Tagged

by Diane C. Mullen

  Nod. That was last year. MHT was a completely different school from Saint Al’s.

  “So … what’s going on? You’ve got a C average right now.”

  “I’ve got an A in art.” Only class I like. Wish I could major in art.

  “That’s fine, but your other classes are more important. You’re going to be ineligible to play baseball.”

  “Oh.” Who cares?

  “I’ve got updates from your teachers telling me that you have numerous missing assignments. Why aren’t you doing your homework?”

  “Don’t know.” Don’t have a computer at home. Don’t have money to buy supplies for class projects. Don’t feel like doing it. Don’t belong at this school.

  “Well, you’re going to have to get your GPA back up to an acceptable level. Until then I have to put you on academic probation. We have strict guidelines here at Saint Al’s.”

  “Right.” Like all students must be dropped off by two parents in a Benz?

  “Remember, I’m here to help. If you ever want to talk about anything …”

  “Nope.” Not talking about anything. “I’m good.”

  Staying away from the corner store

  Don’t want to be anywhere near that shamrock.

  Trying to shove Los Crooks out of my head. Easy to say. Harder to do.

  Cut through an alley. Graffiti’s everywhere. Need to get my name up. Look all around. Can of Juice Green out of my backpack. Nope. Los Crooks could make the connection. Silver Sharpie instead. Look again. Now.

  St. B

  Yep. I’m here.

  Head down the alley. “Whoa.” Huge graffiti piece stops me dead in my tracks. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Covers the whole wall beside me.

  Can’t move. Can’t look away.

  Grabs me by the front of my shirt. Won’t let me go. Screaming to be noticed.

  Step forward. Touch it. Move my hand around the design. Pretend that I’m spray painting this. Take it all in. Shape of the outline. Design of the letters. Amazing colors. Reds. Blues. Greens. Yellows. Purples. Colors so incredible I can almost taste them.

  Step back. “What is this?” I’m far enough away to see the whole thing. It’s the size of a billboard. Huge bird flying out of ashes. A phoenix. The words RISE UP look like they’re flowing under its wings. Pushing it to go up. Higher and higher.

  Amazing graffiti masterpiece. Spray-painted in an alley. In my hood. Not hanging on the wall in a boojie museum. Out where everyone can see it. Touch it. Study it.

  For free.

  Need to learn how to create a piece like this. Then everyone will stare at my work. In awe. Inspired to think.

  Digging through my backpack

  Saint Al’s crew-neck sweatshirt.

  Black Sharpie.

  Grape Bubble Yum wrappers.

  Student ID.

  Red spiral notebook.

  Introduction to Latin.

  Almost-empty can of Juice Green.

  One sock.

  Blackbook.

  Silver Sharpie.

  Empty wallet.

  Gym shorts.

  Rubber bands.

  Metro Transit bus pass.

  The Chocolate War.

  Pull out my blackbook. The phoenix on my mind.

  walking to most Holy Trinity

  Early morning. Our hood’s already busy. People out doing their own thing. Standing. Talking. Reading. Texting.

  “It’s embarrassing to be walked to school every day,” Fiona says.

  Declan grabs my hand. “I like it, Liam.”

  We wait to cross at the light and then take a left at the next street. Corner boys are trying to get rid of their daily packages. Pot. Crack. Meth. Prescription drugs. Turn right. The corner market. Crap. Went this way by habit.

  Big Juice Green shamrock’s on the sidewall.

  “Hey, that’s cool.” Patrick stops.

  Fiona steps closer. “I think it’s kind of pretty.”

  “Let’s go.” Motion for Declan. “You guys are going to be late for school.”

  “Awesome! Irish Mafia finally got the wall.” Patrick lifts his fist. Waits for me to bump it. “Screw Los Crooks.”

  “Knock it off, Patrick.”

  “No, I’m repping Irish Mafia.”

  “No you’re NOT.” I grab his arm.

  Owner comes out. “Hey, break it up. No trouble or I’m calling the cops.” He points at me. “I know your mother.”

  “Come on.” I shove Patrick. “Keep walking.”

