Ali Cross Read online

  It was like someone had flipped a switch in my brain. I turned back around so fast, Darius actually flinched. But it wasn’t the lapdog I was coming for. Nope. It was the fool behind him, holding the leash.

  I didn’t have a plan. I didn’t think about it at all. I just came straight at Kahlil and popped him in the face with a hard right jab. And I guess those boxing lessons Dad liked to give me all the time must have paid off, because blood shot out both sides of Kahlil’s nose. All down his front, too.

  Now Kahlil’s shirt looked like a crime scene, and his eyes were bugged open wide. I don’t know which one of us was more surprised. All I know is that I didn’t move fast enough when Kahlil took the next swing. I didn’t even know he was left-handed until his fist connected with my cheekbone, just under the right eye.

  I flew back. Next thing I knew, I was flat on the floor of the hallway. My head was swimming, everything was blurry, and I could hear people starting to yell.

  “Fight, fight, fight…”

  “Get him, Kahlil!”

  “Stop it!”

  Kahlil came for me again and pulled me up by the front of my shirt. I thought for sure he was going to knock me right out, but it didn’t get that far. Mr. Garmon was already in the mix, pulling Kahlil off and getting me back on my feet. He was yelling, too, louder than anyone else. Garmon could go full-on drill sergeant when he wanted to.

  “Enough! What do you boys think you’re doing?” he hollered.

  “He started it!” I said.

  “Didn’t look that way to me,” Garmon said.

  “If I’d started it, you wouldn’t be standing,” Kahlil said.

  “I’m standing,” I told him. “What are you going to do about it?”

  “Keep talking,” he said, pointing a finger in my face. “This isn’t over.”

  Then I called him a whole bunch of names, the kind that can get you a detention just for using one of them in school. But I couldn’t help it.

  “Who you think you are, Kahlil?” I kept going. “You’re a nobody! And you want to know why? ’Cause you don’t even try to pick on anyone your own size!”

  Kahlil was shouting back, but I wasn’t hearing it. The words were pouring out of me just like the blood pouring out of his busted nose. And I would have said a whole lot more—and maybe worse, too—if Mr. Garmon hadn’t put a stop to it.

  “That’s it!” Garmon shouted. “Both of you, not another word!” He had me by the arm now and Mrs. Noble was there, too, keeping Kahlil back. Kahlil wasn’t even trying to come for me anymore. He was just holding his sleeve up to his nose and killing me with his eyes instead. I think we both knew it was over.

  A second later, Garmon started marching me off toward his office while Mrs. Noble took Kahlil in some other direction.

  “I’m disappointed in you, Ali,” Garmon said. “Today, of all days, when we just got done coming together for Gabe. And I’m surprised, too. I wouldn’t have expected this from you.…”

  There was more, but I only kind of heard him. The right side of my face felt like it was on fire, and I didn’t need any special powers to know that I had a black eye in my future.

  Not to mention everything else headed my way now. Because the fact was, I’d just bought myself a whole new mountain of trouble that I couldn’t afford.

  ALEX KNEW THERE had been a fight. Something between his son and another boy. He knew Ali was in one piece, but nobody had told him about the black eye. It was the first thing he noticed when he stepped into the main office at Washington Latin Middle School.

  There was Ali in the waiting chairs, looking miserable and already red around the eye socket. In time, it would turn purple, and then yellow, Alex knew. He’d had his own share of periorbital hematomas.

  Still, nobody likes to see their own kid in pain. Alex’s stomach clenched at the sight of it.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “I didn’t know he was lefthanded,” Ali said, like that was the question. After all those father and son boxing lessons in the basement, it seemed maybe Ali had learned a little too much about offense and not enough about defense. Word was that he’d given the other kid a bloody nose.

  “Dr. Cross? Good morning.”

  Alex looked up to see the school principal, Geoff Garmon, smiling politely and motioning him over. Garmon crooked a finger at Ali to come as well. “Let’s go, Ali. You, too.”

  Inside the principal’s office, a few more things came clear. Garmon reported that Ali had taken the first swing, and Ali didn’t try to deny it. That part was even more surprising than the brawl itself. Ali had been in his share of scuffles before, but he had never been one to pick on other kids, much less start a fight.

  Then again, Alex knew, it hadn’t exactly been smooth sailing for Ali lately. Between his friend’s disappearance and his old man’s upcoming trial, Ali was a walking pressure cooker these days. All that stress had to come out somewhere. But it didn’t mean Alex could let him off the hook, either.

  “You have anything to say for yourself?” he asked Ali.

  “Sorry.” Ali mumbled it out with his eyes down.

  “I think we can do better than that,” Alex said, and waited for Ali to look up.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Garmon,” Ali tried again.

  “In any case,” Garmon continued, “we have a zero-tolerance policy on fighting at Wash-Latin, and it comes with an automatic four-day off-campus suspension.”

  At that, Ali’s jaw dropped. Suspension was a big leap from the occasional detention he’d received, and he glanced at Alex as if he were expecting dear old dad to run some kind of interference on this. Which wasn’t going to happen.

  “I have no doubt Kahlil was getting under your skin,” Mr. Garmon said. “But this kind of response is unacceptable, and you know that, Ali. You know it very well. I hope we can look forward to a more constructive attitude from you when you come back to school next Wednesday.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ali said, eyes down again.

  “Does that seem unfair to you?” Alex asked.

