Promise Boys: Part Five

I flatten one of the pins and go to work jimmying the lock.

“Bottom line, we can’t stop here. We have to keep looking.”

Keyana steps up to catch the falling pile of school supplies while I sift through the papers.

“Nico Martinez charged with an attempted murder in connection with Martinez’s gang affiliation, Dioses del Humo,” I whisper.

Nico walks down the street and I do the same, careful to maintain a safe distance even though it’s dark out and he won’t notice me.

In their ongoing investigation, police have used ballistic evidence to identify the type of weapon used in the shooting.

They have been able to conclude the type of pistol used matches the caliber of weapon owned by one of the guardians of the three suspects.

Ramón sighs. All that energy subsiding.

Principals like Moore can quickly become rock stars, and it’s almost like one of those evangelical preachers that gets famous speaking the word and then goes on tour saving souls under a spotlight.

The photo was taken when Promise first opened. The quote under the picture was about how proud Mrs. Hall was to be joining Moore on “this endeavor.”

He funds expeditions into jungles and up mountains, owns lots of businesses, and donates enough to get things named after him.

I look outside at the quiet street, and I can’t help but imagine the neighborhood as a potential territory, not of a gang like Dioses del Humo, but of politicians and school boards and aldermen and principals and all the people that posed in photos with Principal Moore, hyping him up as the savior of “lost boys,” meanwhile he was drilling the joy out of them.

I have those images of Moore because I was doing a piece on him for the school board. He was lobbying for another Promise campus and wanted to make a presentation.

But I started to see things. Like, despite being told the Promise Fund is exclusively for tuition help, the board requires funds be accessible to all students for a number of reasons: books, uniforms, extracurricular equipment, not just college.

It’s a vigil for Moore.
“I’m going to be playing the tape we worked on at this, you have to believe me.”

We all stand there staring at the flyer to commemorate Moore’s untimely death.

“You have the new highlights from the last game? Of course we want it to look tasteful. No need to show off at the man’s memorial.”

My heart should be beating fast. But I feel a strange calmness. Like I’m sitting inside a sandcastle watching the tide come in. It’s inevitable.

“And, uh, no shade, but I don’t think any of these suits are going to fit me,” I say, eyeing the garment bags.
She smirks at me, and holds one aloft.

“No unnecessary attention! Let’s focus on the task at hand. We may be exonerating you all today.”

At twelve o’clock on the dot, Hicks rises eagerly from his chair and moves toward the lectern.

“It’s wonderful to see so many faces here to celebrate the life of my colleague and—truly—my good friend, Kenneth Moore. Everyone here knows the impact he had on every room he entered, and it does the heart good to see a room this big filled up with the evidence of that impact. Surely we are all here in reverence of all he accomplished…”

I’ve been to hella funerals and I always have to make myself stay awake. Not because I’m bored, but because it always feels so insincere. Some folks get uncomfortable when people get up there and cry, snot dripping, but I prefer that, honestly, even if I don’t feel that way about the person who died.

Promise boys are elite at texting without being noticed, and I know word gets around quick—They’re here.

I keep my eyes on the stage, where I’ve been staring this whole time. It all feels like such a masquerade.

Becca is on stage giving a speech about how inspired she was by Moore during his life, and how thanks to him, she’s going to be a principal too.

He loiters near the gym wall, squinting into the audience.

He gets older too as the film goes on, another testament to Omar’s talent: It’s all chronological, and it’s not so much a sizzle reel of Moore’s career, but a history of Promise from past to present.

You can hear some muffled groans in the crowd.

It’s the feeling of being in a crowd, buoyed up by the energy and excitement.

One by one, the Promise Boys stand up. They say nothing. But one after another, row after row, the other students stand, until every single uniform in the gym is standing, straight-backed, in defiance.

Further interrogations and collection of both physical and digital evidence indicates that Kenneth Moore, late principal of Urban Promise Prep, led a years-long fraud and embezzlement scheme involving donor and political funds.

Stanley Ennis, Lindsay Ennis, and one other board member were also implicated. Investigations are forthcoming—Detective Ash will be pursuing the Ennis case with a team of three.

Irrefutable evidence points to Wilson Hicks, former dean of the student body at Urban Promise Prep, as being responsible for the death of Moore.

Charges include murder, coercion, blackmail, falsification of evidence, misconduct, and evidence tampering.

One year after the murder of Principal Kenneth Moore shook our close-knit community, Promise Preparatory, now newly renamed, is thriving under the leadership of Principal Carla Hall.

A visitor to this school might not recognize it from one year ago, as the hallways are now filled with noise, as well as posters for events and newly formed organizations, including this newspaper, which has already won an award for its integrity and excellence.

You might only recognize a handful of teachers—Principal Hall was meticulous as she shifted everything about Promise.

These are just some of the new additions at Promise, but many aspects of Moore’s tenure have been removed.

They deferred college for a year—she, law; he, musical composition—while they explore the country together.