But something drew Frankie across the grass. Though he hadn’t hit anyone, he felt as guilty as if he had. He found his legs moving of their own accord, as if they weren’t his, stepping forward, air thick as mud, not moving away but toward Ray-Ban Boy. He found himself standing over him. Maybe the boy’s spirit had led him, carried him, forced him to view what he—they—had done?
The wound blossoming red on the clean white tee, the black Ray-Bans by the kid’s side.
Ray-Ban Boy was JLP.
JLP shot Samson.
But revenge didn’t feel anything like he’d thought it would. Where was the relief?
“Go!”
The word brought Frankie back to this world. Joe nodded at him like a father, like Samson.
Frankie knew he should run, but now his legs were doing the opposite—at last, he backed away slowly.
Joe eyed the church, silent except for the wailing that was coming from inside.
“No one here shall vote JLP! No JLP! You hear me!” Joe yelled out. “Don’t come to no poll on Election Day!”
It was only then that Frankie noticed the handwritten signs that hung on the side of the church: JLP: Labour. Prosperity. A Better Way Forward.
Then—pop, pop, pop. Joe put a bullet dead center in every O, his bullets stamping their mark—Joe’s initials.
Shit. He’d never seen anyone shoot like Joe. Shit. Despite the mess up with the other gang, Joe still remembered the political message he came to deliver. Frankie couldn’t even think straight. And, at last, Frankie turned and fled. He stumbled over a lignum vitae tree root—had to windmill his arms to keep his balance. Something seemed to shift behind the large ficus. Spooked, Frankie ducked. It was just a bird. That was Joe behind him, right?
Time disappeared again, and, out of breath, unable to remember how he had gotten there, Frankie found himself sitting in the back of the truck next to the other recruits.
Boots thrashed along the forest floor. Ice Box swung around with his gun, but it was Joe. Ice Box lowered his weapon. Engines started. But instead of his own ride, Joe went straight for the F-150, eyes blazing. Frankie thought he was coming for him—angry that Frankie had missed. But Joe stopped in front of Winston and thrust out his hand. Winston had no reaction—it was as if he couldn’t see Joe or the fury in his eyes. While Frankie felt a flood of relief that it wasn’t him, he instantly felt guilty, because Winston was in for a shitload of trouble.
“Joe,” Frankie started.
“Shut the fuck up!” Joe barked, then swung back to Winston. “Give me your gun. Now!” Drawing closer, he raised his hand as if to slap Winston.
Finally Winston fished the gun out of his pocket and gave it to Joe, hand shaking, just like at the church. Was that really only moments ago? When Winston couldn’t shoot Ray-Ban Boy?
Winston had lost his nerve.
Frankie’s stomach began to ache.
“You’re out of the posse.” Joe glared at Winston. “You lucky me no make you walk.”
Twenty-Two
rastas never drank alcohol. Joe didn’t even allow the posse to have booze at the camp, so when Buck-Buck and Ice Box insisted that he accompany them to the Urban-Might-Ee Lounge for drinks to blow off steam, he made a significant concession, saying he understood the need to let off steam after a day when blood was spilled. Aunt Jenny added that it was good for the boss to spend time with employees. Frankie had no desire to join them. The image of Winston getting off the F-150, head lowered, walking out of camp, all alone, haunted him.
So while everyone paraded into the lounge, Frankie slipped away. He headed straight to Winston’s house, but no one answered his knocks. He couldn’t tell if Winston was avoiding him or if he wasn’t home. After a time, Frankie gave up. The whole walk back, his brain kept pulsing: You killed someone. You killed someone. The fact that he’d missed didn’t matter. He hadn’t intended to miss. So it was the same thing.
Outside the lounge, dance-hall reggae thrummed the ground, seeming to match the pulse in his head—like even the earth knew what he had done. There was no way to take it all back, no rewind. Bile rose into his throat. The door cracked open.
“Frankie.” Buck-Buck came out and tapped Frankie’s chest with a bottle of Red Stripe Bold. “Been looking for you. You turn a man today. Joe not telling you that, but him say that to me.”