  Passing a guy from the JFKs

  I’m walking down the hall at Saint Al’s. The only other guy I know here from the projects walks toward me. He’s a junior. I have to say something. “Hey.”

  He nods. “How’s it going?”

  “I’m good.”

  He motions toward the bathroom. “In here.”

  Drops his Crusaders basketball duffel bag on the floor. “Word around JFKs”—he checks under the stalls—“says you’re marked.”

  “What?”

  “On someone’s shit list.”

  “No big deal.” My stomach cramps.

  “Damn. Are you stupid? Word is you tagged for Irish Mafia. Los Crooks are pissed. My brother was asking about you. His Bloods had that wall before Los Crooks.”

  Shrug. Can’t believe this is happening. Now what?

  “What are you doing, O’Malley? Playing baby banger?”

  “I’m not in a gang.”

  “You tagged for one.”

  “That’s only because my bro … Doesn’t matter.”

  “Where we come from, everything matters. We’ve got to soldier on like every single damn decision matters.”

  “But I …”

  “Shut the hell up. Quit throwing away your chance, man.” He walks out the door.

  Debating Joe Mauer’s career

  Me. Tyrell. Sean. Playing catch at the park. Our usual routine.

  “Twins gave Mauer a 184-million-dollar contract for eight years. To catch.” Tyrell is quoting numbers again. “He’s too good to be on the bench.”

  Sean throws me a grounder. “He’s not even on the bench, dude. He’s on the disabled list.”

  “Your boy’s hurt again.” I point at Tyrell. “Second time this season.”

  “Then make him the DH, losers. The guy can hit.”

  “What!” Sean drops his glove. “You’re crazy, Tyrell. Pay him that chunk of change to be the designated hitter?”

  I clear my throat. “Now at DH for the Minnesota Twins, Joe Mauer, this year’s 2.3-million-dollar benchwarmer.” Try not to laugh.

  Sean falls on the ground. Laughing so hard, he’s crying.

  “Okay, okay, I get it,” Tyrell says. “Don’t pee your pants.”

  “Hey, Liam.” Sean picks his glove up. “How much is Saint Al’s paying you to play baseball for them?”

  “Would have been whatever tuition costs. I guess fifteen or twenty thousand.”

  “Liam O’Malley, the twenty-thousand-dollar shortstop for the Saint Aloysius Gonzaga Crusaders.” Tyrell laughs. “Still just a knucklehead from the hood.”

  I punch him. He punches me. Sean joins in. Where are the girls?

  “Doesn’t matter now anyway.” Pick up the baseball. “I got cut.” It’s a lie.

  “WHAT THE HELL?” Sean. “They recruited you.”

  “They didn’t want a freshman. I’m not playing anymore.” Actually, after what my teammates did, I just stopped going to practice. “No big deal.” Hate Saint Al’s.

  Sitting in Mass at school

  My assigned pew is in the middle of the freshmen section. Headmaster stares at me. Priest gives the homily. His lecture. “We must remember that God is always with us. He never leaves us.”

  Yeah, right.

  Where was God when Los Crooks saw me tagging? When Dad hit Mom? When Patrick’s friend got shot because some guy wanted his bike?

  Nowhere.

  Same nonsense I hear every Sunday at our parish ch
urch.

  “Everyone stand and join me in a most beloved hymn, ‘Amazing Grace’.”

  No, thanks.

  Avoiding his eyes

  Sitting in the headmaster’s office. Apparently the dean doesn’t want to deal with me anymore.

  “I’m concerned, Mr. O’Malley.” He folds his hands on top of the desk. “It appears as though your priorities are in the wrong place. We gave you a full scholarship to attend Saint Aloysius Gonzaga. We even provided you with free lunches.”

  Shrug.

  “Why did you quit the baseball team, son?”

  “Doesn’t matter.” Who’s he calling son? “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Have you completely forgotten that Saint Al’s took a chance on you?”

  Check my fingernails. I took a chance. It failed.

  “You showed so much promise for a young man from an inner-city neighborhood.”

  “Promise?” Nothing’s ever promised in the hood.

