No good choices

It was time

Here it was.

"I need you to hold something for me," DeShawn said. "Just for a few days. Maybe a week."

I knew what "something" meant. Everybody knows what "something" means.

"I don't know, man. I don't really—"

"It's just a bag, Jamal. Small bag. You keep it under your couch or wherever. Nobody's gonna look for it at your place. You're clean. No record, nothing."

That was the problem. I was clean because I stayed away from this s**t. And now he wanted me to stop being clean.

"What's in it?" I asked, even though I didn't want to know.

DeShawn smiled a little. Not a nice smile. "Does it matter?"

"Yeah, it matters."

"Nah, it don't. What matters is you do this small thing for me, and I remember that you're solid. That you're someone I can trust."

The way he said "trust" didn't sound like trust. It sounded like something else. Something that meant I didn't have a choice.

"And if I can't?" I asked.

DeShawn stopped smiling. "Can't, or won't?"

"Either."

He looked at me for a long time. The two guys outside the liquor store were still smoking, still watching. A car drove past slow, bass thumping. Everything felt too loud and too quiet at the same time.

"See, that's the thing, Jamal. I don't think you understand the situation here. I'm asking you nice. I'm being respectful. But this ain't really a question, you feel me?"

I felt it. I felt it in my stomach, in my chest, in the way my hands were sweating inside my pockets.

"I got school," I said. "I got my mom to think about. I can't—"

"Your mom," DeShawn interrupted. "She works at that dental office on Slauson, right? And downtown at night, cleaning offices?"

Everything in me went cold.

"Two jobs," he continued. "That's rough. Woman working that hard, she needs her son to stay out of trouble. Stay safe. You know what I mean?"

It wasn't a threat. Not exactly. But it was close enough.

"Don't," I said. My voice came out harder than I expected. "Don't talk about my mom."

DeShawn held up his hands like he was being reasonable. "I'm just saying, Jamal. I'm just saying it would be real unfortunate if something happened. If there were complications. You understand?"

I understood. I understood that I was trapped. I understood that saying no wasn't really an option. I understood that this was how it happened, how people got pulled in. Not because they wanted to. Because they didn't have a choice.

"How long?" I asked.

"A week. Maybe less. I'll let you know when I need it back."

"And then we're done?"

"Then we're done. You do this for me, we're square. I won't forget it."

I didn't believe him. But I nodded anyway.

"Good man," DeShawn said. He clapped me on the shoulder like we were friends. "I'll bring it by tomorrow. You gonna be home around three?"

"Yeah."

"Alright then. And Jamal? Don't tell nobody about this. Not Marcus, not your boys, nobody. This stays between us."

"Alright."

"You're doing the right thing," he said.

I wasn't. I knew I wasn't. But I said okay anyway.

DeShawn walked back toward the liquor store and I started walking home. My legs felt weird, like they weren't quite working right. I kept my hands in my pockets and my head down and I didn't look at anybody.

When I got back to the apartment I locked the door and sat on the couch. I sat there for a long time just staring at nothing. The TV was off. It was quiet. I could hear someone's music playing in another apartment, could hear a siren somewhere far away.

I thought about calling Marcus. I thought about telling him what happened. But DeShawn said not to tell anybody, and maybe that was smart anyway. Maybe the less people who knew, the better.

I thought about my mom. About her working doubles all weekend while I sat here agreeing to hold drugs or guns or whatever the f**k was in that bag. She was working two jobs so I could graduate, so I could maybe go to college, so I could get out. And I was doing this.

I wanted to throw up.

My phone buzzed. It was Marcus asking if I was good. I texted back yeah and then turned my phone face down on the couch.

I didn't sleep much that night. I kept thinking about tomorrow, about DeShawn showing up with the bag. I kept thinking about what would happen if my mom came home early. I kept thinking about Anthony in the hospital.

Around three in the morning I got up and drank some water. The apartment was dark except for the streetlight coming through the window. I looked out at the street. It was empty. Just parked cars and shadows and the glow of the streetlights stretching down the block.

This was my neighborhood. I'd lived here my whole life. I knew every corner, every store, every alley. I knew where Marcus lived and where Keyshawn played basketball and where that guy got shot when I was fourteen.

I didn't want to leave. But I didn't want to stay either.

Sunday morning came and I was still on the couch, still awake. Mom wasn't coming home until Monday night. I had the whole day to think about what I'd done. What I'd agreed to do.

