What Lane?

by Torrey Maldonado

  Chad dares me, “Bet you can’t climb it too.”

  I eye the fence’s holes, so small that sneakers’ fronts barely fit in them. How’d Christopher climb this?

  I’m about to ask Christopher when Chad hisses, “Don’t ask Christopher. He climbed it on his own when I dared him. You don’t need help either.”

  Fine. I go for it and my fingers carry most of my weight, since my feet won’t grip. My fingers hurt-hurt, and halfway up, the pain makes me want to come down.

  I look at Christopher waving me up. I look down at Chad smile-yelling, “If you can’t climb it, just come down!”

  I can do what any of these guys can do, I think. I keep climbing.

  Now my friends cheer me on.

  Jeremiah: “Stephen, you got this!”

  Jen: “You’re almost there!”

  Dan: “C’mon, Miles Morales! Reach the top!”

  I glance back down. When you’re two stories up with nothing to catch you, two stories feels like way more.

  But now I’m amped to get to the top.

  And Chad hates that. He jumps on the fence and starts shaking it.

  Here’s the thing: My fingers have that feeling of carrying heavy plastic shopping bags by the handles for too long multiplied by a million. Now Chad’s climbing this fence, shaking it, and I’m losing my grip.

  “Stop, Chad!” Jen yells. “You’re gonna make Stephen fall!”

  Christopher reaches out to me from the top. “Stephen, give me your hand. I’ll pull you up.”

  I grip my fingers into fence holes and pull myself up as hard as I can.

  Christopher’s hand is now so close. “Stephen, a little more. Just a little.”

  Right then—smack—our hands clasp, and with me climbing and him pulling, I make it to the top.

  All of a sudden, Chad loses interest and jumps down.

  Me and Christopher dangle one foot over. “Dan called you Miles. Spider-Man Miles?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then you’re Miles, for real. This climb isn’t easy.”

  “Don’t try gassing Stephen’s head up!” Chad jealous-shouts at us celebrating. “He’s no real climber.”

  Dan’s annoyed voice checks Chad. “You’re talking? You didn’t even make it to the top.”

  “’Cause I didn’t want to,” Chad replies. “It’s too easy a climb. And, Stephen, if you’re Miles, let’s all go to the factory. Show us how to climb that fence.”

  I don’t want to go there, but Chad’s smirk annoys me. And it’s gonna feel good wiping the smirk off his face when I punk him by getting through the fence without even climbing it.

  When I say, “Yeah. I’ll go,” Chad smiles big at me—the kind the Joker gives Batman.

  CHAPTER 12

  WHEN I SEE the NO TRESPASSING signs around the factory, my dad’s advice from Grandpa Soda Pop plays in my head. Think twice before you act once.

  Yeah, they’d both tell me that now about going in here.

  Whatevs, I think. I can handle this.

  The sky gets darker as I study the fence. Is the opening I saw last time at this bottom here? Or that bottom?

  Jeremiah tells Jen, “Kinda creepy how this place is next to a cemetery, huh?”

  I crouch and yank the fence, but it won’t lift. I rush to another spot, yank, it lifts, and I yell to my friends, “Why climb when we can roll under?”

  Everyone is SOS because they never thought of that.

  I hold up the fence and Dan wiggles under fast. One by one, everyone does.

  Now I’m the last one outside.

  A faraway cop siren whistles, making me pause a second. I remember, Everyone is white here but me.

  “You coming?” Dan asks. “I can’t hold this fence up forever.”

  I wiggle under.

  * * *

  I was right about getting inside the factory too—the lock on the door is all for show. When we pull the door back hard, there’s enough room for each of us to slip through by turning sideways.

  I expected inside the factory to be scary, and it is. Long shadows stretch off tall metal machines—the shadows remind me of those monsters from the Shazam! movie that stood still, waiting to come alive. Wind howls through busted windows, making newspaper pages and plastic bags swirl, alive-like, around our feet.

  We’re not the first ones in here. Old mattresses are on the ground in two different spots with empty bottles near them. Graffiti is on walls. Doesn’t help relax me that some are demons and skulls.

