The Gun Page 5

  Tyray wondered whether Lark really believed him. Glancing at the tiny scar on her lip, he suddenly felt uncomfortable. There was something vulnerable about Lark. She reminded him of the abandoned puppy from years earlier.

  “My friends are always looking out for me,” Lark said. “They think I’m too trusting, but that’s just the way I am. You haven’t given me any reason not to trust you, right?”

  Inside, Tyray cringed. Lark’s comments made him feel dirty. But he could not allow anything to come between him and a gun.

  “Whole school hates me,” Tyray said. “If I dropped dead, they’d all celebrate. Amberlynn and Jamee would be throwin’ that party. They’d have the biggest celebration of all.”

  “They don’t hate you, not exactly.” Lark replied.

  “Yeah, well they don’t know jack ’bout me! Everybody always talkin’ ’bout me and gettin’ in my business, and they don’t know nothin’. I don’t care what they say.” Tyray fumed as he sat down next to Lark, watching her carefully. “Baby, why don’t you just listen to ’em. Just walk away and forget about me,” he added. Part of him meant the words, though he knew Lark would never do such a thing. Instead, she did exactly what he expected.

  “No, no, I’m not going anywhere, Tyray,” she said. “And you know what else? I have something for you and your mom.” Lark reached into her pocket, pulled out two twenty-dollar bills, and handed them to Tyray. “I’ll have ten more tomorrow,” she said proudly.

  “Girl, you’re gonna make my momma so happy,” Tyray said, quickly taking the money. “This is gonna be her best birthday present ever.” Tyray put one arm around Lark and used the other to stuff the money in his shirt pocket.

  A few minutes later, he was heading out of the cafeteria, excited that he was so much closer to purchasing the gun. Yet as Tyray walked away, the money felt heavy in his shirt pocket, like a bundle of guilt hanging directly over his heart.

  At the end of the day, Tyray took the long way home from school, hoping he might run into Jupiter James. With Lark’s forty dollars in hand, he thought Jupiter might cut the price and sell the gun to him right there.

  Several younger guys hanging on the corner nodded to Tyray as he turned onto 43rd Street. Tyray knew the rules. No one would hassle him as long as he stayed cool. Trouble on this street would be bad for business, so everything was quiet. But Tyray didn’t trust the silence, and he could feel many hidden eyes watching him from inside the buildings on both sides of the street.

  “Hey, bro,” Tyray asked a boy in a backward baseball cap, “Seen Jupiter around?”

  “Juju?” the boy asked. “Nope. He’s busy, man.” The boy was thirteen or fourteen with a thin, angular face and bright black eyes.

  “He ain’t around?” Tyray asked again.

  “Nah. His mom’s sick, maybe dyin’,” the boy said. “Jupiter’s down at the hospital. Don’t mess with him now, man.”

  Tyray nodded, trying to hide his disappointment. Jupiter was his best chance of getting a gun immediately. Without Jupiter, he had nowhere else to turn but to Bones. But Tyray did not feel like waiting until Friday.

  “When’s he comin’ back?” Tyray asked, refusing to give up. “Maybe I’ll catch up with him then.”

  “Don’t nobody know,” the boy said. He looked hard at Tyray. “Whatcha want, man? I might be able to hook you up.”

  “I need a gun,” Tyray said bluntly. “Need one bad.”

  “For real?” the boy asked, his eyes growing bright with interest.

  “Yeah?” Tyray asked. “Can you get me a gun tonight?”

  “Maybe,” the skinny kid said. “Come out to Muscleman Gym. Be there tonight, around eleven, okay? And bring the money.”

  “How much?” Tyray asked.

  “Whatcha got?”

  “Forty.”

  “That ain’t much, man. Can only get you a cheap gun for that.” The boy paused for a second as if he was planning something. “You be behind the gym. Eleven tonight,” he said.

  “You serious?” Tyray asked, his heart racing.

  “Yeah,” the boy said. “I’m straight up, bro. Just be there.”

  Tyray nodded and rushed home. He was so close to the gun now. He could almost feel its cold, heavy weight in the palm of his hand. The only obstacle now was his father. There was no way Dad would allow him out of the house at 11:00 on a school night.