There was no relief in Buck-Buck’s compliment, either. Frankie felt only more nauseous; Buck-Buck was a killer. Frankie tried to step back, but Buck-Buck elbowed his arm, a conspiratorial knock. “And don’t say nothing ’bout my little phone call, right?”
Until then, Frankie hadn’t even remembered the phone call. Hadn’t remembered that Buck-Buck had put the mission on hold, how they stood in the woods before the shoot-out.
“Nothing wrong with making a little money on the side, right?” Buck-Buck went on, slapping Frankie’s chest with the back of his hand. When Frankie didn’t answer, he added, “We cool ’bout it?”
Frankie snapped back into focus. “Yeh, mon. No problem.”
“Good. Come.”
Inside, the gangly lounge owner lugged a packed tray of Red Stripe and Dragon Stout beers. He landed the drinks at the corner booth, where the rest of the new recruits were squished together like a team that had just won a game they thought they were going to lose. Ice Box held court with the rest of the posse at the bar. Cricket put money into the old jukebox and blatantly chose “Murderer,” Buju Banton’s classic. Buck-Buck scooped up a Red Stripe, handed it to Frankie, and raised his own.
Joe raised his Ting soda. “Yes, yes! Once him learn how to aim, he will be unstoppable.”
Everyone broke out in laughter. Frankie forced a smile, tried to laugh, but the humor didn’t grow on him—it was a seed sown in the wrong field.
“Frankie Green, killing machine,” Big Pelton repeated, nodding at his own cleverness.
The other boys’ heads bounced as if to the same beat.
Marshal leaned forward and said, “Frankie, mon, you’re like Keanu Reeves.”
“Jim Wick to back side!” the Stony Mountain boy with pointy ears said.
“Jim Wick?” Marshal yelped, and everyone busted out laughing.
“What?” the Stony Mountain boy asked.
“It’s John Wick, mon.” Marshal put his beer down. “Keanu Reeves plays John Wick. Jim Wick is some other kind a’ Wick.”
“Jim, John, whatever. Me no see di movie yet.” The Stony Mountain boy folded his arms defensively. “But me have it ’pon DVD.”
“DVD!” Greg said. “You no have Wi-Fi at your house?”
The Stony Mountain boy looked down at the table. “No, mon.”
Frankie took a quick swig of his beer. “Me neither.”
All the boys, one by one, admitted that they didn’t have Wi-Fi either, until finally Greg admitted the same. The laughter rippled. Frankie began to relax. He smiled—one of the boys, just having a beer—and it felt… okay. He wasn’t alone, at least that.
“Me don’t love Keanu Reeves movies too much, though,” Big Pelton offered.
“Memes of him are fire, though,” Marshal said.
Big Pelton said, “Yeh, mon.”
Heads nodded again like they were in church, making Frankie think of the stone one—and Ray-Ban Boy. He chugged his beer, pushing the thought away.
Then sunlight sliced into the dark room as the door swung open. Ice Box and Buck-Buck spun around, whipping out their guns. Even the lounge owner snatched one from behind the bar.
But it was only Winston, the desperate look on his face growing as he walked toward Joe.
Joe folded his arms, and Frankie tightened his grip on the bottle neck. It was so hard to understand Winston sometimes. He’d probably gone out of his way to ask around about the posse, just so he could come here and put himself in the middle of Joe’s crosshairs.
“Winston, I tell you already, you are no longer welcome!”
Joe said, his voice flat, as expressionless as his face. “And me hope is not trouble you looking for, because you will find it in here.” Ice Box and Buck-Buck shifted, ready to pounce.
Now, Joe made his way toward Winston, who looked like a lost child.
Frankie set down his beer and in three steps was at Winston’s side, throwing a hand on his friend’s shoulder. Winston smacked it away, so Frankie rammed Winston with two hands, shoving him away from Joe, back toward the door.
Winston’s nostrils flared. “Fuck off.”
“We have to go, mon,” Frankie hissed, mustering all the intensity he had.
Winston looked past Frankie’s shoulder to Joe and pressed back.
