Dear Justyce

by Nic Stone

  But once he got up there, Quan relaxed so much, he fell asleep.

  And by the time he woke up—

  the

  sun

  had

  gone

  down.

  It was a cloudy night, so the streetlights—the ones that worked anyway—were his only source of illumination as he sprinted home. He wished they would all go out. That he could run straight into a darkness so thick and complete, it would swallow him whole.

  * * *

  —

  Dwight wasn’t there when Quan arrived.

  But it didn’t matter: the damage was already done.

  Mama was on the couch, eyes glued to the television…which would’ve been unremarkable if not for the busted and puffy left side of her mouth and the fact that her left arm was cradled in her lap like she maybe couldn’t use it.

  Quan stopped a good distance away from her. He couldn’t figure out what to think or how to feel. “Ma?”

  She didn’t respond. Didn’t even shift her eyes away from the TV.

  Quan dropped his own eyes. “Ma, I’m sorry. I fell asleep on the playground.”

  Nothing.

  Quan sighed and forced his feet to carry him to his bedroom, where he knew he was gonna find something that would morph the guilt hanging over his head into something solid that would drop down onto his shoulders like a cape made of lead.

  And he was right.

  His siblings were in his closet.

  Dasia was cradling Gabe, who’d fallen asleep. She wasn’t crying, but not three seconds after Quan pulled the door open, Gabe’s body shuddered with an aftershock from what Quan could only assume was quite the sob session.

  “Great, I can go to my room now,” Dasia said, rolling her eyes as she shifted Gabe off her so she could get up.

  Quan knew there was no point in asking her if she was okay. He knew all that attitude was her porcupine skin. Her way of letting people know they needed to

  back

  the

  hell

  up.

  She shoved into his ribs in passing with her bony eight-year-old shoulder, and he took it. Absorbed that bit of her anger and let it throb without making a sound. He knew if he spat out the I’m sorry turning sour in his mouth, she would suck her teeth and say something like Don’t nobody need your wack-ass apology, and right then, there was no way Quan could’ve dealt with how grown-up she was.

  So he scooped Gabe up—little dude’s body shook with another post-cry series of rapid-fire sniffles—carried him to his bed, and climbed in with him.

  * * *

  —

  Dwight stayed gone for over a week.

  Under normal circumstances, this would’ve made Quan the happiest dude maybe on all of earth.

  But the COAN had taken the EBT card with him.

  He’d also somehow found the minor cash stash Mama kept in one of the shoeboxes on the top shelf of her closet. There’d been a note in its place:

  Oh, so now you keepin shit from me? We gon see about that.

  First few days, they were okay. They had Hawaiian rolls. Half a dozen eggs. Quarter jar of peanut butter. Two TV dinners and three pot pies in the freezer.

  Day four, it got tight.

  Day five, Dasia and Gabe split the final pot pie.

  (Quan didn’t eat.)

  Gabe complained that he was still hungry, so Quan gave him the slice of crap pizza he’d smuggled from school.

  (Quan stayed hungry.)

  Day six, Quan smuggled home two slices.

  And after getting Gabe in bed—Dasia plopped down on the couch, turned the TV on, and crossed her arms when Quan said it was time for bed (She was still hungry.)—Quan left the house.

  He walked six minutes to a corner store he knew was owned by an elderly man who lived in the neighborhood. He’d been there a bunch of times, sent by Mama with $10 in his pocket to grab some milk or hot dogs or jelly when they were on the verge of running out.

  Wasn’t no money in his pocket now, but he went in anyway.

  The old man smiled and waved at Quan as he entered. Then he excused himself and went to the bathroom.

  Leaving the store wide open to Quan.

  Trusting him.

  As soon as the door to the storage room shut behind the old man, Quan gulped.

  He looked left.

  He looked right.

  Then he grabbed a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter, and he walked out of the store.

  His First Time.

  Stealing.

  * * *

  —

  Dasia cried as she bit into the peanut butter sandwich Quan handed her after waking her up. She’d fallen asleep in front of the TV.

  Arms still crossed.

  * * *

  —

  Day seven, the COAN came back.

  With groceries.

  It’s not that Quan doesn’t like his cousin Emmanuel.

  He just don’t know what the hell to say to the dude.

  They occupy different universes, the boys do. Despite being blood. Emmanuel’s—excuse him: Manny’s—mama is Quan’s mama’s older half-sister. From what Quan understands, the two women didn’t grow up together. His grandfather was apparently a bit of a “rolling stone,” as Quan’s mama put it, and she, Trish, was the product of one of said rolls into a different flower bed.

  Granddad stayed with his original family, aka “Aunt Tiff” (Quan’s never called her that. He’s never called her anything.) and her mom.

  Tiff hadn’t even known Mama—Trish—existed until Mama’s—Trish’s—mama died and Tiff/Trish’s shared daddy had a crisis of conscience and spilled the beans.