  But it’s the clanking sound that really freaks me out—like someone is banging a warning. No one has to tell me I have frightened googly eyes. I feel them.

  Dan feels like I do. He comes and whispers in my ear, “That noise. You think it’s ghosts telling us to get out?”

  Then Chad points to two conveyor belts that slope up in a forty-five-degree angle to some square holes near the ceiling.

  “How sick would it be to climb way up there? I bet we fit through those holes. Let’s climb them,” Chad dares us.

  “Nah. We could fall. Look how high those belts slope,” Jeremiah says.

  Chad eyes me the way he did back at the handball court fence. “Stephen, you think you’re Spider-Man. You said you’re a climber. Race me.”

  Christopher cuts him off. “I’ll race you, Chad. And you know I’ll dust you.”

  Chad gets competitive. “C’mon, then.”

  They go.

  I’m glad Christopher just saved me—but I don’t want him getting hurt. Still, if anyone’s got this, it’s him. His climbing skills are tight.

  Chad scoots onto one conveyor belt, Christopher on the other.

  “On your mark,” they both say at the same time, “get set, GO!”

  They race up, and the higher they get, the bouncier the conveyor belts get.

  Jeremiah yells up to them, “Slow down!” He turns to us. “Dang! They’re about to bounce off!”

  I’m scared just watching, and only when Christopher makes it to the top and through a ceiling square do I relax. Chad follows and then is gone too.

  Jen says, “C’mon. If they can do it, we can.” She climbs on a belt and starts up. Her climbing skills are awesome too. Her brother, Jeremiah, scrambles to keep up with her.

  Me and Dan turn to each other.

  “I guess I’m doing it.” Dan climbs on.

  Ugh! Now I have to.

  I climb behind him, and he tells me, “Quit bouncing.”

  “That’s you.”

  These belts are not stable. The higher we get, the bouncier they get, and the more I need to focus on not falling off.

  Jeremiah and Jen wait for us and we all keep going forward.

  We’re almost at the square openings where Chad and Christopher disappeared, when—

  “BOO!” Chad pops his head out and snaps a photo. The flash is blinding.

  I stumble but catch myself as Jen screams at him, “You IDIOT!”

  But Jeremiah . . .

  When he jumped back from Chad’s flash, one of his legs slipped off the conveyor belt. Now they’re both dangling off the belt.

  Everyone’s eyes pop and stare at him.

  I imagine the worst. Him letting go and breaking both legs when he hits the floor.

  Jen scoots back to help her brother, but—good thing—he’s okay. He swings a leg up that catches the conveyor belt. Then his other. His whole body shifts back on.

  Phew.

  We all climb through the square openings, and Jen’s so mad, she yells, “What’s wrong with you, Chad?!”

  Dan’s mad too. “Chad, you could’ve killed one of us! Not! Cool!”

  “Shut up.” Chad swats away them criticizing him. “No one got hurt.”

  He walks off into the shadows.

  CHAPTER 13
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  IT’S DARKER UP on this next floor.

  Jen’s cooled down from being so mad. She asks her brother, “Take a picture of me in front of the window. The glass shards behind me look creepy, right?”

  Goose bumps rise on my body. Maybe it’s the howling wind? Maybe the nonstop metal clanking? Maybe both?

  It’s like Dan reads my mind. “Stephen, each clank sounds like, GO HOME! Go home.”

  “I know,” I say. “If you said someone is behind that door over there slamming a pipe against something, I’d believe you.”

  Dan squints at the closed rusty door across the room. He whispers so just I can hear. “Want to leave?”

  I eye my bracelet. The words glow in the dark: WHAT LANE? Yeah, maybe not this lane now. I nod at Dan. “Yeah. Let’s leave.”

  All of a sudden, the clanking gets louder and faster. Jeremiah, Jen, and Christopher stare at the door with the same shook eyes as us.

  Dan tells them, “Anyone else ready to bounce? Me and Stephen are out.”

  They nod, and we head to an old metal staircase.

  Chad spots us and starts dissing. “This place too much for y’all? You should see yourselves. Ready to run.”

