The Cost of Knowing, page 19
“Isaiah, please explain,” I say. “I’m sorry I yelled, okay? But it sounds like you’ve got something to get off your chest, and that’s what I’m here for, okay?”
His shoulders are trembling, and he drags his elbow across his wet face, and I can’t take it. I reach forward, fists closed, and pull him against me. He wraps his arms around my neck and buries his face in my shoulder.
“It’s okay to cry, man,” I say. “It’s okay.”
I don’t care that we’re in public. I don’t care that all these cars and all these drivers are around. I don’t care who sees. If Isaiah wants—needs—to cry, to get this out, who am I to stop him? I hold him for as long as he needs me to, which ends up being a few minutes. Every time I relax my arms like I’m about to pull away, he holds me tighter. Finally, when more and more people begin having to walk around us, and we become a certifiable traffic obstruction, I try to loosen the paralyzing fear again.
“You can tell me whatever it is, Isaiah. I’m listening. No yelling, okay? Promise.”
I decide that even if he doesn’t tell me, he needs to tell someone. I think we could both use a trip to the barber to talk to Galen when all of this is over.
If there’s even time.
I feel him nod against my neck, and then he pulls away. I straighten back up and crack my knees, which have begun to fall asleep from bending for so long. When his voice comes out, it’s almost a whisper.
“I left the ball in the gutter. When it rained, it pushed the ball off the side of the house, and it rolled into the street. I…”
Oh God.
“Isaiah,” I say, “you can’t think that’s your fault, okay? You left your ball outside. Normal kid stuff.”
There’s no way he should have to live with that. He was just a regular kid being regular. He was eight. He shakes his head in silence and presses his hands against his cheeks.
“No…,” he says simply. I think he’s out of words for this, so it’s my turn to take over.
“Isaiah, I saw Shaun die,” I admit. It hurts. God, it hurts to admit it out loud. It cuts open the wound all over again. “I knew he was going to die, and I didn’t do anything to stop it.”
“Could you have?” asks Isaiah.
“Well, no,” I say. “But I didn’t have to just leave him. I could’ve stayed with him. I could’ve played with him, could’ve hung out with him, could’ve done whatever would make him happiest. I could’ve promised I’d take care of his mom and sister. I could’ve promised him all kinds of things.”
He wipes away his tears and sniffs.
“Listen,” I say, “I’m sorry you had to carry this alone. You should’ve been able to come and tell me. I should’ve made you feel like you could come and tell me. I’m sorry I didn’t. And I want you to know that if you ever have anything you want to talk about, I’m right here for you. I’m right here.”
Isaiah’s face suddenly goes from all contorted from crying to even keel. Everything levels out. The tension is gone from his eyebrows, the cold gone from his eyes, the tightness gone from his mouth. His eyes drift away from my face as if he’s realized something. Something’s clicked in his head, and I realize that might’ve done the trick.
“You mean that?” he asks.
My heart is pounding at the gravity of this question. I’m not leaving him. There’s no way. I would walk through whatever I need to, just to keep him safe. And if I can’t keep him safe, because I’m only a man, keep him company.
I nod.
“Okay,” he says.
“That’s it?” I ask with a smile. “Just okay? Not ‘Spittin’ grit, too legit to quit, we lit, we Black Dragon’?”
That gets a smile out of him. He even chuckles and dries the last of his tears.
“I know you not gon’ leave me hanging,” I say, shrugging my shoulders up and down and sticking my lips out like they do in the music video.
“Slayin’ demons they be screamin’ mercy Jesus, white-flaggin’.”
“That didn’t sound like demon slaying to me.”
He grins determinedly and leans into a Renegade with that attitude I know so well, the one that’s been smothered by so many tears and so much pain in the last couple of days, I’m surprised it’s not extinguished entirely.
“Slayin’ demons they be screamin’ mercy Jesus, white-flaggin’,” he raps, throwing in an exaggerated ayyyyy at the end for flair.