  There was one time Mama had one glass of wine too many, and Tiff called to “check in.” As soon as Mama hung up, she looked at Quan and said, “You ever wonder if my ‘big sis’ ”—she’d used air quotes and everything—“only keeps in touch cuz she feels guilty about the fact that she had a daddy growing up, and I didn’t?”

  Quan didn’t answer. He was eight at the time and had just returned from a weekend at his daddy’s house.

  Anyway.

  Manny.

  All Quan really knows is Manny’s a year older and they have nothing in common.

  They accidentally made eye contact once.

  Quan looked away faster than the speed of light.

  He’s looked everywhere but at Manny since the two boys and their mamas took their seats around the table at this fancy-ass restaurant. Quan knows the place is mad fancy cuz the entire back wall where they’re sitting is made of glass and he can see the smooth surface of a river just beyond it.

  Shit is always fancy if it’s on a river.

  “You really don’t have to cover us, Tiffany,” Mama says.

  “Nonsense,” comes the reply. Aunt Tiff flicks the thought away like some irking insect, and the light catches on the boulder in her diamond ring.

  Rings.

  Cuz there’s more than one.

  “I haven’t seen you in forever, baby sis,” Tiff continues. “Lunch is the least I can do.”

  And it truly is. The least.

  Quan knows Aunt Tiff and her husband got mega money. That they live out in Oak Ridge, which everybody knows is the most expensive part of Atlanta. That his cousin-he-don’t-have-nothin’-to-say-to climbed out the passenger side of a Jag that surely has booty-warmers in the seats.

  What would Manny say if he knew Mama’s comment about Tiff not covering them was for show? They barely had food at home, so there’s no way in Quan’s universe they could afford to eat at this river restaurant.

  Would big ballin’ cuzzo bug out if he knew the real reason Mama’s wearing a long-sleeved, turtle
neck dress that goes down to her ankles when it’s eighty-three degrees outside?

  Quan knows Manny’s dad is some financial investment big shot. Does Manny know Quan’s daddy is locked up?

  Quan is sure Manny’s eyes would go all big if he knew Quan sometimes stole stuff. That Manny’s butt would clench up and all the moisture would leave his mouth (with them white-ass, straight-ass, perfect-ass teeth) if he knew that the moment Quan saw the ice on “Aunt Tiff’s” fingers and wrists, his mind started calculating. Running through all the stuff he could afford for himself and his siblings with just one of her rings. Quan has never stolen jewelry or anything with value like that before, but still.

  Different universes.

  The food arrives: sweet potato fries and a lamb burger for Quan (without the fig jam and goat cheese that were supposed to be on it, because what even is that shit and why would anyone put it on a burger?).

  Asparagus (gross), some creamy white stuff that ain’t mashed potatoes, and a hunk of pink fish with the silvery skin still on top for Manny.

  Salmon, Quan remembers. Because Manny ordered it without even looking at the menu.

  This clearly isn’t Manny’s first time at the river restaurant. But Quan’s 98 percent sure it’ll be his (Quan’s) last.

  Quan sighs.

  Manny does too.

  But they don’t see each other.

  And they certainly don’t speak.

  The only other time in his life Quan felt fear as mind-numbing as the night they took Daddy? His own first arrest.

  The whole thing was so ridiculous. He was thirteen. Eighth grade.

  (Which he barely made it into. Looking back, it’s wild to Quan how drastically shit had changed inside him.)

  On this particular day, he was just…mad.

  It got like that sometimes. Nothing had to happen—or trigger, as Doc says when Quan slips up and starts talking about his feelings. There were just days, moments, when rage would overtake him and his vision would literally go white at the edges.

  Quan wasn’t a violent dude. Yeah, he’d been in a fight here and there, especially when kids would talk shit about Daddy being locked up. But he wasn’t one to explode: screamin’ and cussin’, hulkin’ out, flippin’ tables, throwin’ chairs and swingin’ on teachers like this one dude in his class, DeMarcus, who got expelled a month before Quan’s (dumb) arrest.

  No. That wasn’t Quan.

  Instead—he stole.

  Never anything major. Some days he’d swipe a pencil from a classmate’s desk or grab one of the markers from the metal tray beneath the crusty old dry-erase board. He’d tail a mom and kid into Rite Aid just close enough for it to look like he was with them, then he’d slip off and pocket a tin of Altoids or a fresh tube of Burt’s Bees lip balm. He’d get the double tingle with that one…one in his fingertips as he made the grab, and another on his lips once he applied the stuff.

  Magic.

  On THE day, he was particularly furious. His eyes burned with it, and his ears rang, and for hours, he’d had the taste of metal in his mouth.

  The convenience store he walked into wasn’t new, but it’d been remodeled. There were flashy new gas pumps—they had diesel now—and a bright new sign. The storefront had new windows and doors Quan was sure were bulletproof, and on the inside, the back wall was inset with new slushy (twelve flavors), soda, juice, and coff-uccin-cciato machines.

  Real shiny.

