Boy 2.0, page 3
Coal met Theodore Guzman on the football field in second grade. The fosters Coal had been with at the time required that he have some kind of after-school activity because it would be good for him. He figured football might be his game. It was not. His tryout involved trying to get past a kid who was the size of a refrigerator. No one could get by. “Like a locked door, you are, Guzman,” the coach said. Door had been Door, and defense, ever since. Coal pretended to have made the team and went to every practice, but instead he took his sketch pad out and started drawing on the side of the field. He got really good at drawing figures hanging out with Door. There were always plenty of athletes to sketch. Except for that one year when Coal had lived in another town with the Fiorellas, Door had always been there. The one person he knew the longest. Which was why even though Coal was the one who was supposed to be doing the talking, he was listening to Door telling him all the reasons breaking in a brand-new family was going to be great.
After homeroom, he and Door went to the south wing, which perpetually smelled weird on account of the science. The outdoor lab was just past the back entrance. And by “outdoor lab,” the school really meant “swamp.” At the far end of the south wing was the maker space, filled with “supplies” a.k.a. “garbage” of all kinds. About midway was the menagerie, where Door and Coal were headed. You always knew the menagerie was nearby because the smell turned from swampy to wood shavings, wet fur, and assorted musty scents.
Ms. Freeman, the science teacher and head of the menagerie, peered at Coal and Door through silver-framed glasses as they stumbled in behind everyone else, still talking. Door’s last sentence trailed off. Usually, everything about Ms. Freeman was gray. Gray hair was braided neatly like a crown going around her head, her dark skin looked desperately in need of moisture, and a full set of gray clothes, none of which, by the way, were ever the same shade of gray. But that morning, she was wearing overalls in an equally nondescript color of grayish beige and bright blue boots.
“Oh no,” Coal said.
“What?” Door asked.
“While the weather is still decent,” Ms. Freeman began, “we’ll be working in the outdoor lab, which gives us plenty of opportunity for observation and experimentation. Each of you will be well saturated in life science this marking period.” She paused midsentence to giggle at her saturation joke as she kicked up one boot to make sure everyone got the picture.
“You mean the swamp?” Bisa asked. The girl’s usually large eyes were even larger. “We’re going in the swamp?”
“Wetland is the proper term,” Ms. Freeman said.
“We can’t go out into that,” Bisa said. Her face dripped with disgust.
“We have waders for everyone,” Ms. Freeman said.
“Don’t we need permission or something?” Bisa asked.
“Your parents all signed permission slips for the full year’s work,” Ms. Freeman explained. “That was thoroughly covered during back-to-school night.”
“What if we don’t want permission?” Bisa muttered.
A few people—Door included—giggled.
“Get ready, everyone,” Ms. Freeman said. She pointed to the back of the room where there were waders hanging from hooks.
The lab phone rang, and Ms. Freeman went to answer it as everyone geared up.
“Hold on a minute, Win,” Ms. Freeman said. She talked into the receiver for another few seconds, then hung up. “Stay at the back of the group, okay?” The call had been about him. The news about his night was out already. Ms. Freeman led the class to the swamp and got them lined up onshore. Then she came around to Coal. “Your paperwork is still pending. It’ll get sorted soon, though.” She added one of those pity smiles. The ones that could make a person feel like they’d tumbled out of a dryer slightly shrunk.
“Right,” Coal said. “But Doc . . . I mean Dr. McKay—”
“Until all the forms are signed I’m not legally allowed—”
“Never mind,” Coal said.
“I know you love to draw,” Ms. Freeman said. “How about some observational drawings of one of the animals? It’ll count as class credit for today. By tomorrow I’m sure everything will be straightened out.”
“Want me to stay with you?” Door asked.
“Nice try, Theodore,” Ms. Freeman said.
“Ugh,” Door said. “Some people have all the luck.”
3.
Coal settled into a tall stool in front of a chameleon’s terrarium.
“Hey, Cornelius.”
Cornelius did not pay Coal any attention as he slow-walked across a stick that was nearly the same color as he was.
“This is for credit, so how about you stay still for a quick minute?” Coal asked.
Cornelius did not stay still.
Coal took out his sketch pad and drew anyway. He was three drawings in when he looked up at the clock and saw the period was still far from over. “How about we fill this out with some facts, huh? For extra credit?”
Cornelius did not seem to have an opinion about extra credit.
Coal went to the class computer, did a quick search, and started typing a list.
Facts about chameleons:
They are a kind of lizard.
There are about 180 different species, but many are endangered.
They have a very short lifespan; some species only live a few months.
Depending on the species they can be as small as a half inch or as long as twenty-seven inches.
They have a prehensile tail that wraps around things like an extra limb.
Chameleons prefer their own company (which means they’re loners).
Their skin changes color in response to their emotions, or shifts in their environment like light, temperature, or humidity.
Chameleons have two layers of iridophore cells in their skin. These iridescent cells have pigment (color) and reflect light.
Each iridophore cell has nanocrystals (super-tiny crystals) of various shapes and sizes all organized in different ways.
When chameleons change color, they change the way the iridophore cells are organized to affect how light reflects off their skin.
