Blend

40:00 | the american heartbreak

IT TOOK less than a minute for the aforementioned detective to get under my skin. We've been going at it with each other, round after round, back and forth. And now this.

"Let me ask you again," the detective says, tapping the butt of his pen on the table. "Just how many pretty white girls have you raped, Wallace Jones? 'Cause I'm betting a boy like you has broken the law plenty of times, off record."

I harden my fists, shudder with a deep breath, and mutter, "This is some racist bullshit!"

Usually when I drop a line like this, I'm joking around with friends. I'll say it because Mikey and Owen worked together like the fucking Avengers to block me from a three-point shot during practice. Or because Goldman's TA gave me a D+ on an essay I straight up didn't even care about. I might even say this if the movie theater dude forgot to put butter on my popcorn.

But right now I feel every word in this statement.

I fix a heated glare on him.

"Oh no you don't," he says, wagging a finger. "I've got a Black niece. Can't use 'you're a racist' on me." Detective Racist-With-A-Black-Niece leans in with a sneer. His muddy blue eyes slit under the harsh lighting and the pungent smell of his underarms causes me to lurch back.

"You know, Wallace," says the detective's partner, standing in the corner of the room. She's barely said a word to me this whole time. Just been sipping her coffee looking like it's still too early for her to give a damn. "This would all be over if you just told us what happened. I'm sure you have your own version of events from last night. All you have to do is tell us how you killed her."

"It's Ace." I grit my teeth so hard, I feel my jawline pop. How many times do I have to spell it out for them?

I didn't kill Penelope Adams.

Didn't drug her.

Didn't rape her.

Hell, I hardly knew her.

Detective Racist snorts, glancing back at his half-assing partner. "You hear this? We got a twenty-year-old dead girl, someone who had a bright future ahead of her, and what seems to matter most to this motherfucking animal is his name."

"Because you guys can't get anything right!"

He slams his fist into the gray-speckled table. A warning.

I flinch.

I learned early on that it's okay for him to raise his voice but not me.

The Detective drags a metal chair and situates it right before me, his eyes narrowing. He presses in, again, that musky odor tightening my throat. "You may be champ on Arizona State's basketball court but we're in my court now, dawg. You're going down for this. Let that sink in. You really fucked up killing the Adams girl. Do you even know who her father is?"

I keep a cool gaze on him. He's already broken me once in the span of an hour. Had me crying like a baby with snot and tears—shaking like a dog. I won't let him do that again.

"You want to say something?" he challenges.

I continue to stare him down until I draw a breath. "Yeah. I feel sorry for your niece."

With an ample sigh, his partner leaves the room. Grunting and cursing, he follows after her. And I'm left to sit in my thoughts. Alone. Wondering if my mom will ever get here.

My eyes close. I count each breath; hold each breath. Count each breath. Hold. It's a calming technique my high school coach taught me. If I don't keep doing this, I'll lose my mind.

It's strange. In the back of my mind I still see that game clock starting its countdown. If this were an actual basketball game, it'd be too early to call the winner, but I already feel defeated and that's because I didn't count on the one thing that should've been such an obvious obstacle.

The color of my skin.

I forget about it, to be honest. Being mixed can afford me that privilege sometimes. I mean, my mom's white and she raised me. But in this place, with this detective, my brown skin is all he sees.

Suddenly it dawns on me that I'm taking part in a game that's been fixed. And the clock just started its countdown to deliver me to a fate that usually doesn't work out for guys like me.

My last English assignment was on a poem that I can hear pulsing inside my head right now. English is my worst subject, but like the clock ticking above the door, its soothing rhythm keeps me tethered to reality.

I had to write two pages analyzing the shit out of this tiny poem, pretending like I truly understood it. In the end, I got a C. About as expected for a kid who didn't really get it. Too bad I can't rewind time. I more than get it now.

We are the American heartbreak —

The rock on which Freedom

Stumped its toe —

The great mistake

That Jamestown made

Long ago.

See, the professor told me that our boy was saying Black people have always been a "problem" for America. That America just don't know what to do with us. Which is probably why that racist cop, who refuses to see his own racism, will make sure I stay behind bars for the rest of my life. That way I'll be less of a problem. An animal contained.

Shit, Langston Hughes.

I think you were onto something.