Tyler Johnson Was Here: Chapters 9–20

The park has an illustrious history. First, it’s where Ivy was conceived. Second, it’s where a famous graffiti artist once took his life after going through a difficult divorce...

His voice sounds all willful and content, like he’s happy to be where he is.

"...You serious right now, thug?”
“I solemnly swear. He’s legit gone.”

Twins are like synonyms that know each other through and through, like the moon complements the stars through a life sentence, like a set of infinite entities who’ve seen the world together, experienced its pain and oppression, but I can’t help but feel, in this moment, like my world is ending over and over again, like time moves backward, like the world flashes between black and white and grainy and clear.

Twins are like synonyms that know each other through and through, like the moon complements the stars through a life sentence, like a set of infinite entities who’ve seen the world together, experienced its pain and oppression, but I can’t help but feel, in this moment, like my world is ending over and over again, like time moves backward, like the world flashes between black and white and grainy and clear.

His dispatch radio is giving him orders, but he doesn’t listen.

I slip out my phone quick enough to snap a photo of the boy and the officer to post in case things go horribly wrong. And I think maybe this is my subtle way of showing the boy that I see him, that I am here, that he's not alone in this—a boy, with a tear-streaked face, miming with his hands that he has an explanation to stay alive.

The cop has the boy tied in a submission lock, his arms twisted tight behind him, the boy crying real tears now and screaming, fighting out of the hold.

My gaze falls to the floor, and I watch blood pool around the poor boy’s mouth, desolation in his eyes, and he’s coughing and crying and choking and screaming and choking and crying and coughing and begging for this torture to just stop, until he falls silent, beaten unconscious.

G-mo tries to pry the cop’s hands away from my neck.

My thoughts echo like shadows behind me as I mull over the very fact that I’m part of the blame for Tyler’s disappearance.

I bunch up all the muscles in my face, bracing myself to hear some spiel about how Tyler deserves to be missing...

I look away, feeling compelled to detach my gaze and stare at the white walls.

I gather my stuff and shuffle out of his office, feeling like the ultimate cyborg of emotions. Like I’ve been split open in a dozen places and stuffed with darkness.

“Mr. Johnson,” she says, offering a warm and endearing smile.

"Hello?" I say in a somewhat raspy voice.

And she just stares at Johntae, taking her life back from him...like in the marrow of her bones there are a thousand cities and hoods being constructed.

And I just stare at the moon, like it’s cradling me and knowing me through and through, like I’m finding some sort of hope in its luminescence.

I watch her settle and relax back in her seat, with a smug and amiable expression. “I like you a lot, Marvin,” she says.

She pulls to the side of the road, parks the car next to a meter, and just sobs into her hands, like she’s allowing her world to end. And her weeping turns into wailing and her sobbing turns into a frenzied breakdown and her frenzied breakdown turns into her beating away at the steering wheel.

I leave Faith’s house, and as I ride back under a fading, starry sky, my stomach feels like a churning abyss, and I hurt too much not to start tearing up.

I leave Faith’s house, and as I ride back under a fading, starry sky, my stomach feels like a churning abyss, and I hurt too much not to start tearing up.

Each time I watch it, I feel like someone is surgically ripping out all of my insides without any anesthetic.

In first-period English class, Ms. Tanner goes easy on us, and we discuss, as a class, the themes and motifs in Antigone and Oedipus the King.

“So, what makes you an MIT man?” he says, skepticism creeping into his voice.

Innocent people getting killed by the cops. I’ve heard it so many times. No indictments. No convictions. No punishment at all.

Faith asks me about my folks and about how Tyler and I grew up. And I tell her everything, which makes me sound like I’m the epitome of the stereotype for black boys.

Yesterday, she signed the papers to have Tyler turned into ashes and placed in a silver urn so she wouldn’t have to put him in the ground, so he could come back home one final time, and she was a turbulent hurricane of emotions, like no one would ever really understand how much she’s hurting.

I can see two shadows through the matte window.

Mr. Ross perks up and puts his files back in his attaché case.