“Easy, buddy. I have an idea. Just give me some time.” Frankie planted his palm on Winston’s back, urging him toward the threshold.
And to Frankie’s immense relief, Winston turned.
* * *
Frankie walked side by side with Winston, wary of talking about posse business on the street. His mother had said often, God gave you two ears but one mouth—listen more, talk less. Once they reached their private meeting spot, Winston threw himself on the ground. “I’m a dead man.”
“There might be a way—”
Winston banged his forehead into the dirt. “There’s no way, mon! I’m a fucking dead man. When Garnett hears about this, pfff.”
“Look, I can talk to Joe. No way will he let Garnett—”
“Stop that shit!” Winston pushed himself up. “Just because you shot, you feel all good, right?”
All good? All good? Nothing was good. Winston had no clue. But, “No, I don’t feel all good, Winston” was all he said.
“Bullshit. ‘Frankie Green, killing machine.’ Bullshit.” Winston smirked, cold. “Yeh, me overhear what them was calling you.” He stomped at a line of black ants.
Winston. He could flatten a line of ants, but he couldn’t pull the trigger. Then, like a wave at the beach, one he didn’t see coming, it hit Frankie that he could. Then Frankie’s brain went into overdrive. But did that mean Winston was really a coward? Or just that Winston wasn’t a killer? And what did it mean that he, Frankie, could pull the trigger? Did that mean Winston cared more about people, about life? Frankie’d learned about double-edged swords in school. And dang, on one hand he’d been able to shoot, which saved lives, but on the other hand he’d helped to kill three kids. He sat down heavily beside Winston.
Winston leaned back. “Fucking Joe.”
Frankie eyed Winston. “What? What did you say?”
“Me say Joe not even a real Rasta.”
Winston was just bitter, Frankie knew. But he felt compelled to say, “Watch it, mon, he is my uncle, you know.”
“Real Rastas don’t use guns, Frankie.” He spat. “They don’t go shoot up churches for politics. Shit.”
He wasn’t wrong… and yet at the same time, how else could Joe look out for the community? Make sure worse didn’t take over?
Winston’s exhale was long. “What’s your big idea, anyway? You said you could do something.”
The weight on Frankie’s chest was considerable. He was about to promise something, and he suddenly didn’t know if it was right.
“What?” Winston pressed.
“I’ll talk to Joe. Next week. We have another mission. He might have cooled down by then. I’ll talk to him when we meet up.”
Winston picked up a handful of gravel, weighed it. “Hmm.” Then he let the grains slip slowly through his fingers.
Twenty-Three
when Frankie next went to the hospital, he was psyched about the nurse’s news. The treatment had finally arrived. Samson had had the first doses. Frankie was eager to see his father, but he was sleeping. His color looked the same. The circles under his eyes were darker, though. At least Samson was getting what he needed. Hopefully he’d be feeling better soon. All Frankie had done had not been for naught.
Not wanting to wake his father, Frankie headed for school to check in with his teachers. They were pleased to see him, not demanding much, because of his situation. If they only knew. Frankie trudged down the hallway of the admin building. The letter—the G-damned letter—was in his backpack. He had to mail it. It was ridiculous!
Ahead, the school logo gleamed on the wall, YET HIGHER catching his eye as always. He slowed. It was time to tell Mrs. Gordon. Maybe about the whole thing? Yeah, that’d go over well: “Oh. And by the way, I joined a posse and gave up my scholarship and tried to kill a kid—” He shook his head hard, exhaled just as hard, and knocked on Mrs. Gordon’s half-opened door.
“Frankie,” she said, glancing up. “Come in!” He wiped his hand across his brow and onto his khaki pants before sitting. She looked at him, happy on her face. “Now, what’s on your mind?”
The only way out is through, Samson would say when Frankie messed up as a kid, scared to tell what he’d done. So Frankie went right there: “Miss, I think I have to give up the scholarship.” His surrender was also his reality.
She adjusted her glasses and folded her hands carefully on the desk. He could tell she was struggling to keep her composure. “Is this about your father?”