  Jen grabs her brother’s arm. “Chad, forget you.”

  “C’mon, Chad,” Dan says. “Just come with us. We’ve seen enough of here.”

  But Chad doesn’t move, so we leave him behind.

  We go slowly, feeling which steps are safe. We didn’t come up this way, so we see new stuff as we head down the staircase.

  Dan spots what looks like a fireman’s pole. “Hey, maybe it’d be faster sliding down that.”

  Jeremiah squints at it. “Yeah. Next time. Nah. Forget here. No next time.”

  We finally reach the bottom and pass a huge pool full of Styrofoam balls.

  “Whoa,” Christopher says. “Wanna jump in? That’d be crazy.”

  “Yeah, but not good crazy,” Jeremiah says. “I’m not trying to get ringworm or lice. Our mom would love us bringing home weird bugs.”

  But Christopher’s already walking toward the Styrofoam pool. So is Jen.

  Then she screams.

  Christopher smacks his hand to his mouth. “YOoooo, an arm is in there!”

  We all inch toward the pool. A lifeless arm floats in the pool of Styrofoam.

  We all stand there, scared.

  Dan: “Do you think a body’s attached?”

  Jeremiah: “If we find a dead body, the police have to get involved.”

  Jen: “Our parents too.”

  Christopher: “What if the cops think we killed this person?”

  I’m shook and my mind races. What’ll happen if a cop comes? Everyone here is white and I’m not. I remember how Junior—my super—swore I knew that bike thief. He saw Dan as innocent and me as guilty because I’m Black.

  I was afraid a minute ago, and now a whole other fear hits me. I want to run.

  CHAPTER 14

  ME AND DAN’S eyes meet, and we swallow so hard, our Adam’s apples pump.

  It seems time froze in this factory. The clanging hasn’t stopped. Now there’s a body.

  Everyone looks scared and confused as we discuss what to do.

  Then all of a sudden . . .

  “AAAAH!” The dead arm comes to life and flings Styrofoam at us.

  We jump back, run . . . and then realize . . .

  It’s Chad.

  “Come in for a swim, scaredy-cats,” he jokes.

  “YOoooo, I almost peed on myself,” Jeremiah says.

  Jen shakes her head. “Again with the rude surprises, Chad?”

  Christopher is confused. “How’d you get down here before us?”

  Chad points at the fireman’s pole. “Slid down that.”

  Christopher says, “Too bad you didn’t fall off it and get sense knocked into you.”

  He turns and heads for the door leading out of the factory. One by one we follow him. Even Chad climbs out and runs to catch up to us while laughing and making fun of our reactions.

  I hang back so I don’t have to hear him. Jeremiah starts walking with me.

  “’Sup?” I ask Jeremiah.

  “Nothing. It’s just . . . Chad being Chad, I guess.”

  “Yeah, he’s too extra,” I tell Jeremiah. “But I was worried you’d fall off that belt and get hurt. Like, seriously hurt.”

  I see just enough of the side of Jeremiah’s face to know he’s glad I care.

  He whispers back, “Me too. I didn’t even want to climb it.”

  “So why did you?” I ask.

  “Once Chad started it, everyone rode that lane. How’d I look if I punked out?”

  “I get it,” I tell him. “I was right there riding in Chad’s lane too.”

  CHAPTER 15

  THE NEXT DAY in school, when any of them see me, they call me over.

  Each time it’s the same: “Yo, how scary was . . . ?” or “Remember when we . . . ?” or “It was kray when . . .”

  “Yeah.” I shrug, nod, or smile, then leave fast.

  Just knowing I went in that factory feels enough. And today I replayed it in my head and thought, You wouldn’t’ve been in the same lane as them if cops caught you in the factory. I tried to kill that idea: You’re bugging—cops would’ve been fair.

  But what my grandpa Soda Pop told my dad about cops . . .

  Would cops have been fair?

  Those thoughts bug me and I wished they’d stop.

  So when Dan calls out to me before we go in the lunchroom, the last thing I want is for him to go ape about the factory.

  And he doesn’t.