  “Coach was convinced that you playing shortstop was the final piece to a state championship trophy. A real shame. We didn’t have you tagged as a quitter.”

  Stare at the crucifix on the wall behind his desk. Don’t know if I’ll ever tell anyone why I quit the team.

  “Your teachers tell me you’re behind on your schoolwork. And you haven’t shown much effort to try to join our Saint Al’s community.”

  “So?”

  “So, I fear that you’re a train wreck waiting to happen, Mr. O’Malley.”

  Picking up an anti-graffiti brochure

  It’s from a brand-new display case at the bus stop. Los Crooks already tagged the plexiglass.

  Reading blah, blah, blah … “and no solution can be effective against the few individuals who may be determined to apply graffiti in spite of every effort to prevent them.”

  I mess around with these words in my blackbook.

  I will apply graffiti in spite of every effort to prevent me.

  Prevent me, and I am determined to apply graffiti.

  I prevent every effort to spite graffiti.

  Spite will apply graffiti—prevent me.

  Apply graffiti in every effort.

  Spite me, I apply graffiti.

  Spite in every graffiti.

  I apply spite graffiti.

  Graffiti in me.

  Graffiti.

  Me.

  Take graffiti away?

  Like covering my mouth with duct tape.

  Wandering home from the bus stop

  JFKs are two blocks up ahead. Kids move around broken glass. Draw chalk houses on the sidewalk. Another day done at Saint Aloysius Gonzaga. Patron saint of teenagers. Yeah, right.

  Only one more month of ninth grade. Then freedom for the whole summer.

  Sneak past our projects’ community garden. Mom and Mrs. Murphy cutting rhubarb. I’m supposed to help. Would rather sketch. Work on new tag designs.

  Three guys dressed in black and silver turn the corner. Rosaries around their necks. They’re Los Crooks.

  I walk past them without looking.

  “Who you bang with?” I hear.

  Keep walking.

  “Yo, schoolboy,” someone shouts. “I’m talking to you.”

  Turn around. “Yeah, what’s good?” Chest tightens.

  He walks up to me. “I asked who you bang with, man.” A black LC is tattooed across his neck.

  “Nobody.”

  “You think I’m playing?” His fist slams my chest. “You’re with Irish Mafia. What were you doing at the corner market three weeks ago?”

  Holy crap. Tagging for Irish Mafia. “I don’t remember,” I lie.

  He laughs. Gets up in my face. His breath smells like weed.

  “Maybe this will help you.” One of the other guys hands him a cell phone.

  I’m done.

  “Take a look.” Los Crooks shoves the phone toward me. “Gotcha, youngin.” Holds it two inches in front of my eyes. “Repping Irish Mafia.”

  Play dumb. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You tagged over Los Crooks.” Spit flies onto my face. “That’s what I mean, pendejo!”

  I can’t breathe. Heart pounds under my Saint Al’s logo.

  “I don’t bang.”

  “Don’t lie to me, schoolboy. You know what I do to liars?” Lifts his shirt. Silver Glock handgun in his waistband.

  “I’m not lying.” Going to vomit. “I’m not Irish Mafia.”

  “He’s dissing you,” the guy on his right spits. “Represent Los Crooks, man. Put a cap in that clown.”

  My chin shakes. His left eye twitches.

  The third Los Crooks whistles. “Po-po.”

  It’s a black-and-white. Minneapolis Police cruise by. Only five feet away. Passenger window halfway down. Both cops look at us. I want to yell for help. Los Crooks will shoot me before the cop even slams it into park.

  The Los Crooks with the neck tat puts his hand out toward me. Like he wants to shake. “Nice to see you, homie. Me and the boys will stop by to meet your family.”

  I could scream for help. Could try to punch him.

  Instead I stick my hand out. Shake his. Cop sitting in the passenger seat turns away. No. Don’t go. Don’t leave me here with these guys. Black-and-white keeps rolling. Around the corner.

  Los Crooks guy with the tat looks back at me. “You’re smarter than I thought, junior. I got eyes all around. Know what I mean?” The other two Los Crooks throw down the hand sign for Irish Mafia.

  Disrespecting my brother’s gang. Testing me.