They change the arrangement of the cells by relaxing or exciting their skin.
A chameleon in a relaxed state has iridophore cells that are very close to one another, so the cells reflect short wavelengths of light like blue and green.
When their skin becomes “excited,” they reflect colors with longer wavelengths like yellow, orange, and red.
Only male chameleons change color.
It is a misconception that chameleons can blend into their background at will.
He had just finished the list when the class filed back in.
Bisa looked over his shoulder at the sketches. “You’re really good at that.”
“Thanks.” He held the sketchbook up so she could see better.
“Why do you sign your drawings ‘Coal’?” she asked.
“It’s my alias.”
“Why do you need an alias?”
“Maybe I’m a spy,” he said.
“Or a villain,” she suggested.
“Or I don’t want anybody to know the real me,” he said. “Like Banksy.”
“You wish!”
Coal flipped to another drawing.
“Who’s the girl?” Bisa asked. “She’s very pretty.”
Coal got out his phone and showed her the article about the woman who had been shot.
The smile on Bisa’s face faded instantly. She turned back to her table. “I’ll leave you to that, then.”
Coal understood. Some days he needed to pretend like these things didn’t happen, too. He closed the sketch pad over the face of the dead girl. Bisa was right. She was pretty. She was probably someone’s girlfriend. Someone’s best friend. Definitely someone’s family.
She was someone.
Was.
4.
After dinner, Coal washed the pans and serving bowls. Hannah was supposed to dry, but she was so busy asking Coal questions that most of the dishwater ended up on the floor.
“How many houses have you lived in?”
“What’s the furthest one?”
“How tall are you?”
“Where’s the funnest place you’ve ever been?”
Coal didn’t mind. He was glad for something to keep his mind off himself. He felt like he was just slightly off. Like a blur in a photo. He’d felt like that since science class, when Ms. Freeman reminded him that even at the same school, he wasn’t settled. That what he could and couldn’t do wasn’t up to him. That once again, he was waiting for a bunch of adults to sign papers without ever asking him what he wanted.
After he helped Han wipe the floor, Coal stepped onto the porch. It was still light out and Aaron was shooting hoops in the driveway. He threw the ball to Coal. Coal bounced it back. “No thanks.”
Aaron took a jump shot and the ball arced gracefully into the hoop. Didn’t even hit the rim.
“Think I’ll go out for a walk.”
“Did you clear it with the adults?” Aaron asked. He made a second shot. It went in, but it wobbled around before falling through the net.
“No.”
“They don’t like that—us wandering off on our own.” Aaron looked at his smartwatch. “I’ll let them know you needed some space. Just be back before dark and all that.”
Coal went back inside a moment, then exited a few minutes later with his fists dug deep into his cargo pockets, his hands full of chalk. He made a left out the gate, the same way that Doc had that morning, and once he was out of Aaron’s sight line, he picked up his phone and pulled up his usual app: the revolving series of people saying positive things. The first time Door’d shown it to him he thought it was ridiculous. But he kept going back to it day after day. It had become one of his routines. This time when the app opened, a small Indian woman in a bright orange sari greeted him and reminded him that he made his own happiness with his choices. Message received. Next, he pulled up a map and plugged in the street he’d found that morning. It was going to be a sixteen-minute walk. Plenty of time, he thought.
But when he finally turned down Wallace, the sun was already to the tree line. He didn’t have as much time as he’d hoped. He went down, and quickly bent the corner to the next street. The dead-end. Diallo Lane.
It was quieter than he remembered. There didn’t seem to be anyone around. Not even cars. The trees were the kind that arched overhead and touched branches in the middle of the street. The shade was good because Coal had sweat through his T-shirt on the way over.
He walked the length of the block. There was a house on the left corner that looked like it might be occupied, but the dirty, curtainless windows seemed to say otherwise. The next house down, the one with the boarded-up windows, had overgrown grass and weeds and was covered in ivy. On the other side, near the middle of the street was a building with an old painted sign that read TIRES. And sure enough there were a few old tire piles rotting slowly in its cracked concrete front yard.
Weeds grew up everywhere, through cracks in the pavement, asphalt, and patches of dry, stony soil. The entire block looked feral. Right on cue, a single orange cat showed up and mewed.
“I’m not taking over your neighborhood, friend.”
The second mew sounded doubtful.
“I promise.”
The cat sat, licked a paw, but kept one distrusting eye on Coal, which was fair enough, he guessed.
Coal chose his spot. There was a smooth bit of asphalt just outside the abandoned tire shop that would do nicely. He circled the area, thinking about how he would use the cracks, where to position that one dandelion that struggled up through a bit of concrete, which edge that gash of tire rubber burned into the road would be best suited for. Then he knelt down, emptied the chalk from his pockets, and chose the spot for his opening line. Despite the sun going down, he somehow felt hotter. He took off his shirt and tucked one end of it into his back pocket.
