Mid-Air: List 2

In third fourth fifth sixth grades,
the hat was my cocoon.

I linger at his locker,
waiting for him to run up spouting
about some anime move he did in PE.

His neck slumped down.

Five minutes ago, dude wouldn’t shut up about
pulling a levitation prank on his mom.

The rules: you can’t stall, say um, or answer with a question.

Drew hesitates. I raise my fist, ready, when he warns,
Bet not laugh.

That’s dumb, I scoff. A pretty boy who can probably
lay that “someone” out flat. ’Sides, ain’t like it’s Patti LaBelle.

My lips quivered, my eyes welled up, &
Dad said to me,
Big boys don’t cry.

Mrs. Randolph, he says, deadpan. Whatever can happen to
me at night can happen in the day.

Mom puts the car in park. Drew jumps out with
a rushed Thank you as I try to dislodge the bye
from behind my tonsils but it’s jammed just like
my mind is on that day.

Grief, he says, is one of those emotions that’ll consume you,
if you don’t take care of yourself. Trust me, I know.

We stand stiff for a minute, then finally I say,
Okay,
because
when I push play, we’ll time travel back to when
me, he, & Darius sparred in my backyard,
where we practiced tae kwon do moves
side kicked punks through windows
knocked knuckleheads with nunchucks &
served up nighty-night-sleep-tight juice
like we hood heroes.

Gnarly bone hands wielding daggers.

It dawns on me that The Last Dragon is the only
martial arts movie we’ve watched with Black fighters.

Outside, I look for Drew.
He’s at the court with Marcus & Randy
sharing a bag of Takis, watching kids
wait in line hoping to sink a free throw
faster than their opponent. Yeah, knockout.

Hardly pay it attention because my mind’s cruising
back to how I used to always walk home with Darius.

Boom. Bait snagged.

Mrs. Rice informs me most have been lost or never returned.

Drew mumbles something incoherent to
Vanessa’s back.

First thing we do is verify the rules, i.e.,
parental permission is required, which I agree to ask Mom.

Those days, he’d sometimes come home,
call me to the table excited to show
pictures he took on his own of
Black lives like —
Boys grandstanding on dirt bikes

Mom tells Aunt Terri and Uncle Vent she’s glad
his new job at National Geographic has given him
a much-needed change,
that yes, he’s doing better, and his contract
will be ending soon, if he doesn’t renew.

People’ll think you’re a thug, she says.

She holds up her hand, admiring.

Purple so deep it could’ve been siphoned from the galaxy.