  Not for all of lunch.

  It’s wild how he’s the opposite of everyone about the factory, so as we leave the lunchroom for upstairs, I say, “Heads can’t quit bragging about that factory, huh?”

  “For real.” He stops, looks to make sure no one hears, and leans in. “They’re too extra. We broke in, right? That should be enough. It was even sorta dumb that we did. And Chad . . .”

  I wait.

  “Chad’s . . . sometimes . . .”

  I keep waiting.

  “How’d you describe him again?”

  “Wack.”

  “Yeah, that and more.”

  “Opposite of you?”

  “Yeah, it’s hard to believe we’re cousins sometimes.”

  “You can’t say that,” I tell him.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m the one who said it first and told you. You copying me.”

  He soft-punches my arm. “Ha, ha. But you were right.”

  I feel better knowing Dan gets it about Chad.

  I want to tell him, You know. So what now? But the nine-year-old shy me pulls me back. We’ll see.

  CHAPTER 16

  EVER SINCE WES told me about Black Lives Matter, I’ve heard and seen stuff about it here and there.

  Our school has this new Reading Partners program with a high school across the street, and our English teacher, Mr. Diaz, signed my class up for it. So a little after lunch, we walk over. What’s the first thing I see in the hall? A Black Lives Matter bulletin board.

  Tons of photos on half the board. I try moving around kids in my class to see better. Dang, why they just standing, blocking me? They’re not even looking at the board.

  I finally get to it. One photo has a white teenage guy holding a poster with the question IS MY LIFE WORTH MORE THAN HIS? An arrow on his poster points to a Black guy his age holding a poster too. His question is IS MY LIFE WORTH LESS THAN HIS? His arrow points at the white guy. There’s another photo of a Black woman holding a poster with the question IS MY SON NEXT? I think about the things my dad said about racist people and about Grandpa Soda Pop having it real-real rough.

  My eyes go to ano
ther part of the board. A photo shows a boy who looks like Wes. Underneath his photo are typed words:

  TAMIR RICE

  Age: 12. R.I.P. 2014.

  Unarmed & shot dead by police.

  Tamir could be your little brother.

  How do you feel about what happened in Cleveland, Ohio?

  I squint at different-colored Post-its in handwriting like mine with high school students’ answers to that question. WOOOOW! A white cop shot this kid. And the kids here are pissed about it!

  Another photo grabs my eye: Colin Kaepernick in his football uniform on one knee during the National Anthem. Underneath, the big typed questions ask,

  What does Colin Kaepernick taking a knee say about there being two different Americas?

  What does his taking a knee have to do with Black Lives Matter?

  I stare at all the Post-its with handwritten answers to those questions. I lean in to read one when Mr. Diaz calls my name from across the hall and shocks me. I jump.

  Oh dip! Like, almost my whole class has turned and disappeared around the corner. I run to catch up, and while I run, I wish my class was headed into that classroom with the Black Lives Matter bulletin board outside. This makes me think two things. First, it’d be cool to hear what high school students think about BLM. Second, it reminds me of Wes and how I told him we should hang. And we should.

  After school, I whip out my cell and hit him up.

  CHAPTER 17

  EARLIER, WHEN I told my dad that I called Wes and he invited me over for dinner, my dad glad-clapped. “Date night for your mom and me!”

  Right now, my parents watch me leave our car and walk to Wes, who waits outside his building for me and waves at them. They’ll get me later.

  We both live in Brooklyn, but Wes’s neighborhood is more mixed than ours.

  “Stephen, where have you been?” Wes’s mom is at their apartment door and hugs me like I’m family.

  “Stephen!” Wes’s dad stands from the sofa, his voice happy. “When Wes said you’d visit, I didn’t believe it, stranger! Figured you and your Golden State Warriors were flying state to state to win us the championship.” Mr. Campbell—Wes’s dad—is a Stephen Curry fan for real. He rubs his wrists to massage the pain out and waves at the table in front of his sofa. “Tired of figuring out these Halloween decorations and how to cut this pumpkin. You boys take over. Small pumpkins here to draw on too.”