  While the snack aisle was tempting, Quan found himself drawn to an end-of-the-aisle display filled with…novelties is the only way to describe it. There were something called Pez, which looked like weird toys but apparently involved candy. There were bags of variously colored marbles. There were packages of dice and oddly shaped lighters. There was even some…paraphernalia. Brightly colored glass pipes and bowls.

  What caught Quan’s eye? A deck of playing cards.

  To this day, he has no idea why. There was nothing special about them. There were three or four full decks at home, so it’s not like he was getting anything he didn’t have.

  He just knows they called to him. Beckoned. His fingertips got to tingling.

  He checked all around to make sure no one was looking—outside of an older woman buying cigarettes and a baby-toting mom grabbing a Sprite, he was the only one in the store. Then he grabbed a pack of the cards and slipped them into his pocket.

  He thought he was in the clear, Quan did. He even popped into the bathroom to make it look like his reason for being in the building was a need to pee.

  But on his way out, the brown-skinned (but definitely not black) clerk stopped him.

  “Young man…”

  And Quan turned.

  “Don’t move any further,” the dude said. “I’m calling the police.”

  He had his hands on the counter. One of them around the handle of a gun.

  * * *

  —

  He never pointed the pistol at Quan. Just kept it where Quan could see it.

  What Quan hadn’t realized—and felt stupid about later: the fancy remodel came with a fancy security system. One with cameras. So the clerk could watch just about everything happening in the store on a screen behind the (definitely bulletproof) glassed-in checkout area.

  He saw Quan pocket the cards.

  Which…was it that big of a deal? They were $2.99. He could put ’em back, promise to leave and never return, and be on his way.

  Did dude really have to call the damn cops over a

  deck

  of

  Bicycle

  playing

  cards?

  That can’t-do-shit rage expanded in Quan’s chest and pushed up into his throat, but he couldn’t get his mouth open to let it out, so it whistled up past his ears and tried to make its escape through the inside corners of his eyes.

  But he wasn’t about to let himself cry. Not with a dude mad over three-dollar cards staring him down like he’d busted in with a mask and a Glock and tried to rob the place.

  “Hey, man, can we just forget this? I don’t even need the cards, I can put them ba—”

  But then the bell connected to the door chimed, and in stepped a police officer who looked like someone had stuck a bicycle-pump tube in his rear and

  pump

  pump

  pumped

  him up.

  Perhaps even using the air that had been in Quan’s lungs: he suddenly didn’t have any left.

  He locked eyes with the cop, and the Bad (Dad) Night washed over him, and his chest

  locked up

  the way it had when kid-snatcher cop had Quan’s scrawny eleven-year-old torso wrapped in that death grip.

  Wasn’t the best time for it either. Swole Cop took Quan’s inability to answer questions—

  We got a problem here, son?

  You hear me talkin’ to you?

  So you’re a tough guy then?

  Not gonna answer my questions?

  —as an act of defiance.

  Quan found air the moment Swole Cop’s ham-ish hand locked around Quan’s (still scrawny) upper arm in a death grip. Sucked that air in with gusto as he gasped from the sudden burst of pain.

  And then he let it out.

  “OWW!”

  “So now you can speak?”

  He jerked Quan around and snatched him out of the store with more force than necessary considering Quan wasn’t resisting in the least. He was too scared.

  He blinked and saw Daddy’s body go limp.

  When they reached the squad car, the guy shoved Quan against it and yanked his hands behind his back.

  Then dude put Quan in handcuffs.

  And for the second time since pre-k,

  Quan wet his pants
.

  Swole Cop spun him around.

  And noticed.

  “Did you just piss yourself?”

  The tears started then.

  What would Mama say? Was there a way to keep Dwight from finding out Quan got himself arrested? He’d certainly see this as “disrespect.”

  What would Dasia think? She definitely had opinions now—and would certainly share hers with Quan when she found out about this.

  And then there was Gabe. Despite having way fewer damns to give than in the past, this wasn’t exactly the example Quan wanted to set for his baby bro…

  “Whatcha cryin’ for, huh?” Swole Cop spat. “Not so tough now, are ya? You delinquents strut around like you own the goddamn world—”

  “It was just a deck of cards!”

  “Deck of cards today, some lady’s purse tomorrow. Get your ass in the car.”

  And he opened the back door and pushed Quan in.

  * * *

  —

  Two hours, Quan was at the precinct.

  Alone.

  In a room with a table and two chairs and a mirror he was pretty sure was a window from the other side—he’d watched plenty of Law & Order: SVU.

  The cuffs had been undone for all of fifteen seconds so they could take his backpack off, but then Swole Cop just cuffed him in the front. Led him to the sterile-ass space, plopped him in a chair, and left the room.

  Nothing but his churning thoughts, gnawing fear, and growing rage to keep him company.

  How had he even gotten there? What was he supposed to do? Was anybody coming for him? Would he go to jail? Would that mean arraignment-indictment-plea-trial-verdict-sentencing…all the stuff Daddy had to go through?

  It was a deck of cards.