Authors: Travis Hunter
“Here,” Nigel said, handing Franky a ziplock bag filled with ice. “Put that over ya eye, whoadie. Now, I’ma give you some time to yoself, but we gonna talk about this, ya heard?”
Franky was still stunned from seeing his father. That hadn’t been a hallucination; his dad had really been there.
“You hear me?” Nigel asked.
“Okay,” Franky said. He kicked his legs up on the bed and got horizontal, but rest wouldn’t be coming.
“Who the hell is Tyrone?” Rico said as he burst through the door with murder in his eyes.
“Dude I got in a fight with at school,” Franky said. His head couldn’t take the noise of Rico’s ranting and raving, so he just answered his questions.
“So he gonna get some fools and jump you? Then they beat up ya lady,” Rico said with his chest rising and falling in anger. “Shorty just told me what happened.”
Franky nodded and looked away. He was ashamed even though he knew this could’ve happened to anyone.
“We gonna handle this,” Rico said with a rage Franky had never seen before. “I’m ‘bout sick and tired of these Atlanta boys acting like we weak.”
“We gone handle it,” Nigel said calmly.
“Nah,” Rico screamed at his brother. “Not yo way. My way! It’s time I show ‘em how we do in the Calliope. Third Ward, ya heard me.”
And with that Rico left the house. There would be no calming him down. He was in gladiator mode, and once he was there, he wasn’t stopping until he was completely satisfied.
F
ranky sat on the steps of his house staring up at the moon. He had been trying to clear his mind of all the chaos that had taken up permanent residence there, and sitting outside on a warm night in Georgia usually did the trick. But that wouldn’t be the case tonight. His thoughts were constantly on Khadija. He had called her house so many times that her parents changed their number. After that, he decided to go by there only to have the door slammed in his face. Then to add insult to injury, Mrs. Davis opened the door before he could get off the porch and told him in a very calm and cool tone, “If you ever come back over here again, I will have you arrested for trespassing and harassment.”
Franky stood there on the verge of tears and listened as the lady dressed him down with her words. Once she had slammed the door, he walked away. He took one last look up at Khadija’s room on the second floor and was so happy when he saw her sitting on the windowsill lookingdown at him. He wasn’t sure how she felt about him, since he hadn’t heard from her, but she waved and then got up and walked away.
His heart ached to touch her, to be around her, to hear her voice as he stood there staring at her. It had been five whole days since the attack, and each day without speaking to her was ten times more agonizing than any Timberland boot to the face.
Franky kept looking up into the sky hoping it would rain. He was depressed, and he wanted it to rain. The rain took his family away, and he was hoping they would come and take him to join them.
He picked up Khadija’s cell phone and called her friend D’Asia.
“D’Asia,” he said. “This is Franky. Sorry to call you so late.”
“It’s okay,” she said. “What’s up? And when are you going to give Khadija her phone back?”
“I went to take it to her, but I got cussed out.”
“Yeah,” she said, “your name is mud in that house, dude.”
“Khadija doesn’t like me anymore, does she?”
“I don’t know. She’s just confused. I think she still likes you, but her mom is outraged. And Khadija will never go against her wishes.”
“But why are they so mad at me? I was jumped, too,” Franky pleaded.
“Yeah, but they heard something about you, Franky. And Mrs. Davis is sharp. She must believe what she heard.”
“What did she hear?”
“Somebody told her that you sold drugs. Khadija said she was suspicious of the money you had, and you knowhow she feels about thugs. She’s heartbroken, Franky. I don’t think she really believes that you would sell drugs, but she’s not sure. But Mrs. Davis said she’s one hundred percent sure.”
Franky was stunned and wondered who could’ve told her something like that.
“She won’t take my calls. She knows I have her phone, and she won’t even call it.”
“Franky,” D’Asia said. “How have you been doing? I heard you got beat up pretty bad.”
“I’m a’ight. It was nothing but a few bruises.”
“Have you been to school?”
“No, I haven’t, but I heard that Khadija doesn’t go there anymore.”
“Why haven’t you been going to school, Franky?”