  Need to get out of here. “Yeah,” I say. And then I run. Get halfway down the block.

  All three are on me in a second. Knock me to the sidewalk. Jerk me up by the collar. Gun grinds into my cheek.

  “You’re about to get a lesson in respect.”

  “Shoot him, man!”

  Glock jabs against my forehead. “I’m gonna OFF you, fool.”

  “Please. No.” I’m going to die right here on this sidewalk. Help me, God.

  The third Los Crooks whistles again. Glock goes into the waistband. Are the cops back?

  “Liam!” It’s my mom’s voice. She walks this way. Arms filled with rhubarb. “Get up off the ground in your school uniform. Use some common sense.”

  I get up. Fast. Try not to look scared. Did she see his gun?

  “Come home and change before you get together with your friends.” She walks past the Los Crooks guys. “Lord knows I don’t have time to go to the Laundromat tonight.”

  Pull my backpack on. Los Crooks with the tat pulls me back.

  Talks through clenched teeth. “I’ll find where you live, man.” Points to his eyes, then at me. “Get on home and do your schoolwork. Hail Mary and all that bullshit.” He shoves me backward.

  Mom turns. “Let’s go, Liam. Right now!” Her eyes are huge.

  Los Crooks taps the Glock in his waistband. “See you later. Friend.”

  Walk away. Whole body shaking.

  “Yo!” One of the other bangers shouts down the block. “When you get home, you better check your drawers, fool. You pissed your pants!”

  Genuflecting at church

  And it’s not even Sunday. Extreme fear does that.

  Sitting in our usual O’Malley family pew.

  Habit.

  Trying to figure out what happened yesterday. Need to quiet my mind. Sun shines through stained-glass windows. Across my face.

  Had a Glock in my face.

  Bend down. Onto the kneeler. Pull a prayer card out of my pocket. It’s Saint Brendan the Navigator. My hands shake. But seeing his face calms me down. Walk over to the prayer candles.

  Los Crooks were going to kill me.

  Drop my quarter into the coin slot under the rows of twenty-four-hour votive candles. Light the long wooden match. Try to hold my hands still. Flame of my candle goes up. I kneel down. Cross myself.

  “Keep me safe, God. Protect me from those bangers. Please help me know what to d
o.”

  What am I going to do?

  Being interrupted by Mom

  “You remember Kat.”

  “No.” She got me my blackbook.

  “Katherine Sullivan, my friend from Southie. You know, in Boston. She took us to Disney World when you kids were little. She came to visit us a few summers ago.”

  “Nope.” Took me to the Walker Art Center. My favorite art museum. Contemporary.

  “Oh, for the love of Jesus. The artist—she makes sculptures. You liked spending time with her.”

  “Umm. I’m not sure.” Open The Chocolate War. Irritate Mom.

  “Liam.” Hands on her hips.

  “Oh yeah. Right. Kat.”

  “Mom!” Fiona’s in the kitchen. “Will you help me with this knife?”

  “Oh, Lord, don’t move!” Mom looks at me. “You either.”

  The Chocolate War. Book report due in three days. Chapter one: “They murdered him. As he turned to take the ball, a dam burst against the side of his head and a hand grenade shattered his stomach. Engulfed by nausea, he pitched toward …”

  Mom interrupts. “Kat’s invited you to stay with her in Michigan for the summer.”

  Back to the book “… he pitched toward the grass. His mouth encountered gravel, and he spat frantically, afraid that some of his teeth had been knocked out.”

  “You’re interested in art, Liam. You can see how Kat works as an artist. You might learn something.”

  Look up from my page. She’s not going to stop talking.

  “Not interested.” Check my fingernails.

  “It’s very thoughtful of her.”

  “No, thanks. Already have plans with Tyrell and Sean.” Might even try to talk to that new girl. “I’m good right here.”

  “Actually—” she says. Then she changes her tone. “You’re not.”

  Here we go.

  “Things aren’t good here. It’s like you’re on a shipwreck and you’re not even trying to save yourself. Don’t you think I know what’s been going on at Saint Al’s? The headmaster phoned me yesterday.”