  At about 8:30, Tyray went to his bedroom, saying he was tired. Then he nervously watched the minutes pass by on his alarm clock. Periodically, he listened to hear if Dad was still watching TV. Tyray did not know how he’d get out of the house in time if his father stayed up late. Every so often, he heard the interrupted sounds of TV channels being changed. A shudder raced down Tyray’s back as he imagined what his father would do if he found out about the gun.

  When Warren was arrested, Tyray had hid in his bedroom as Dad rumbled through the house yelling and smashing things. “That boy is a disgrace to this family,” Dad screamed over and over again. At one point his father even said Warren was disowned.

  Tyray was enraged that Dad had said such a thing, but he kept his thoughts to himself. Later he wondered if Warren was actually better off without his father threatening and punishing him. No matter what Dad said, Tyray vowed never to abandon his brother. His mom felt the same way, though they rarely mentioned Warren when Dad was around.

  Once, Mom tried to explain that Dad was devastated by what had happened with Warren. But Tyray did not want to listen to her. All he heard was anger in his father’s words. There was nothing else in the bitter man’s heart, Tyray concluded.

  “Don’t let Dad get to you.” Warren’s words echoed in Tyray’s mind.

  “Yeah, right,” Tyray said bitterly to himself. At 9:30, he listened as his father silently watched a sitcom. Every few minutes, Tyray heard canned laughter from the fake TV audience. At 10:00, the channel changed, and Tyray listened to the local news.

  “Go to bed,” Tyray whispered nervously as he watched the numbers change to 10:10 on his alarm clock. With six blocks to walk, Tyray knew he needed to leave his house by 10:50 at the latest in order to get to the gym by 11:00.

  At 10:30, Tyray heard the TV click off and then the familiar thud of his father’s heavy footsteps growing louder in the hallway. For a second, Tyray thought Dad was going to come into his bedroom. He closed his eyes tightly and pretended to be asleep. But then the steps faded, and Dad went into his bedroom and closed the door quietly.

  For several moments, the house was silent, and all Tyray heard was the faint wail of a police siren somewhere in the distance. Tyray knew his Dad fell asleep quickly, so he prepared to leave. At 10:50, with the house dark and silent, Tyray crept quietly down the hallway and out the front door of his house, careful not to make a sound.

  Chapter 7

  The street outside was nearly deserted. A mottled cat hissed loudly from underneath a parked car as Tyray made his way out into the street. On a nearby corner, a few people stood outside a liquor store smoking cigarettes. Further down the block, Tyray spotted a guy pumping gas at a self-service station.

  It was nearly 11:00. Tyray had to rush to get to Muscleman Gym on time. He started to jog, making sure the twenty-dollar bills in his pocket were secure. His fingers tingled as he got closer to the gym. Just a few more blocks and the gun would be his.

  Then he saw a black and white police car in the distance. It was coming directly towards him.

  For an instant, Tyray did not know what to do. If the police found him, they would surely take him home, and then his father would get him. Yet if he ran, the police would chase him, suspecting that he was running from a crime that he had just committed. Even if he tried to smooth-talk them, he would get in trouble for being out so late and breaking the city curfew for kids. They would also want to know why he had so much cash in his pocket at such a late hour. Tyray knew other kids in the neighborhood who were hassled by cops for much less. He knew he had to avoid the police.

  Dartin
g into a small alley, Tyray ducked behind a rusted old van. He could hear the police car slowly approaching. When it was across from the alley where he was hiding, the cruiser stopped. A second later, a bright spotlight shined into the alley, casting long shadows. Tyray squatted down as the light moved back and forth. A dog in a nearby apartment started to bark.

  Tyray glanced at his watch. It was 11:00. Pinned in the shadow of the van, Tyray began looking for a way out of the alley. The only path he could see was through someone’s backyard. Fortunately, the van blocked the view of the small fenced yard. Tyray was sure the officers in the cruiser could not see him or his possible escape route. He listened closely and heard male voices from the police car, followed by the sound of a police radio. He had to move. Now.

