Dear Justyce

by Nic Stone

  Then there was business. And contrary to popular assumption, Martel Montgomery was not a drug dealer.

  He sold weaponry.

  Arms.

  Quan started out on security detail like all the new recruits. But when it emerged that he was a bit of a math whiz, his assignments shifted (way quicker than he knew was typical) to counting money. Making sure the right amount had been paid, and then separating each person’s cut and stuffing envelopes for distribution to the crew members.

  And everyone took an instant liking to Quan, largely because he was good with numbers and suggested a minor tweak to the sales model that increased profit by seven percent.

  After a group ass-whuppin’ that left him with a black eye, sprained wrist, and bruised ribs (I tripped and fell down the stairs, he’d told his probation officer. Always worked for Mama, so…), Quan had been lovingly welcomed into the fold.

  He still more or less kept to himself, though.

  Looking back, for the life of him, Quan can’t figure out what possessed him to be so…

  open

  with Trey the night the two boys wound up on the roof of an abandoned house. Yeah, Dwight had come in drunk and gone on a rampage. Yeah, while Dwight had been yelling and throwing shit and making ridiculous accusations about Mama and “conjugal visits” to Daddy, Quan had secreted Dasia and Gabe away to the hiding place Dwight was never lucid enough to think of (dumbass). Yeah, Dwight had threatened Quan and Quan’d had to flash the .22 cal he always wanted to use but knew he couldn’t.

  But none of that had been new.

  In fact, that exact scenario had happened three times in the five months since Quan joined the Black Jihad. And every time before, he’d just…left. Sometimes he’d take a walk to cool off. Clear his head.

  By the time he got back home, Dwight would either be passed out or gone. (Quan did find him crying his eyes out at the kitchen table once, but he tries not to think about Dwight being human. Too confusing.)

  Other times he’d swing by Martel’s to see if he had anything for Quan to do, or he’d go to Brad’s or DeMarcus’s to “shoot the shit” and watch movies or play video games.

  But outside of that first-ever conversation Quan’d had with Martel, he never really talked about his problems at home.

  Why this night was different, Quan still isn’t sure. Maybe it was because he changed his mind en route to Brad’s and took a right at the top of the hill instead of a left. Maybe it was because as he approached the end of this new-to-him street, he saw a couple.

  He watched as the guy gently took the girl’s hand and pulled her into a loving embrace.

  And they rocked. Side to side.

  Then they unstuck their upper bodies from each other…

  and kissed.

  Quan felt like a creep, but he couldn’t pull his eyes away. Other than in movies, he’d never seen anything like it.

  Maybe it was because as the couple broke apart, the guy caught sight of Quan (staring) and called his name.

  It was Trey.

  And Trey could always tell when something was…off.

  Not just with Quan.

  With anyone.

  Dude had a

  sixth

  sense.

  (Shit was eerie.)

  Trey did his all-seeing eye thing—looking at Quan head to toe, Trey’s brow pulling down in the process—and said,

  Trin, I’ll see you later, okay, babe?

  before watching the girl head up the walkway to the house.

  Then he turned to Quan and said,

  Ey, come on with me, bruh.

  (Quan complied, as usual.)

  They took a few more turns and wound up at a house that looked like it hadn’t been lived in for years. Quan followed Trey around the back, up onto a back porch that looked ready to crumble, and inside through a sliding glass door.

  It was dark inside but

  maybe seeing

  the mattress

  and duffel bag

  in the corner

  of an empty room

  and coming to realize

  this was probably where Trey slept—

  lived—

  made Quan a little more emotional than he typically allowed himself to get.

  Maybe that’s why when they got to the roof and Trey pulled out his trusty vape pen (which was dying…because the house didn’t have electricity, Quan realized. What would Trey do when winter came? It didn’t get that cold in Georgia, but there were nights here and there…) and asked Quan what was up, Quan

  SPILLED.

  * * *

  —

  Four days later—a Tuesday—Quan got called to the front office at school.

  His heart

  beat

  in his

  throat

  ears

  skull

  the whole way out the door

  down the stairs

  and up the hall

  from English class.

  He racked his brain trying to figure out what he’d done and how bad it would be.

  He’d missed curfew a few times…had he been reported? Mama was always threatening to call his probation officer…had she done it? Had someone, somehow found out about the vape cartridge he’d forgotten was in his pocket and accidentally brought on campus? (Not that he even used the thing…random piss tests were no joke.)

  How much trouble was this gonna get him in with Martel?

  By the time he got to the office he was mentally preparing for what he was going to say to Tel—if he even got the opportunity to talk to him before they carted his ass back to detention for violating his probation.

  So lost in these preparations was Quan, when he walked in and saw his mama, he literally stumbled backward.

  Especially since she was

  crying.