Around noon I texted Marcus and told him I wasn't feeling good, that I was gonna stay in. He said alright and to feel better. I felt worse.

At two-thirty I heard footsteps outside. My whole body tensed up. I waited for the knock.

It came at exactly three o'clock.

I looked through the peephole. DeShawn was alone, holding a black backpack. I opened the door.

"What's good," he said, like this was normal. Like we were friends.

"Hey."

He stepped inside without asking. I closed the door behind him. He looked around the apartment, taking it in. The couch where I slept. The small TV. The kitchen with the counter where Mom left me money.

"Nice place," he said. He wasn't being sarcastic. He just said it.

"Thanks."

He held out the backpack. It wasn't very big. Maybe the size of a school bag. It looked normal. It looked like nothing.

"Here you go. Like I said, just a few days. I'll hit you up when I need it back."

I took the bag. It was heavier than I expected but not crazy heavy. I didn't open it. I didn't want to see what was inside.

"You good?" DeShawn asked.

"Yeah."

"You sure? You look nervous."

"I'm good."

He looked at me for a second, then nodded. "Alright. Remember what I said. Don't tell nobody. Don't open it. Just keep it safe."

"I will."

"I know you will. You're smart, Jamal. Smarter than most of these fools out here."

He left. I locked the door behind him and stood there holding the bag.

It was real now. It wasn't just something he asked me to do. It was here, in my apartment, in my hands. Whatever was in this bag could get me arrested. Could get me expelled. Could get me killed.

I thought about throwing it away. Just taking it to a dumpster somewhere and getting rid of it. But DeShawn would know. He'd come back asking questions and I wouldn't have answers.

I thought about going to the police. But what would I say? And what would happen to my mom if I did?

I thought about running. Just leaving. Going to San Diego or somewhere else. But I didn't have money for that. And Mom would worry. And I'd still be running for the rest of my life.

So I did what DeShawn told me to do.

I took the bag to the couch and lifted up the cushion. There was space underneath where the frame was. Not much, but enough. I put the bag there and put the cushion back down.

It looked normal. Like nothing was different.

But everything was different.

I sat on the couch, right on top of where the bag was hidden. I could feel it underneath me. I turned on the TV and tried to watch something but I couldn't focus. I just kept thinking about the bag. About what was in it. About how long a week was.

My phone buzzed. It was Mom.

"Everything okay baby?"

"Yeah Mom everything's fine"

"You staying inside like I asked?"

"Yeah"

"Good. I love you. See you tomorrow night"

"Love you too"

I put the phone down.

Tomorrow night she'd be home. She'd sit on this couch, right where I was sitting. Right on top of the bag. And she wouldn't know. She'd ask about my weekend and I'd tell her it was fine. I'd tell her I stayed inside. I'd tell her I stayed out of trouble.

I'd lie.

The day passed slow. I tried to sleep but couldn't. I tried to eat but wasn't hungry. I just sat there on the couch, on top of the bag, waiting.

Monday came. I went to school. I sat through classes not hearing anything the teachers said. I saw Marcus in the hallway and he asked if I was feeling better. I said yeah. I saw Keyshawn at lunch. He was talking about some game. I pretended to listen.

After school I walked straight home. I didn't stop anywhere. I didn't talk to anybody.

When I got to the apartment I checked under the couch cushion. The bag was still there.

Mom came home around eight. She looked exhausted but she smiled when she saw me.

"Hey baby."

"Hey Mom."

She dropped her purse on the counter and sat down on the couch. Right on top of it.

"How was your weekend?"

"It was good. Quiet."

"You stay inside?"

"Yeah, mostly."

She nodded, satisfied. "Good. You hungry? I can make something."

"Nah, I ate already."

We watched TV together for a while. Some show she liked. I wasn't watching. I was thinking about the bag underneath her. About how close everything was to falling apart.

She went to bed around ten. I stayed on the couch.

This was my life now. For a week. Maybe less. Maybe more.

I thought about that day when I was fourteen, watching that guy get shot on Crenshaw and 83rd. I thought about running with Marcus, about not looking back. I thought about how I promised myself I'd stay away from this. Stay clean. Stay safe.

I'd failed.

But maybe I could still fix it. Maybe when DeShawn came back for the bag, that would be it. Maybe he'd leave me alone after this.

Maybe.

I looked at my phone. It was almost midnight. Monday was almost over. Six more days. Maybe less.

I could do six days.

I had to.

I locked the door behind me and started walking toward the stairs.

It was time.