  Bolting from behind the old van, Tyray grabbed the top of the shoulder-high fence and vaulted himself over it. In less than a second, he was in the unfamiliar backyard, stumbling over an old tire and some shrubs. The dog began to bark louder. Somewhere behind him, a light went on in an apartment window. Tyray jumped to his feet and sprinted around the house and into its front yard. Climbing over a metal fence, he rushed into the deserted street.

  Following shadows and dark alleys, Tyray raced towards the gym, leaving the police car blocks behind him. On the way home, he would have to be more careful.

  It was six minutes after eleven when Tyray arrived at the corner where two lanky trees scratched the sky. Muscleman Gym was just ahead. Tyray’s knees wobbled with nervous energy as he approached the familiar stucco building with the red neon sign.

  Tyray had been to the gym twice before, once a few years ago to watch his brother lift weights, and another time last summer when he was training for the Bluford football team. Those memories seemed distant now as he stood in the dark scanning the street for police cars.

  Glancing at the building, Tyray saw that the lights inside were off, and he suspected the small gym had closed hours ago. Careful not to make a sound, he crept into an adjacent alley and waited. He hoped he wasn’t too late.

  A hazy mist hung in the air, distorting the distant streetlights. A dim halo encircled the amber moon, and no stars were visible. The night seemed strangely quiet as Tyray looked at his watch again. It was 11:10.

  The longer Tyray waited, the more nervous he became. Could the boy have lied to him? Tyray glanced up and down the alley looking for movement, but nothing happened. The minutes dragged by with an agonizing slowness. At 11:15, Tyray was about to get up and leave when he heard a voice from the darkness.

  “Down the alley, man,” the voice said. It did not sound like the kid he had spoken to earlier, but that made sense, Tyray thought. That kid probably got someone else to handle the sale. As he walked down the alley alongside the gym, he still did not see anyone.

  “Over here,” another voice called out. “By the garbage dumpster.”

  Tyray walked over to a rusty metal dumpster. Stacked against both sides of the container were dozens of glistening trash bags and dirty cardboard boxes. The air was heavy with the stench of rotting food and spilled beer. Tyray covered his nose at the putrid odor. Through the corner of his eye, he noticed a sudden movement.

  Two boys emerged from behind the dumpster, and a third came from a small doorway in the side of the building. Tyray turned in time to see a wooden stick being swung towards the back of his head.

  CRACK!

  The sound rocketed through Tyray’s skull, and he was sent sprawling into a metal trash can. Overwhelmed by pain, he collapsed into the pile of trash bags, placing both hands over his head. A large rat scuttled by his face. Dazed, Tyray heard several people whispering and then felt a pair of hands frantically searching his pockets. Within seconds, the voices were gone, and there was silence.

  For several long minutes, Tyray lay motionless as pain drove through his head. Slowly he managed to sit upright. It was then that he noticed his hands were bloody. Carefully he touched the painful knot where the stick hit him and discovered that he was bleeding.

  Alarmed, Tyray staggered to his feet. His head throbbed, and he had to grab the wall of the gym to keep from falling down into the garbage again. Walking unsteadily away from the dumpster, Tyray reached into his pocket. It was empty.

  “My money!” he yelled, forgetting his pain. He looked where he had fallen, hoping to find his cash lying amidst the debris. But all he found was more garbage.

  “No!” he said stomping down on a beer can in frustration, his head still throbbing.

  It was all a setup, he realized. The boy and his friends had lured him out just to rob him. It was as simple as that. Tyray closed his eyes and took three long, deep breaths. How could he have been so stupid? Now here he was, robbed and maybe even bleeding to death, and he had no one to blame but himself.

  “No!” Tyray yelled again hoarsely, kicking several trash bags until they ripped open, spilling garbage on the ground.

  Tyray slumped against a brick wall and grabbed his aching head. Every miserable event that happened in the last week and a half streamed through his mind. He relived his agony on the cafeteria floor, the lecture in the principal’s office, the humiliation with Cedric Hodden, and now a robbery.

  Despair clawed at his chest as he made his way home. He felt like a laughingstock, a fool, and nothing he tried to do allowed him to escape the humiliation. Tyray felt trapped in a cold, dark tunnel with no way out.