He always started with the outline. It was important to get the body angles right. He looked at the phone and scrolled to one of the many news reports from that day about Allana Hastings. #SayHerName. The trick about making a person look like they’re dead and not sleeping was in the details. An awkward placement of a limb. An odd tilt of the head. A too-stiff pose. Some artists preferred to go the Sleeping Beauty route. Or to do a portrait of when they were still alive. Not Coal. The cold reality hit the hardest. She should be alive, and she wasn’t. That was the point. It was not a moment for soft blows.
The sun was behind the lowest of the tree limbs when Coal started on the colors. He preferred vibrant, jewel tones. Allana, he decided, would be a study in yellows and pinks except for the shirt she was wearing. That would be shades of orange and red. Color was the only bit of fantasy he allowed himself. He took time with her braids, spreading them out on the asphalt with a couple going across her face and neck. When he got to her open hand, he traced carefully around the yellow dandelion. A light breeze blew, and for a moment it looked like she was trying to twist the weed in her fingers.
Coal spent a lot of time on the spatter of blood from the wound in her stomach. There had been no photos of it, but an accurate-enough description in the first report was all he needed to approximate the horror. The red-and-orange shirt was a good choice. He finished, then sat back on his heels.
“What do you think, Oscar?” he asked the cat. He figured they were friends, and friends called each other by name.
Oscar approached to inspect the work. It didn’t seem impressed.
“Tough crowd,” Coal said.
Oscar mewed.
“Finishing touches, Osc,” he said, and started to draw his signature in the bottom right corner. He’d finished the first two hexagons when . . .
“You!”
Both Coal and Oscar looked up.
A thin man with scraggly gray hair and a dirty white T-shirt stood on the porch of the closest house. The one with boards over the windows. “What are you doing there?” he asked.
Coal’s heart thudded. Drawing? In the street? What did it look like he was doing? But none of this came out of his mouth because the next thing he noticed was the rifle hanging from the man’s right arm.
“I asked what you’re doing there.” This time the question was gruffer, like gravel scraping along rusted metal.
Coal scooped up the chalk that spread out on the asphalt as he balanced on his toes.
The man pulled the rifle across his body.
Coal stopped mid-reach toward another piece of chalk. He teetered a bit on his toes, then caught himself with the heel of his right hand, messing up part of the work he’d just done. Allana’s blood streaked.
“Don’t move.”
A few pieces of chalk spilled from his hands. They hit the ground and rolled off in different directions.
“I said don’t move.”
But Coal had to. He was balanced on his toes. The position was unsustainable. He dropped backward flat on his feet, and stepped on the cat’s tail. It screeched. He tumbled sideways, cursed a bit, and decided the cat was not his friend and did not deserve a name after all. It darted away as Coal got to one knee and looked up. Now the man had his gun aimed directly at him. Coal threw one hand up, the one holding the most chalk, in what he hoped was a see I’m only drawing move. The other hand went flat on the ground, palm in palm with Allana like she was keeping him steady.
The man flinched. Like Coal had done something to provoke him. He realized that with his hand closed around the chalk it might look like a fist in the air protest and not the silent explanation he hoped. A hand cupped around an object—any object—could resemble a threat: a sandwich, a bag of Skittles, a BB gun, a stick of chalk, a palmful of air. He spread his fingers.
“Don’t!”
Don’t what? Coal wondered.
As the chalk fell from his hand and hit the ground, Coal heard the crack of the gun. It was louder than he expected. Coal jumped to his feet and ran up the driveway of the abandoned tire shop.
“Stop!”
Coal heard footsteps coming fast behind him.
A sagging old chain-link fence behind the tire shop was the only escape route. Coal jumped it. The rusted metal pushed into his hands and scraped his bare belly. He fell into a bush on the other side, enduring more scrapes from a tangle of thorns. He bashed his way out, feeling the burn as barbs snagged on his skin. A face looked out at him from the back window of a house.
Coal stumbled down the driveway toward a busier street, staying low behind a parked car until he reached the sidewalk. People were heading home from work, mowing, playing in their yards. Even in the waning light, whatever he did, he would be seen. He straightened up and walked out as steadily as he could.
A few people glanced his way, but most ignored him. He went up the sloping street until he felt eyes on him. A police officer was just rounding the corner. As he spotted Coal, the cop spoke into his walkie-talkie. Coal couldn’t make out what he said. He couldn’t hear anything, really, other than the pounding of blood in his ears.
He bolted.
He tried to get across the street just as a car was turning onto it. It screeched to a stop, inches from hitting him. Coal looked back. The cop ran toward him. All Coal could think was go. He kept moving. There was nowhere to hide, and he was still naked from the waist up. A shirtless Black boy on the run from police was never a good look. He desperately didn’t want to seem like exactly what he appeared to be just then: a stereotype.
An office building was the only cover ahead, so Coal headed toward that. As he cut through traffic, he tried to be careful, but there was still a lot of honking and cursing drivers. He was making a spectacle of himself. He got to the building and darted into the parking lot underneath, then ducked between cars to catch his breath and think through his next move. The cop followed him in. A moment later, a second police officer ran up next to the first. Two beams of light tracked across the gloom, searching. One of them illuminated the edge of a dumpster. Coal took a deep breath. It was the only possible place to hide. They’d find him in there.
