Hoodie (35 page)

Nate’s anger appeared to dissipate as he studied the gun in his hand. “Man, you remember Mrs. Wallace?” he asked suddenly.

“Yeah,” Anton replied. His body was tense with uncertainty.

“You remember when we took her newspaper off her front stoop ‘cause we wanted to check the movie times?” Nate continued.

“Yeah, man,” Anton answered.

Nate suddenly laughed. “You remember her comin’ over to my house and we was all alone and she come stormin’ in cussin’ and screamin’?”

“She beat the shit outta us,” Anton said, shaking his head and smiling uneasily.

“Man, I ain’t never cried so hard in my life!” Nate said. His laughter was pure. “We was only what? Eight? Nine years old? God, that bitch was crazy!”

Anton forced a laugh, but all the while he was thinking of a way to get the gun from Nate’s hand.

“Shit, we had us some crazy times,” Nate said. The tears flowed freely then. He wiped at his face clumsily.

“Well, it ain’t like they over,” Anton pointed out.

“We was tight,” Nate said, oblivious to his friend’s words. He stumbled slightly. “You know I ain’t even graduatin’?” he said. He looked at Anton with bloodshot eyes.

“What you talkin’ about?” Anton said.

“You heard me. I ain’t graduatin’. I’m’ll be just like my moms, man. Workin’ three piece of shit jobs so I can afford to live in this piece of shit dump.” The tears were pouring forth, and he wiped at them carelessly.

Anton thought that perhaps this was his chance. He made a move towards Nate, but stopped short.

“You fucked it up, man,” Nate said, raising the gun to Anton’s chest.

“Tell me how to fix it,” Anton said, his heart pounding in his ears. “I’ll fix it.”

“There ain’t no fixin’ that, man,” Nate replied. “I seen yo’ heart, man. I seen yo’ true feelin’s.” He turned the gun to the side as though he were testing something. Testing which way to hold it for better control. Testing which way to best kill his friend.

“Jesus Christ, Nate,” Anton said. The panic pervaded his voice.

“That bitch fucked everything up. We was fine. We was doin’ our thing. She come in and I go out.” Nate looked straight at Anton’s face.

The vice on Anton’s heart tightened. He wanted to reach out to his friend, to hug him and promise him that everything would be alright.

“It ain’t like that,” Anton pleaded.

“She come in, and I go out,” Nate repeated. He lowered the gun again as though it was too heavy for him to hold up. He stumbled.

“You my best friend, Nate,” Anton said softly.

“Am I?”

“Come on, man. You know you is. How you gonna not know that?”

“You said you didn’t know me. That’s what you said,” Nate cried.

“I didn’t mean it, man. I was angry. You know you my friend, Nate,” Anton said.

Nate stood there staring at his friend. The tears continued to flow. It was agony watching him cry, Anton thought.

“I got nothin’, man,” Nate said.

“That ain’t true, dog. You got lots of things,” Anton said.

“I got no plans, no future. I lost everything, man. You walked away from me. Kareem, all them, they walked away from me,” Nate cried. His cry came from the deepest parts. It sang a melody of utter hopelessness.

“Nobody walk away from you, Nate. We always yo’ friends.”

Nate looked at Anton as if he never knew him. “She come in. I go out,” he said quietly.

There was a finality to the words that Anton understood. He closed his eyes and prayed for forgiveness. He readied himself for the bullet. There was a delay, and he opened his eyes to see Nate holding the weapon to his own head. Anton cried out and reached for the gun, but he was too late as the blast sounded in the empty room.

Anton watched in horror as his friend hit the floor with a loud thud, blood oozing hard and fast from the sides of his head. He screamed—a guttural cry from deep within—falling to his knees beside his friend.

“What the fuck, man!” he cried out, cradling Nate’s head in his lap. “Jesus!”

The blood was everywhere, splattered on the walls and washing machines, rushing steadily down Anton’s arms and legs, pooling fast around him. He tried to stop it, pressing his hands firmly against the sides of Nate’s head, ignoring the foreign and frightening feel of the asymmetrical holes on Nate’s temples.

“Somebody fuckin’ help me!” he screamed.

Someone must have heard the shot and called the police. Anton heard the sirens, still low and distant, but coming.

“They comin’,” Anton whispered to Nate. “Hang in there, man. They comin’.”

They were empty words, he knew, but he said them anyway. He sat on the hard concrete clutching his best friend, tears pouring over and falling to the ground to mix with the blood, lying to himself that the paramedics would be able to do something. They would work a miracle. They would bring Nate Dog back. He wasn’t dead and gone. He couldn’t be, because Anton would not imagine a world without his friend. That world did not exist.

The police and ambulance arrived shortly. Anton was whisked away, pushed to the side as the paramedics worked on his friend. They didn’t appear to be moving fast, he thought. Why weren’t they moving faster, with more urgency? When the sheet was pulled over Nate’s face, Anton screamed—a raw, animal sound of the deepest anguish. He tried in desperation to push past the officers. He had to get to his friend. But they held him back, made him look from a distance as Nate’s body was loaded into the ambulance.