  As he slowly neared his home, Tyray considered his options. He could not call the police, but he could return to Jupiter’s street in the daylight and find the boy who had set him up. But he knew the kid would just deny what happened. “I looked for you, but you never came last night,” he would say. Then he would probably laugh at Tyray like everybody else. “Why don’t you call the poleeece? Tell them cops you wanted to buy a cheap gun offa me and you got robbed instead. See how that flies,” the boy would say.

  Tyray gave up that idea fast. He reached his house and went slowly up the stairs, exhausted and in pain. He knew he should see a doctor, but that was impossible. How could he explain to his father what he had been doing out on the street at that hour? When Dad got through with him, a cut on his head would be the least of his worries.

  Cautiously he crept inside the house and tiptoed down the hallway to his room. He was grateful that his parents’ bedroom door was closed as he stepped into his room. At least he would not have to deal with them. Silently, he pulled off his clothes and climbed into bed, careful not to brush his tender scalp.

  Staring into the blackness of his bedroom, Tyray wished he could just go to sleep and never wake up. It was not that he wanted to die. He just wanted to stop what was happening. Yet he could see no end to it.

  The sadness Tyray fought pressed heavily on his chest. Everything he knew no longer seemed to work. Kids were not afraid, and he was unable to force his will on others. Worse was an overwhelming emotion Tyray tried to deny, one his father taught him was only for weaklings. It was a feeling Tyray had seen for years on the faces of skinny kids who needed teachers for protection. It was fear, and Tyray hated himself for feeling it.

  Turning his light on, Tyray grabbed a pen and a sheet of notebook paper. He wanted to speak to his brother, to get his advice, and to hear his voice. Quickly he began drafting a letter.

  Warren,

  I’m in trouble. You said I could talk to you about anything, so that’s what I’m doing. There’s a lot going on here at school and at home. Dad keeps pushing me, and I can’t take it. But there is other stuff too. I know if you were here, you’d understand.I’m trying to get myself out of a mess. I’m not sure what to do. I am thinking about . . .

  Tyray stopped and looked at his words. They seemed desperate, scratched into the lined paper in a messy scrawl. Frustrated, Tyray crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it into his trash can.

  There was only one way to get back the respect he lost. He had to beat everyone at their game. He had to get back at Rodney and Cedric and Len. But he would start with Darrell.
It was the only way. If it was the last thing he did, Tyray had to take Darrell down.

  Tyray woke up the next morning with a fierce headache. His pillowcase was stained with dried blood from his head wound. With his bedroom door still closed, Tyray yanked off the bloody pillowcase and buried it in his bedroom trash can. Luckily the pillow itself was not stained, and Tyray found a clean pillowcase so his mother would not notice anything unusual.

  Taking a shower, Tyray carefully washed the blood from his hair. He watched the rust-colored water pool briefly at his feet and then vanish down the drain. Tenderly Tyray touched the wound on the back of his head. There was a hard knot just above and behind his left ear. The lump contained a gash the size of his thumbnail. He was glad to discover that the cut was not deep and that it was nearly invisible under his hair.

  “Hi, honey,” Mom said when Tyray came to breakfast.

  He did not have much of an appetite, but he decided to eat two pieces of toast so his parents would not suspect anything unusual. His father was already finishing breakfast when Tyray entered the kitchen.

  “Got a big job today. Got a coupla new guys startin’ today, too. I’m gonna need to work ’em extra hard ’cause we’re under a deadline,” Dad said menacingly, getting up from the table. “Contract says if we take too long, money gets deducted from our profits. I ain’t about to let that happen,” he added, looking over at Tyray. “You studying so you get some decent grades, boy? I don’t never want to see a report card like the last one you got.”

  “Yeah, I’m studyin’.”

  “You better keep your nose in them books,” Dad snapped. “You gotta get yourself outta this house one day and make a life of your own. And you can’t do it by bringing home C’s and D’s.”

  Tyray struggled not to roll his eyes at his father’s words. Every once in a while, his father got on his case about school. To Tyray it was not that his father valued school. It seemed more that he just wanted another reason to yell at him.