Yes, keep it about his father. It was, after all, about his father—the whole damn mess. “Yes. He’s got a long… recovery. And with my mother gone… I think I need to stay close to home.” His temple started to throb. “I was wondering if… there was something, some way I could rework the scholarship, maybe use it another time, next year?” Why did he even say that? There would be no next year. He might be killing people next year, or be killed himself.
“Frankie—” She stopped, again composing herself. “I seriously doubt that the university can do that. I don’t even know if they’ll be offering the scholarship next year.” But, ever hopeful, she turned to her computer and clicked at her keyboard.
He realized he was rocking back and forth, a horse at a starting gate. He put his hands on his knees to still himself, praying for a lifeline.
Mrs. Gordon looked up from her computer a few moments later, frowning. “The deadline to accept the scholarship has passed. It was last Monday.”
“What does that mean?” His shoulders were pinching tighter and tighter. He’d been right—the joy was crushed from her eyes.
“It means there’s nothing I can do. Frankie, are you sure you want to turn it down? I might be able to speak to the university on your behalf.”
As if his desire had anything to do with it. His shoulders went tighter still, as if caving in on his chest. “Yes, I think I have to.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Frankie.” Her voice had gone flat, just like the admissions officer he’d spoken to in America. He had to get out of there.
* * *
He’d blown his chance. His mother had warned him. She had! He was almost glad that she would never know this.
* * *
The art building was at the other end of the campus mall, where Leah had said she’d be all day. Frankie debated heading over there.
What was the use of seeing her now? He now, officially, wasn’t a single thing that she thought he was. Not a scholarship winner—just a boy in a posse. But—but—they had something, a spark, he could feel it. And maybe—maybe, why not see if she’d understand that he truly had no choice? Because that was the truth of it.
In the cool, dark corridor, a girl with yellow highlights in her hair pointed out the art studio. Frankie pressed his face to the window in the door. A guy was working clay at a table in one corner. In another was Leah, hovering over a canvas. Her face was a frozen moment. His breath quickened.
He pushed open the door to the sickly sweet smell of paint and turpentine. The sculpting student glanced over, then back to his clay. Leah didn’t even glance.
Frankie came behind her and waited. “You never looked at me like that,” he said at last.
She looked up, startled. “You’re not a blank canvas.”
He looked down. The canvas was blank.
“The
n again…” She paused. “Maybe we’re all blank canvases.”
He searched her face. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Maybe we kind of go around each day sort of lost, just kind of feeling our way through it.”
“That’s deep.” Did she always feel that way, or was it just because she was trying to come up with an idea? So he asked her exactly that.
“Close to it.” She smiled in a way he’d never seen before. “I always feel that way.”
“That’s pretty dark, Leah.”
“Don’t you think things are dark?” She was sizing him up, fully engaged now.
“Well…”
Leah stepped back and gave him an appraising look. “Well, everything’s sunny in your world. You’re going off to the land of milk and honey. Baseball, hot dogs, apple pies, Disney World, and Drake, Mr. Scholarship. You must be doing cartwheels.”
More like belly flops, from thousand-foot diving boards. Covering, he joked, “Drake’s Canadian.”
“Close enough,” Leah said.
Bitterness soured his mouth. It was time to tell her about it. He looked at the kid in the corner. He was out of earshot, so… “There’s—uh—something you need to know.”
“Oh yeah?” She planted one hand on her hip.
“I’m not taking the scholarship. I’m staying,” he said in a rush. As her mouth made a perfect O, he added, “My father… see, the reason he’s in the hospital… he got shot.”
Leah grasped his arm, her voice suddenly full of concern. “Shot?”
He thought carefully before answering, “A drive-by thing.” Okay, so an almost truth. “A stray bullet.”
“So, what’s going on? Is he going to be all right?”
Frankie tried to sound sure. “He’s getting a special treatment.”
“That’s good, at least.” Then she crossed her arms. “Don’t get me wrong. I think it’s pretty cool that you support your father like that. But once he recovers…” Her eyes were full of sad. “Will you be able to go to America then?”