pleaded, but Mookie shook his head and moved more deliberately. They were halfway to the corner, anyway. Just then, a blue Buick pulled to the curb. A light-skinned man in the passenger seat stared hard at them through his sunglasses. Anthony wanted to dash, but another fear gripped him. If he wound up running for no good reason, the teasing would be merciless.
“Yo, cuz,” the passenger said, leaning out the open window. “Yaw know where we can cop some weed at?”
Anthony stayed where he was but his friend moved closer. “Back that way,” Mookie said pointing. “Past the RTA station. Niggas always be there.”
The boys continued walking toward the corner, not saying anything. Anthony wanted to turn around and look but kept stopping himself. He was afraid though. Something felt wrong. Weed was everywhere in East Cleveland, and the dope spots were obvious. The men were either cops or something worse. Anthony checked over his shoulder and then didn’t care about getting teased. The car was trailing quietly behind them, close to the curb. “We gotta cut through.”
Mookie looked and his eyes got wide, but he sniffed and stuck to the sidewalk. “You cut through, nigga,” he said. “I ain’t no punk.”
A sound from the street made Anthony turn again. The passenger was out of the car and moving toward them, his head on a swivel and right arm glued to his thigh.
“RUN!” Ant threw the beer in the air and vaulted the fence. His feet stumbled over things that he couldn’t see, but he kept going. The man shouted, and then there were two quick explosions. Something angry whistled past Anthony’s ear, and he dropped face-first in the mud. He wanted to cry and to run and to pray; he wanted to crawl to safety. But he was too petrified to move, too scared to stop the spreading warmth in his crotch.
Ant stayed still and listened long for more gunshots or footsteps. What had the man shouted? Was it gangs or money? Shameeka or something else? Slowly he rolled over onto his back and lifted his muddy head. The Buick was nowhere in sight. But neither was his friend.
“Mookie?”
He called him again, more urgently. “Mookie-Mook? Where you at, man? I think they gone.” Still no answer. He hoped that his friend had run away, but somehow Anthony didn’t believe it.
He got to his knees and saw a dark bulk on the fence, knew that it was Mookie, and ran over. His friend was bent over the top rail at the waist, dripping blood. Bits of brain were in his hair and on the ground like chewed bubblegum.
Anthony ran to the store and begged for help, went back to his friend and stood guard but tried not to look at him. Soon there were sirens and people with badges who asked him all kinds of questions. No, he and Mookie were not in a gang and no, neither one of them sold drugs. He gave a description of the man and the car but hadn’t thought to look at the license plate.
An ambulance came and then more policemen. They set up lights and unrolled yellow tape to control the growing crowd. After that, the television trucks arrived and parked halfway on the sidewalk. White reporters in expensive clothes stood in front of scruffy cameramen, stared grimly into living rooms, and shared the latest news: Another kid had been gunned down in East Cleveland.
And all the while as they talked, Mookie stayed bent over the fence, away from the cameras but bleached by other floodlights. Police and detectives scuttled around him like crabs, sometimes laughing. Why did they have to go for more beer? Why did Mookie slap Shameeka like that? Why had Mookie been too proud to run?
An officer, the first one Anthony had talked to, came over and leaned into the open cruiser. “How you doing, there, kid? Just a few more minutes and we can take you home.”
“It ain’t right for him to still be up there like that,” Anthony said. “Somebody need to take him down.”
The officer held up his hand. “Wait a second, they will. We just have to finish the initial investigation. . . . It sure would be nice if you could remember something else. If not the license plate, a motive? Anything?”
“What about a sheet? Cain’t you at least cover him up?”
The officer started to say something but closed his mouth. Then he went and found an EMT. Minutes later, someone brought a sheet and draped it over the body. The officer came back. “So, you ready to go?”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll walk.” Ant stood up and started off. He went in the wrong direction at first but crossed the street and doubled back. His feet were heavy and numb. It took a lot to pick them up and put them down. Mookie was dead and hanging over a fence; his brains were stuck in his hair. He would never get a record deal, never get to drive a car or live on his own. He was fourteen years old and done with his life, while Anthony was walking home. It didn’t feel right.
Before long, Ant stood on his porch but didn’t go through the door. The red lights were on in the windows upstairs, and he could hear loud music and laughter. He sat on the steps and stared at the lawn, wanted to be alone but needed company.
He started walking again. It was dark and too cold for the clothes he was wearing, but Anthony didn’t care very much about comfort. He didn’t care about the drying mud on his pants, and he didn’t care about his damp crotch, either. He just walked with his chin on his chest and no destination in mind, walked because it was better than sitting. And it wasn’t until he found himself in front of Mookie’s house that Anthony realized he’d walked too far.
There were people standing outside under the porch light, Mookie’s mother crying inside of a circle of women, her other sons looking angry and helpless. More people were scattered around the little yard, including Floyd and other eighth graders. Anthony thought about turning around, but his best friend saw him before he could move.
“Ant!” Floyd rushed over with a couple of other boys close behind him. All of their faces were strained. “What the hell? What happened?”
Ant told them about the car and the thin man in sunglasses, about the gunshots and Mookie hanging over the fence. And he told them about the police and the TV reporters, how none of them really seemed to care very much about their friend.
“Like that’s a surprise,” Floyd said woodenly. “Mook wasn’t no white boy from Pepper Pike.”
Just then Paulette, Mookie’s older sister, came rushing off the porch, shoeless and in a bathrobe. She ran directly to Anthony and clung to his arm. “It wasn’t him, right?” she pleaded. “Mookie ain’t dead, Ant. Say they lying!”
Anthony opened his mouth and closed it, shook his head, and then Paulette collapsed on the sidewalk. Caring hands carried her back into the house. Ant followed them and stopped on the porch, in front of Mookie’s numb mother. “I’m sorry,” he croaked. “We tried to run but . . . I don’t know . . . we tried. I’m sorry.”