“All right, that’s the Isaiah I know and love,” I say, tucking him under my arm and walking forward with him. The arena gets closer and closer, and the roar of the crowd is so strong and so loud, it shakes the ground under our sneakers. That feeling I always get when I’m watching live footage of a concert, that energy that radiates from the venue, from all hundred-something-thousand concertgoers all there to show love to the artist you love, swells in my chest so strong I feel like dancing. I glance down at Isaiah several times before we reach the front gates and I scan in our tickets, and as his smile grows with every step, I feel more and more assurance.
But the sight of so many people here, all wandering into the same arena, makes me nervous. I think about how many of them must have regrets. Maybe they paid too much for tickets, or they’re here with someone they’re having an affair with, or they skipped work to be here, or—
“Alex, look!” cries Isaiah, pointing through the throngs of people, who all stand about a foot taller than him. I follow his finger to the merch wall, where there’s a whole rack of glittering LED lights. “Rave gloves! Can we get some?”
Rave gloves, like they had in the music video.
I have to admit, they’re dope. I see a few people walking around with them, their fingertips aglow in purple, blue, yellow, and green lights. I squint up at the merch sign, looking for a price tag, and I see it.
$39.95.
Per pair.
I blow air through my lips and say, “Man, that’s a lot of money.”
“Please?” he asks.
I shake myself out of it.
Come on, Alex, this is ridiculous.
But then I think: What would it mean for Isaiah to feel like he’s in a Shiv music video? How much is it worth to me? I have to think about every decision I make as if I’ll have to think about it for the rest of my life, because given my situation, I probably will. In thirty years, when I’m making millions of dollars as a stockbroker because—duh—name a better career for someone who can see the future, will I wish I’d spent another $39.95 on gloves for him?
Can you just be sixteen with me?
I stop and take a deep breath. Talia’s right. Wouldn’t it be a relief to get to be a kid for once? For Isaiah to get to be a kid for once? Just for one night? What would I do if I were a regular sixteen-year-old kid? Would I spend forty bucks on rave gloves?
What if we’re forty bucks away from getting rid of this curse?
I pull out my phone, open my bank account app, and navigate to the most recent payment.
$100 to Maria Gomez, it says. Transaction pending.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, as I click cancel.
I can’t wait.
I touch my shirtsleeve and my heart sinks deeper into disappointment when I see myself take my hand away. I end the vision. I take my hand away. I look down at Isaiah, who’s still looking up at the gloves, starry-eyed and obliviously happy.
We buy the gloves. One pair for him, and one pair for me.
We get matching red sweatshirts, too, with Cobra Katjee’s insignia huge across the front, because the Wall is an outdoor venue, and it’s damn cold out here.
Isaiah puts on the gloves and Milly Rocks to whatever beat is booming from the speakers inside the stadium, and for the first time in way too long, I see joy bursting from him like I did in the photo.
I hope I’m doing the right thing.
I hope we’re a hundred and twenty dollars closer to the cure.
We’re running out of time.
11 The King
THE OPENING ACT IS a rapper named DeNola, who I’ve never heard of before, but he spits fire. I’m not surprised he’s opening for the Dragons. He’s leaping all over the stage like a damn tree frog, holding the mic so tight it’s like he thinks it’s a weapon. I can’t make out a word he’s saying, because we’re way too close to one of the speakers and the bass is pounding through my brain like the wheels of a freight train if I were trapped underneath it.
But I live for this shit.
Everyone around us does too. I’m short for my age, and the people directly in front of me are at least six feet tall, but they’re relatively still, and the stage is so high that I can see it through the gaps between them.
I look at Isaiah, who has his arms folded and is looking off to his right at nothing.
“Hey,” I say, leaning down to him. He looks back at me, startled. “You good?” I ask.
He nods, but I don’t believe him.
“What’s up, man? You don’t like the gloves?”
“No, they’re great!” He has to yell to make sure he’s heard over all this noise. “It’s just really loud!”
“That’s what you wanted, right?” I ask. “It’s a concert!”
“No, I mean,” he says, looking around again like a trapped rat, “it’s really loud in here, Alex.”
