How It Went Down Read Online Free PDF Page B

diner.
    “I love you,” he says, which makes me feel warm.
    “Love you too,” I respond, wishing I felt it the way he does. But it’s just what you say, isn’t it? To the guy you let kiss you and touch you all over. “You’ll pick me up tonight?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Can it be just us after that?” I ask.
    “Okay,” he says. “I mean, once we see Brick and them for a while.”
    I grit my teeth. Of course. I want to say, “Don’t pick me up then,” because I really want some distance from the whole mess of it. Everything to do with the Kings, and Tariq.
    What I actually say is, “Okay.” And I let him kiss me.
    “See you soon,” Noodle says.
    I give him a tiny wave and go inside. I take over for Shelly. She hugs me, which is strange, and heads on home. The small diner is quiet. One customer right now, and old Cup working the grill. I’ll work alone from three to five, then there’ll be three of us to cover the dinner rush.
    They’ve got the TV on, like usual. It’s mounted high above the counter. The one customer is the old guy who’s always in here, in counter seat number four. He gazes up at the set with reddened, watery eyes, sipping coffee that I will now and again offer to warm. He’s a good tipper, and the kind who looks in your eyes and not at your chest like most of the counter guys. Lone wolves and whatnot.
    Some kind of news is on. The pretty news anchor—Tammy? Tonya? I like her hair, all pretty and almost white. It makes me touch my own hair, its thick wavy darkness, bound at the base of my neck for health code reasons. I wish I could toss it, like she does, and have it flow delicate and smooth.
    The frame cuts away, just like that, to a photo of Tariq. I flinch. It’s all I can do not to drop the carafe of coffee.
    “Controversy over the shooting last night,” the male anchor says. “Some witnesses say Johnson may not have been armed at all.”
    “That’s right, Carl.” The cool blonde fills the screen again. “Sources say that the alleged shooter, Jack Franklin, may have mistaken a Snickers bar for a deadly weapon.”
    “It’s hard to imagine,” Carl says. “Making that kind of mistake.”
    I feel sick to my stomach.
    “And he was just sixteen,” the blonde says. “Possibly a gang member, say police, though his family has come forward to refute that claim. It seems there are more questions than answers in this story, Carl.”
    “That’s right, Tracy. It’s such a sad thing…”
    I check the old guy’s coffee one more time, then go into the kitchen. I don’t want to hear any more.

 
    BRIAN TRELLIS
    Six o’clock, local news. Every station’s got a different version of the story.
    Johnson had a gun. Johnson didn’t have a gun.
    Johnson robbed a store. Johnson was minding his own business.
    Johnson was a member of the 8-5 Kings.
    Johnson was in the wrong place at the wrong time, wearing the wrong clothes.
    I saw what I saw. I told the police what I saw—Johnson running from the scene of the crime. Someone shouted to me that he had a gun, like a warning, and I backed off. I believe he had one, sure enough. He had a hard look in his eye, and I’ve been around Underhill long enough to know a guy doesn’t come by that kind of coldness so casual.
    Six-thirty, national news. “ … growing controversy surrounding the shooting death of seventeen-year-old Tariq Johnson…”
    I had just looked away from him, from those cold eyes, when the first shot hit.
    Next thing I saw was Jack Franklin. He looked at me too. Looked me square in the eye. I can’t shake it. Can’t help wondering if he saved my life, or made a huge mistake.

 
    TYRELL
    The realness starts to sink in, slow and still kind of unbelievable. My skin tingles like it’s on fire. I sit on the rug in front of the couch, staring at the television. I know I’m going to have to turn it off before Dad gets home, which is any minute.
    The news is on. I usually watch at this time, but today it makes me feel sick to