“I just needed some time to think—that’s all. And being that Khadija is not there, I just wasn’t in the mood. Why did her parents pull her out of M and M?”
“I don’t know, but she’s at some other school in another county. I can’t tell you which one, because they asked me not to.”
“I understand,” Franky said.
“Mr. Davis got the video from outside of the store where y’all got jumped, and they got the boys. They’re all locked up.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. The one named Tyrone is the only juvenile, but he has some adult charges because he had a roll of quarters in his hand when he hit Khadija.”
So it was Tyrone who hit Khadija,
he thought. His anger caused him to shake.
“The other boys are in the real jail because they are older.”
“That’s good. That’s where they belong,” Franky said calmly.
“I agree.”
“Hey, listen,” Franky said. “Do you mind if I call you every now and then to check up on Khadija?”
“Yeah, that’s fine,” D’Asia said. “Khadija is my best friend, and she doesn’t like too many people. When I tell you that girl is mean, I’m not lying. But she loved you.”
“And I loved her,” Franky said. “I still do. Will you tell her that?”
“Of course, shawty,” D’Asia said, forcing Franky to smile and wish that it was his girl calling him that.
“Okay, D’Asia,” Franky said. “I appreciate you. Tell Khadija I’m thinking about her all the time.”
“She knows. Trust me, she knows. I’ll talk to you later, Franky. Get some rest.”
“I will. Bye.”
Franky hung up the phone, and all of his rage was aimed at Tyrone. He blamed him for all of this foolishness. His life was finally getting on the right track, and this fool decided he wanted to play “my city against your city” and ruin everything. Now he was about to pay. The one person he found some joy with no longer wanted anything to do with him, and he blamed Tyrone. It was time he paid the piper.
Franky took a deep breath and stood. He stretched his long body and started walking down the street. It was twelve o’clock in the morning, and there was a full moon out. He looked up into the heavens so that if his dad was looking down at him, he could see directly into his eyes.
“I gotta do this, Dad,” he said. “This feeling won’t set me free, and the only way I know how to get there is to make this right. I hope I’m making the right decision, because I do wanna see you and Mommy again, but I gotta handle this. Tell everyone I said hello.”
Franky waited to hear a sign from his father as he walked, but none came. He had no idea where he was going, but he figured he would know when he got there. He walked to Joseph E. Lowery Boulevard and picked up his pace. He walked into the parking lot of the Shell gas station and paused. The police car was where he thought it would be—right in front of the store. The officer inside the car was fiddling around on his computer screen and drinking coffee. Oh, how he hated those guys. Where were they when he and Khadija were getting jumped by a pack of dummies? Yet they were Johnny on the spot when Nigel was doing a good deed.
Franky walked into the store.
“Hey, Franky,” Habib, the Arab owner, said. “How you doing, my friend?”
Franky didn’t respond. He and Habib had always been on good terms and often shared deep conversations about religion and politics. He walked over to the refrigerator and removed a bottle of Pepsi. He closed the door and walked past Habib and out the door.
“Franky,” Habib called. “Franky …”
Franky kept walking as if he didn’t hear a word the man said. He kept walking until he reached the police car. He stopped and knocked on the window.
The officer looked at him but didn’t move.
Franky shook his soda and knocked again.
The officer sighed and shook his head as if he was chalking Franky up to being a pesky teenager.
Franky shook the soft drink a little harder, then knocked again.
“What?” the officer barked through the closed window.
“Maybe you didn’t get the memo about serving and protecting,” Franky said.
“What?” the officer said as he finally rolled down his window.
Franky opened the top of the Pepsi and sprayed the drink all over the officer’s pale face.
The officer jumped back and wasted his coffee all over his paperwork and computer. The man turned beet red and opened his door and jumped out. He glared down at Franky. “Have you lost your mind?”
Habib was outside the store now. He was short, chubby, and wore a black shemagh on his head. “Franky,” he said in his heavy Arab accent. “You forgot to pay for that, my friend.”
“I stole it,” he said.
“No,” Habib said as if all hope was lost. “No say that, my friend.”
“Oh, yeah,” the officer said. “Great. Put your hands behind your back. You are under arrest.”