Again he’s called me by name. Our conversation from earlier rises to the surface.
Do you ever feel like the world is screaming at you?.
I look at him, wringing his hands together under his sweatshirt sleeves, shoulders hunched around his ears as his eyes dart around.
“You sure you’re up for this?” I ask him. He pauses for a moment, and then looks up at me and nods.
“Yeah, I’m having fun anyway. I can’t wait to see Shiv.”
Suddenly the music cuts out. Dead silence for a moment before the crowd erupts in hollers and applause. Then DeNola, with his light-up sneakers flashing red on the stage, raises a Black Power fist firmly into the air and yells with the force of a thousand grown-ass men,
“CHICAGOOOOOOOO!”
I’m quiet as everyone else goes nuts with the cheering. I’m saving my voice for when the king comes out on stage. DeNola sprints to the left side of the stage and stops sharply with one leg in the air. The whole arena gasps as if he might fall off into the general admission section and start crowd surfing, but he stops himself. All the hands that flew up at the anticipation for him sink back down. He raises the mic again.
“Who here from the West Side?” he bellows.
Scattered cheering rings out through the arena, some from voices near us. I smirk. If only Mrs. Zaccari knew about all the West Siders—people from her neighborhood—who are here tonight. Isaiah and I exchange glances, and he rolls his eyes with a smile. I like to think we’re thinking the same thing.
“A’ight, who here from the South Side?” he hollers.
There’s the volume. The whole arena comes alive with roars and screams, including mine and Isaiah’s. I remember our house—our old house in East Garfield Park. Every inch of it. I remember the creaky wooden stairs with the carpet strip down the middle that Isaiah and I used to race down on our bellies, and how he always won because I didn’t have enough baby fat on my belly anymore and that shit hurt my ribs. I close my eyes and remember how it smelled. I remember the taste of the toaster waffles Mom used to make for dinner when she ran out of ideas or was too tired to make anything else. She always apologized for having to make them, but they were my favorite. I remember how the freezer always smelled like banana pudding after Dad spilled a whole bowl of it while snooping around trying to sneak ice cream. I can feel the ground rattling in my chest as the cheering thunders around me.
God damn there are a lot of people here.
“Ah, there my people go!” hollers DeNola with a deep, earthy chuckle into the mic. He skips across the stage and catapults himself into a forward flip, both feet cracking loudly against the metal of the stage before he leans into the mic and hollers.
“AAAAAAAAHHHHHH,” but he finishes that ahhhh into a high A, letting his voice trail off into a delicate vibrato that hums through the space like a flock of doves.
Holy shit, I’m adding this guy’s whole discography to my phone. I pull out my phone and blink away a vision of me unlocking it, and unlock it.
I have a new text from Aunt Mackie.
MACKAYLA KAPLAN: Where are you?
There’s no way I’m answering that. I’ll explain everything to her later. I find DeNola in my music app, click download on all four of his albums, and slide my phone back into my pocket. I look down at Isaiah. He’s on his tiptoes, craning his neck to see through the gaps under arms and between legs.
“Hey, man,” I say, leaning down to him. “When Shiv comes out, I’ma put you on my shoulders, okay?”
He nods without looking at me, still focused on trying to see DeNola better.
The man’s voice explodes through the room again, and I jump.
“WHICH ONE O’ Y’ALL BEEN FUCKIN’ WIT ME?”
What the hell kinda question…?
I look around at everyone. Nobody else seems flustered. The crowd erupts in hollers, and arms fly up in droves. Then he hollers it again, stepping across the stage in long strides, crouched down like a praying mantis.
“I SAID WHICH ONE O’ Y’ALL BEEN FUCKIN’ WIT ME?”
Half the arena says it with him this time. I grin, realizing those must be the opening lyrics to his next song. He goes corpse still on stage, takes hold of his white snapback, and sliiiides it down his face in one smooth, slow motion. The crowd is loving this, and I wonder what’s coming next. The lights fade to black. I can’t see a thing, but I’ve seen enough concert footage to know to shut my eyes and brace for impact. Bass explodes through the place, rattling the floor, the speakers, and my eardrums, and I open my eyes to see light bursting from the stage like someone set off twenty firecrackers around him.