  The principal—a black dude in his early thirties that Quan wasn’t too familiar with, so intent was he on staying out of trouble—offered a box of tissues to Mama. She snatched a few and blew her nose.

  Quan couldn’t come up with a single thing to say, so the densest silence he’d ever felt coated the air, making it hard to breathe.

  It dragged.

  Thickened.

  The principal (uncomfortably) cleared his throat.

  Quan gulped.

  “Mama?”

  Then she met his eyes.

  Her chin got to quivering and she

  stood

  and threw herself onto Quan.

  It took him a second to catch on and wrap his arms around her—it’d been so long since she’d hugged him.

  As he did, all the fight went out of her. An exhale of respite soaked in a deluge of trembling grief.

  That’s when Quan knew.

  “Dwight…”

  He knew. Man, did he know. In that instant, Quan knew more than he’d ever be able to disclose.

  So he shut his eyes. Waited for the bomb she was dropping to hit the floor and blow up every bit of ground he currently stood on.

  He could swear he felt the BOOM when it did.

  “Dwight’s dead.”

  The rocket ship is gone.

  Which Quan knew in theory: he heard somebody OD’d inside it and was discovered by a kid young enough to believe the guy was sleeping.

  But seeing the empty space where it used to be—especially right now when he needs a place of refuge more than anything else in the world—makes him feel like a similar hole has opened up inside him.

  Well…another one. The Dad-hole was already there. So was the youthful innocence one. (“There’s a hole inside me where my childhood sho
uld’ve been,” he told Martel once.)

  This hole feels like an ending. A door: closed, triple dead-bolted and then welded shut. No going back through it. No returning to the other side. The rope to Quan’s final sliver of hope for a brighter future, for the fulfillment of some inner potential he didn’t realize he still believed in—for a way UP and out…

  Gone.

  Just like his way into imaginary outer space.

  It’s not even the fact that duck-ass, Olaf-ass Dwight is gone. About that, Quan couldn’t be more relieved. Which he does feel a little weird about: being…happy. Thankful even. That a person is dead.

  (Quan’s never been more thankful in his life for that.)

  He drops down onto a graffiti-covered bench and looks around. Remembering. When life was—seemed—simpler. When he used to come here to actually play. When the rubber ground didn’t have pockmarks and the spiral slide didn’t have cusswords carved into the side. He recalls the night he met Justyce McAllister—who now goes to some white school on the rich side of town.

  When was the last time Justyce came home? Does dude even consider Wynwood Heights home anymore?

  Did he ever? It’s not like he really fit in…What would Justyce say if he saw that the rocket was gone?

  Quan looks at the broken swing. Another way to fly, rendered useless.

  But Justyce got out. Justyce took off. Has Justyce become like Quan’s salmon-on-the-river-eating cousin? (Who Quan hasn’t seen or spoken to since. #family)

  Quan’s gaze drops. Lands on a word carved into one of the bench’s wooden slats in little-kid lettering:

  What are kids like Quan supposed to do?

  He swipes at his dampening eyes and shifts them back to the black hole where his galactic getaway vehicle used to be.

  Dwight is dead.

  And Quan is here. Stuck. Grounded.

  Forever.

  No getting out.

  No flying away.

  No lifting off.

  Because Dwight’s death wasn’t an accident.

  It was arranged.

  Mama doesn’t know it, of course. But Quan does.

  Before Quan came looking for his rocket, he’d left his grieving mother and siblings—half-siblings…who no longer have a dad—and he’d gone to Martel’s.

  As soon as Quan was seated, Martel said, “Your mama okay?”

  “Nah, man. Not really” was Quan’s response.

  Martel nodded. “She will be.”

  Silence.

  And then: “I wish you woulda told me, Vernell.”

  “Huh?”

  “You heard me,” Martel said. “You shoulda told me how bad it was. How am I supposed to help you if you don’t tell me things?”

  HELP me? Quan thought.

  “Nobody should have to live the way y’all were livin’, man. Especially not one of my guys.”

  At this, Quan dropped his chin. Hearing himself referenced in such a way caused quite the unexpected surge of emotion.

  Martel wasn’t done, though.

  “Here.”

  And he held out an envelope to Quan. Who peeked inside.

  It was full of money.

  “Give that to your moms. Should hold her over for a few months. Hopefully by then she’ll have healed up and found some work. Just tell her some community members heard about y’all’s loss and wanted to help out.”

  Quan didn’t say a word. Couldn’t.

  “Next time you got a problem, I need to hear about it from you, not Montrey. You hear me?”

  Quan nodded.

  “Ey, look at me.”

  Quan did. Though he wished he could look away.