“No,” Habib said, shaking his head. “He can have it. He didn’t steal it. He’s a good boy. Franky, what’s wrong?”
Franky didn’t respond. His mind was on the task at hand.
“He’s going to jail anyway,” the officer said.
“Why?” Habib asked. “Give him a break.”
The officer paused, pondering doing Habib a favor.
Franky saw the indecision on the officer’s face. He couldn’t have this man changing his mind, so he lifted his leg and stomped down on the officer’s foot as hard as he could.
“That’s it. Assault on a police officer,” the cop said.
Franky was handcuffed and placed in the back of the police car. He could feel himself slipping into another world.
T
he Atlanta City Jail looked totally different on the inside than it did when Franky visited his cousins on their trips in and out of the place. The city put on a good face for the visiting public, but there was an entirely different world once the police officer pulled into the underground tunnel to the intake area.
Two heavyset armed guards were the welcoming committee, one black and the other white. They didn’t smile as they chatted with the arresting officer before walking to the back of the police cruiser. The locks on the back door were popped, and one of the members of the welcoming committee snatched Franky out of the backseat. His hands were still cuffed behind his back, and they lifted his arms up, causing him a great amount of pain. They then literally carried him through two different sets of steel doors. He was dumped on the floor of a large room. The black officer kneeled down, placed his knee on Franky’s back, and removed the cuffs. Franky never said a word, and he wasmishandled. This was just par for the course. He was searched, and everything he had in his pockets was taken, including Khadija’s phone. His personal items were placed in a plastic bag. Franky was handed a black Sharpie and asked to write his name on the bag. He refused. The officer didn’t ask twice; he just took the bag, scribbled something on it, and walked away.
Franky stood up and looked around. He was in a room with hundreds of people who were under arrest just like him, and the place smelled awful. Foul-smelling drunks who were talking crazy and threatening to fight the officers stumbled around. About ten prostitutes were sitting on a long bench, and Franky couldn’t help but wonder if they were even fifteen years old. A few pimps huddled in a corner trying to steer clear of any trouble. Drug addicts, scratching their arms trying to calm that need for another fix, sat on the floor mumbling to themselves. Then there were the juveniles. They were buck wild and seeking attention in the worst way. Franky wondered why he was being placed in a jail that included grown-ups, but he didn’t say anything. His mind was on the task at hand.
He walked over to a long row of chairs and took a seat. Even this miserable environment couldn’t take his mind off of Khadija. Franky looked at a bum who was sitting on the floor in the holding area and did a double take—the bum looked like his father. The man was staring directly at him with the same stern face his father used to give him when he did something that he wasn’t supposed to. He peered in closer, and the man’s face changed. His heart skipped a beat. One of his dad’s biggest claims to fame was that he had never seen the inside of a jail cell—quite an accomplishment considering where and how he grewup—and yet it was his son who was sitting in one. He dropped his head.
“Everybody under the age of seventeen line up over here,” one of the correction officers said in a booming voice. “If I find anyone in line that is over the age of seventeen, you will have new charges added to what you already have.”
A guy in a lime-green outfit—pants, shirt, suit coat, and matching hat—jumped up and walked over to the line. He appeared to be older than the age limit for the line.
“How old are you?” the guard asked.
“Sixteen,” the guy said.
“And let me guess. You’re a wannabe pimp,” the guard said, shaking his head. “You look like a fool.”
“He looks like a Laffy Taffy,” one of the kids in line said.
The sixteen-year-old pimp turned around and walked toward the boy as if he wanted to fight but was snatched back into line by the guard.
“I’ma see you, boi,” Lime Green said, still trying to go after the jokester.
“Everybody can see you,” the jokester said, laughing. “And trust me, player. This ain’t what you want. Believe that.”
“Hey,” the guard said. “Y’all are pathetic. This is jail and y’all still up in here acting up. Stand your lil simple-minded self still before I take you in one of those rooms over there and strap you to a wall.”
Franky looked where the officer was pointing and saw two people strapped into restraint chairs. Their mouths were gagged, and white mesh bags were on their heads.