“I AIN’T COME OUT HERE TO FUCK WIT CH’ALL! YOU SAY—”
He extends the mic out to the crowd, which responds perfectly on beat with,
“WE AIN’T COME OUT HERE TO FUCK WIT CHOO!”
Ohhhkay, this guy might tear up some trills, but his lyrics are a little… flat. A woman in front of us and to the left turns to the woman next to her. They’re dressed alike, so I assume they came together. She yells in her friend’s ear, “What’s this song called?”
And the friend yells back, her words strung together into a slurred mess, “It’s called ‘I Ain’t Come Out Here to Fuck wit Ch’all!’ ”
Laughter comes bubbling out of me, and I shake my head. At least the man’s direct with the song titles. I look back up to the stage while this man sings the same. Lyric. Fifty. Times. Mental note: delete this song from my downloads later. I cross my arms and look around absentmindedly.
It takes me way too long to realize Isaiah’s gone.
I panic. I look everywhere.
“Isaiah?” I call into the mass of bodies jumping up and down and waving arms and hollering up at DeNola, but there’s no answer. I begin to weave, keeping my hands close to me as I move, but I forget once or twice and catch a vision of this random guy I apparently touched reeling his head back and yelling, “We ain’t come out here to fuck wit choo!” I cancel the vision just in time to reorient myself before I bump chest-first into a woman and accidentally let a finger brush against her arm. I see a vision of her hand reaching up, and her face contorting into a scowl, and it looks like she’s about to bring the back of her hand down straight at me. I cancel the vision and duck, narrowly missing the blow.
“What the fuck, dude?” she snaps.
“I’m sorry,” I say, darting away and vanishing deeper into the crowd. My heart is pounding. My eyes are frantic. Where is he?
So many red sweatshirts. It’s like everyone in here bought one. Nobody under five feet tall, though. I keep my eyes down as I run into person after person, cancel vision after vision, and issue apology after apology. I think of the worst. My brother being snatched up by some stranger, who hauls him off in his car and does whatever he wants with him. All I saw in my vision was that white casket with the inscription at the bottom of that hole in the ground. My vision never promised Isaiah would go painlessly, or even while he’s with me. My cheeks burn and my eyes tingle with tears as I realize the very real possibility that the next time I see my brother, he could be lying dead in a field somewhere, his last moments spent in sheer terror, lost. Alone. Watching a vision of what would’ve happened if he’d been more careful and stayed by his brother at that concert.
And then I spot his little red hood. Without thinking, like I did that day at the pool, I reach forward and grip his wrist. His sweatshirt sleeves are pulled low over his hands, so I catch a vision of his sweatshirt and cancel it easily.
“Isaiah!” I snap. He looks up at me with huge eyes, mouth agape.
“I—I—”
“You what?” I demand. “Have you lost your damn mind wandering off like that?”
“I was just—”
“Just what?”
His eyes are flickering with something, and then he looks just past my face. I look over my shoulder to see a boy about my height, standing with his hands in the pockets of his black leather jacket. His red hair is frizzy and dead, fried straight. I’d know that look anywhere. Talia used to do that to her own hair back in middle school. But this guy looks like he’s older than me by a few years. He’s smiling at me like I should know him.
“Alex?” he asks. His voice is surprisingly calm, for how harsh his gaze is. Thick black lines have been traced around his eyes, less like eyeliner and more like Sharpie.
“Have we met?” I ask, rising to my feet and stepping in front of Isaiah, who I now realize was looking past me in fear. Something about this guy—the way he looks at me, the way he glances down at Isaiah with that tongue-between-the-teeth smile of his that scrunches up his eyes—scares my brother.
And puts me on high alert.
“Uh,” he breathes, the implied duh heavy in his voice. “Yeah. Our parents are neighbors.”