  “The safety of our members and their families is one of the highest priorities of this organization. Any person or thing threatening that safety will be swiftly taken care of,” Martel said, steel in his eyes, his voice, the set of his shoulders. “You got me?”

  Quan nodded again without breaking eye contact. “Yes, sir.”

  “Now get on outta here. I’m sure your mama could use her baby boy at home tonight.”

  And Quan stood and walked to the door.

  Numb.

  Just as his hand wrapped around the knob, Martel spoke again from behind him: “Hey, Vernell…”

  Quan looked over his shoulder.

  Martel was staring at him, eagle-eyed. “You don’t have nothin’ else to say?”

  “Huh?”

  Martel just stared. And stared. And just as Quan started to feel like there were spiders crawling beneath his skin, he caught on. His gaze dropped, but he forced it back up.

  Gulped. Drug the words together and shoved them off his tongue: “Thank you.”

  Martel smiled. “That’s better. See you tomorrow at Morning Meeting?”

  An order cloaked as a question. Met with a single nod. “Yes, sir.”

  “Excellent. You be good, all right? All shall be well.” And Martel turned and disappeared back into the living room.

  It all feels like a joke now. Be good.

  He’s been good since he got out. He’s done all he’s supposed to. Stays out of trouble. No drugs or alcohol or skipping school or letting his grades slip.

  That other kind of good, though? As Quan looks around, he knows that his life has gone the way of this playground: once bright and bouncy and filled with ways to take flight (both real and imaginary), now beat down and broken. Hopeless.

  Now there’s nowhere to run to. No places to hide.

  Quan looks down at the misspelled cussword again.

  That’s how he feels.

  Because his rocket ship is gone.

  His escape is gone.

  Now there’s no way out.

  It was supposed to be a quick drop. In fact, Quan was determined to make it quick because he had something important to get back to: while cleaning out the front closet, Mama found a box full of crap that belonged to Dwight.

  Inside was a beat-up shoebox.

  Inside the shoebox was a stack of manila envelopes.

  Inside the manila envelopes…

  were letters.

  From Daddy.

  Like over a hundred of them.

  For a while, Daddy had written once a week. Then once every two weeks. Then down to once a month.

  The first letter was sent in April 2012: four months post-arrest, and just after he’d been sentenced and moved to the maximum-security facility in Reidsville, Georgia.

  Final one was postmarked September 27, 2016.

  Fo(u)r YEARS Daddy wrote to Quan. Consistently.

  And duck-ass, Count Olaf-ass Dwight hid his letters. (May his wack-ass, devil-ass soul toil eternally in turmoil. And snakes.)

  He’ll never admit it to anybody, but he cried as he read the first one.

  Anyway, the plan was to:

  Complete his very simple assignment, which involved—

  a. At the predetermined time, picking up the black leather, payment-filled pouch the Black Jihad’s biggest client left where he always left it: in the mailbox of a house Martel owned. (Turns out he also owned the one Trey slept in when not at his girl’s house. Martel owned quite a few houses in the neighborhood.)

  b. Counting the contents, and

  c. Delivering said pouch to Martel’s.

  Again: simple.

  Then once he was done, he planned to:

  Head straight home to continue reading his letters, taking notes so he could respond in a way that would let Daddy know he’d read every.

  a. single.

  b. one.

  Which felt a little bit corny, but whatever: the realization that Daddy had tried to stay in contact made Quan feel like…well, he couldn’t even put it into words
.

  The pickup and cash-counting proceeded as planned. Which was a relief. Quan held his breath with every bill that passed through his fingertips, low-key expecting one to be missing—looking back, that was a common thing for him: presuming something would go wrong at the times he really needed everything to happen without incident.

  But it was all there.

  It was the delivery that went south.

  Martel was having a birthday party. About a month prior, he’d gotten pulled over in Alabama, and since crossing a state line is a probation violation, he’d been sentenced to twelve months of house arrest. So he brought the party to him.

  It’d been going on for maybe an hour and a half when Quan arrived. The music was loud (where it was coming from, he couldn’t tell), and there were people everywhere the eye could see: front lawn, porch, driveway. Quan had to do a good bit of bobbing and weaving to reach the front door.

  Everything was cool at first. Martel saw Quan come in and summoned him over to where he was kicked back in a new round bamboo-framed chair with a giant cushion that looked like it was wrapped in dashiki material. Quan even pulled the envelope from the kangaroo pouch of his hoodie as he moved through the room—it was quieter and there were fewer people inside the house, thank goodness—so he could just hand it over and bounce.

  But Martel had clearly had a beverage or two (it was his birthday). And was chatty.

  “Well, if it isn’t my favorite bookkeeper!” he crowed as Quan approached. “I take it everything was in order?”

  Quan nodded and passed him the package. “Yep.”

  “And how are you? Everything cool?”