Read All American Boys for Free Online Page B

duck . . .”
    My mother glared at him. “David! This is your son we’re talking about. The boy’s never even been suspended.”
    â€œBut they don’t know that,” Dad said. “What they see is what he presents. And it sounds like he presented himself as just another—”
    â€œAnother what?” Ma cut in again, this time her voice spiking to that Don’t start level. Dad swallowed the rest of his statement.
    â€œWell, they said you resisted arrest,” he continued in another direction. “If you didn’t do anything wrong, why would you resist arrest?” His voice began to rise. “And howmany times have I told you and Spoony, I mean, since y’all were young we’ve been going over this. Never fight back. Never talk back. Keep your hands up. Keep your mouth shut. Just do what they ask you to do, and you’ll be fine.”
    That was another one of those way-too-familiar songs Spoony and I were forced to sing when we were kids. Every time Dad said it, it was always the same. Just like the army talk. But this one was even worse, because it had a rhythm to it, like a poem, or a chant. Never fight back. Never talk back. Keep your hands up. Keep your mouth shut. Just do what they ask you to do, and you’ll be fine.
    â€œI know, I know. And I did all that,” I said, running through the scenario in my head again. “I didn’t fight back; I couldn’t. And I didn’t say jack besides trying to explain that I hadn’t done nothing wrong, but before I could even get a word out, he was all over me.”
    â€œYou couldn’t have,” Dad said, matter-of-fact. He looked at me as if he didn’t know me and shook his head. As if he was disappointed. As if I asked for this. That really pissed me off. That really, really got me going, because I was being blamed for something I didn’t do, not just by that stupid store clerk and that asshole cop, but also by my father. A burning sensation rose in my chest and stomach, the fractured ribs sizzling. My eyes began to water with frustration.
    â€œI did.” My voice shattered in my throat and came outpitchy and emotional. “You don’t gotta believe me. But I did.” I turned my head away.
    You know who did believe me? My brother Spoony. He showed up a few minutes later, after working an overnight shift at UPS and catching a quick nap. And let me tell you, when he arrived, he was full of fire.
    First was the obligatory mother hug. Spoony ran over to our mom and gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Made sure she was all right. Then came the “Dad.” That’s all Spoony said to him. Just an acknowledgment of his presence. It’s not that he was beefing with our father or that they didn’t get along—I take that back. They really didn’t get along. They just couldn’t see eye to eye on most things. Dad was all about discipline and believed that if you work hard, good things happen to you no matter what. Of course, part of working hard, to him, was looking the part, dressing the part, and speaking the part, which Spoony didn’t really vibe with.
    Spoony had, I don’t know, maybe eight or nine locs sprouting from his head like antennae. Thick and matted like strips of carpet, but I always thought they looked pretty cool. Dad . . . not so much. They’ll think you’re doing drugs, he’d say. Spoony’s clothes were always two (or three or four) sizes too big. That was just his style. That was pretty much his whole generation’s style. Nineties hip-hop, gritty, realness. Wu-Tang. Biggie. Hoodies and unlaced boots. They’ll think you’reselling drugs, Dad would say. Why can’t you get a haircut? Why can’t you dress like a respectable adult? Why can’t you set an example for your brother? Huh, son? Why? And because Spoony was tired of explaining himself, and Dad was tired of asking him to