I rub the back of Trevor’s head, the only part of his body that hasn’t entirely blown up in the wake of his beating. I reach behind my back where Trevor has locked his arms around my waist. I have to fight myself to not stay still, to untangle him from me like untying a knot even though it’s the last thing I want to do, and he’s heaving by the time I remove myself from him and begin stuffing his clothes into his blue-and-yellow backpack that I got him for his ninth birthday because I couldn’t afford the actual Warriors backpack. I watched him scour it for a logo until he realized it was off-brand and there wasn’t one and then try to mask the sinking feeling in a thank-you. Dee might have failed in most ways, but she taught her baby some manners.
I zip the backpack up and put it on the edge of the bed, returning to Trevor. He’s back in the fetal position, so I grab his hands and pull him up, his head hanging backward and heavy. I have to hoist him off the bed and set him on his feet, but he’s gone limp, won’t lock his knees to hold up his body. I could threaten him or scold him or put on my mama voice, but I can’t bear that being our last moment together. Instead, I crouch and place my other arm under his legs, lifting him up like you carry a small child to bed after they fall asleep on the bus. He’s heavy with blood and tears and too much going on for him to figure out how to walk and breathe. I struggle to open the door, twisting the doorknob so it’s open just enough that Mrs. Randall sees us and pushes it open the rest of the way.
“He won’t walk. I can bring him to your car if you go on and get his backpack from the bed.” I don’t look her in the eyes, just stagger past her in an attempt to get us to the stairs. I take them one step at a time, Mrs. Randall following with Trevor’s backpack in hand. Once we’re down the stairs, she takes the lead, but I tell her she’s gotta take the back door because of the reporters, so I lead her out past the pool and nod my head toward the exit gate. She opens it for Trevor and me and then marches down the street in front of us, toward a black car.
She takes a key out of her pocket and clicks a button. The car beeps and Mrs. Randall holds the back door open. Trevor’s shaking again, my shirt soaking in his tears. I lift him up in one last exertion, laying him across the backseat. His arms are wrapped around my neck and, before I pry them off, I tilt down and kiss his forehead. “I love you,” I whisper. As much as I want to climb into the driver’s seat and take him somewhere I know he’ll be safe, where he won’t have to tremble, I know we don’t have that luxury. The only option is this: him, breaking in the backseat of an unfamiliar car. Me, removing him from my chest and shutting the door so all I can hear are his sobs.
Mrs. Randall turns to me before she gets in the car, says, “Thank you, Ms. Johnson,” but I’m already halfway down the street in the opposite direction, toward the bus, toward the cars. She can’t say nothing to make this okay and I can’t stand to watch her pull away from the curb with only his shrieks left to tell me he’s still breathing.
I’m dialing Marsha before I even realize I’ve memorized her number and, when she picks up, all I say is “I’m ready.” She tells me she’ll pick me up in twenty minutes and I tell her to get me from the courts. I’m standing in front of them, empty now, and I walk up the hill to find a bench right behind one of the hoops, looking out to High Street. Everything is moving, quick and relentless, like the city don’t know it should be stopping, should be kneeling, grieving for Trevor. These courts are a memorial, the only thing pausing for him. The only thing left of him in this whirlwind.
It’s been a week since Trevor was taken and five days since the grand jury officially started and today is my turn to testify. When I walk out the gate to the Regal-Hi, the swarm of reporters is on me, throwing a flurry of questions that I can’t decipher. I swing open the passenger door of Marsha’s car and climb in. She immediately sets a ball of fabric in my lap and says, “Put that on.” I hold it out in front of me. It’s the plainest, most modest black dress I’ve ever seen. “I put some shoes in the back too, so you can change back there.”
I glance toward the backseat to see my very own pair of black shoes, a slight heel on the bottom, but mostly flat. Marsha’s feet are at least three sizes smaller than mine, so she had to have bought them just for me. She starts the car as I clamber back and begin undressing, pulling the dress over my head and replacing my Vans with the black shoes. I stare down at myself, my ashy knees, the scars up and down my shins.