CHAPTER 24

MONDAY, MAY 24

She could not reach him. She went to his house on Sunday, but he was not there. She called several times, but he did not answer. She texted him but received no replies. She was frantic, running through the events in her mind of the last time they were together. Did she do something wrong? Say something wrong? All she could remember was an afternoon of heaven. He had given her a bracelet, fastened it to her wrist, and then made love to her. How could any of that be wrong?

She walked down the hallway willing him to be at his locker. He was not, but she noticed several students gathered at the end of the corridor. They were hovering around someone’s locker, their heads bent low, talking in whispers, and she needed to know why. She headed towards them, passing several girls who looked like they’d been crying. Her heart quickened. Something was amiss, and she tried hard to ignore the dread she felt snaking through her belly.

“What is it?” she demanded of the first person she saw. He was another senior she remembered seeing in her Calculus class. She did not know his name.

“Crazy shit, that’s what. This dude shot himself in the head over the weekend,” the boy replied.

“Who? Who shot himself?” she asked with urgency.

“I don’t know. I think his name is Nate or something.”

She did not remember when she got in her car or drove to his house. She did not remember parking and going up the concrete steps. She remembered knocking, though. She wrapped her knuckles hard on the door, banging then hitting it. He didn’t answer. But she was determined. She tested the doorknob, and it turned. She opened the door tentatively and called his name. There was no answer, but she heard the music coming from his bedroom.

She pushed his bedroom door open. He was sitting on the edge of his bed. He had been crying, she could tell; the streaks were still fresh on his face. He looked dazed and tired, staring blankly ahead. She walked towards him slowly, hearing the familiar voice of his favorite rapper blaring from the CD player.

Emma turned off the music and said his name softly. At first he appeared oblivious. It was not until she knelt in front of him and gently wiped under one of his eyes that he realized her presence. He jerked away looking at her as if she were a stranger.

“What you doin’ here?” he asked.

How could she begin to tell him that she was sorry? She couldn’t imagine losing a close friend so heinously, and the words that so often came easy to her were lost.

“Go back to school,” he ordered and reached over to press PLAY on the stereo.

She moved to the bed and sat next to him. She thought that maybe she should be quiet for a time and let him listen to his song. She folded her hands on her lap and waited patiently, listening to words of a song she did not understand. She wished Anton did not understand them either. But he did, and she watched his great golden eyes well up with fresh tears that spilled over to the words of loss and despair.

Emma could bear it no more. She reached over and turned off the music. “Anton,” she began. He looked at her waiting for her to continue. She closed her hands over his, looking up at him. “Tell me what I can do.”

“I told you to go back to school,” he said.

She didn’t move. The heart charm on her bracelet brushed his wrist, and he yanked his hands away.

“There ain’t nothin’ you can do, okay?” he said harshly. “My friend is dead. Do you understand that? He ain’t comin’ back. You know how I know that? ‘Cause I watched him blow his fuckin’ brains out!”

Emma felt the tears running down her face. She could not comprehend what he said. He witnessed it. He witnessed the suicide.

“Why you cryin’?” he asked. “You didn’t even like him.”

“I’m crying because you’re hurting and I don’t know what to do. I want to be a good girlfriend to you, but I don’t know how,” she said sobbing.

He flinched at the word “girlfriend,” and she saw.

“Emma, get outta my room. Go back to school. You don’t need to be here,” he said firmly.

“Please, Anton,” she said.

He stood up suddenly and grabbed her upper arm. He dragged her from the bedroom to the front door where he released her. She would not give up. She wrapped her arms around his waist, holding him close, willing his anger to subside. But her forced embrace only fueled it, and he peeled her arms from around his body and held her at arm’s length as though she were poisonous.

He looked her in the eyes, his voice low and controlled. “Get the fuck outta my house.”

She ran out and slipped on the last stair, falling to the concrete pavement below. She cried out as she felt the instant burning on her knees. She looked down and saw the blood already oozing out of her, running down her legs in deep red ribbons. She had nothing to stop the blood and turned to his door. But he had already closed it, and she was not welcomed.

She carefully got into her car, grateful for the task of focusing on her knees so that she would not have to think about what he said to her. She tried to be careful, but she knew the blood was dripping onto her floor mats. She would have to clean them, she thought. How does one get blood out of carpet?

***

When she was freshly showered and bandaged, she sat down on her bed and cried. She cried for his hurtful words and the implications behind them. He blamed her. It was her fault that Nate was dead. She stole him away like a witch, cast a spell on him that made him abandon the life he knew with friends who cared about him. He left one friend utterly alone, and the result was a bullet to the head.

The tears poured over at the thought of her impending loneliness. He did not want her anymore. He hated her for the trouble she brought him, ravaging his world and making him forget who he was. It was her fault, and she could not undo it. She could not bring Nate back from the dead, or else she would. She would travel to the world beyond and search for him even if it took her years. She would find him and bring him back. And she would love him as the brother she never had.