  Ali only shook his head, pressing his lips together like he was working overtime to keep the words inside. Clearly he wasn’t going to try and fight this suspension, but he was still plenty mad.

  Which was fine. Ali didn’t have to like his punishment. He just had to take it.

  “WHAT WERE YOU thinking?” Alex asked as they walked to the car. “For real, son. How did this happen?”

  “Kahlil was talking about you,” Ali said. Now that they were out of the office and on the street, he’d loosened up. Maybe it was something he didn’t want to talk about in front of Mr. Garmon. “You should have heard what he was saying.”

  “Yeah, well, Kahlil can take a number,” Alex answered. “You know how many people are talking trash about me these days?”

  “I know, but—”

  “And are you planning on throwing a punch at every single one of them?” Alex asked.

  Ali had no answer for that one, other than letting out a deep sigh. He really was carrying a heavy load these days.

  “I appreciate you having my back. I mean that,” Alex went on, with a hand on his son’s shoulder. “And if someone takes a swing at you, that’s one thing. But I didn’t teach you to box so you could go around starting fights and handing out bloody noses.”

  “Just because I hit him first doesn’t mean I started it,” Ali said then. “He was the one coming at me with his talk about Gabe and about you, even though he should know better. His dad’s a cop, too, you know!”

  “Who’s his dad?”

  Ali shrugged. “Officer Weyland, I guess. He’s a patrol officer in the Sixth Ward.”

  The name wasn’t familiar to Alex, but it would be soon enough. He’d be giving Mr. Weyland a call that evening.

  “In any case, you won’t be going anywhere for the next four days,” Alex said. “No friends, no TV, and no PlayStation, either.”

  “No PlayStation?” Ali blurted out. That seemed to get the biggest
rise of all.

  “You heard me,” Alex said. “And if you can’t get your head around that, then it tells me you’re not taking this seriously enough. Should I go on?”

  “No, sir,” Ali said. The kid was too smart to push it any further.

  In fact, there was no more conversation at all until they were in the car and halfway home. Once they’d passed through the busy intersection of Pennsylvania, 11th, and E Streets, Ali spoke up again.

  “Dad?” he asked. “If Mr. Yang dies in the hospital, are you going to be charged with murder?”

  His voice had gotten small. It was heartbreaking to hear. Ali really was afraid. And for that matter, so was Alex.

  “I hope not,” he answered honestly. “But how about we cross that bridge if or when we come to it?”

  “Yeah, okay,” Ali said. And then, “Dad?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well… I know what you just said, but if Mr. Yang dies… does that mean you did kill him? Technically, anyway?”

  “Let me put it this way,” Alex answered. “I didn’t push Mr. Yang down those stairs. I know you know that, but it’s also true that there were no witnesses, and some people are going to believe what they want to believe, regardless.”

  “Like Kahlil,” Ali mumbled.

  “That’s right,” Alex said. “Probably some other kids at your school, too. There are plenty of great cops out there, but also some number of bad ones, and too many of them have been found innocent in court when they shouldn’t have been. It can be confusing with all this coverage in the news.”

  “But you’re one of the good ones,” Ali said. “Right?”

  “I like to think so,” Alex said. “But listen, son. I don’t want you worrying too much about this trial. We’re going to work through it. Together. That’s a promise.”

  There was so much more Alex wanted to say. Ali really could have used some good news that morning, if not about the trial, then about the other thousand-pound weight on his shoulders—the Gabe Qualls case.

  But it was too early to let Ali know that his own theory about Gabe’s involvement in the house robbery was still on the table. It was just an idea at this point. There was no sense getting Ali’s hopes up too soon. It made more sense to wait until Detective Sutter from Youth Services got a chance to connect with Detective Olayinka. Then maybe Alex could bring Ali into the loop a bit more.

  But not today. Not yet. For the time being, it was all just bad news on top of bad news.

  What a mess.

  FOR THE REST of the ride home, I kept my mouth closed. Just like my right eye, which had swollen shut. It wasn’t that much of a fight, but I felt like my skull had gotten a beatdown from the Hulk.

  Honestly, I had that feeling about my life in general. While Jannie and Damon were getting all kinds of shine for running track and playing ball, I was the one dragging Dad down to school in the middle of the day to clean up some mess I’d made. It was like everything was spinning out of control all at once. Not just for me, but for Dad, too.

  So what was the difference, anyway, between an accident and an assault by a police officer, if no one believed him? And why wasn’t anyone giving me clear answers about that? I knew Dad didn’t assault Mr. Yang, so how could any of this turn into a murder charge? And what would happen if it did?

  I couldn’t think about it too much, either, because I didn’t want to cry in front of Dad. He always told me it was okay to cry, but that didn’t mean it felt good to do it.

  Mostly, I just wanted to get this trial over with.

  And I wanted Dad to be found innocent of all charges.

  And for Mr. Yang to pull through.

  And for Gabe to be found. Hopefully soon.

  I also wished I could take back the whole thing with Kahlil. I mean, I wasn’t sorry about the bloody nose I gave him. If you ask me, he got exactly what he deserved. But that fight had also gotten me stuck inside my house for the next four days, just when the Gabe stuff was starting to heat up. And just when I needed to be out there working on it more than ever before.

  Oh, man. What a mess.

  ALEX WAITED UNTIL after dinner that night to call Victor Weyland. Even then, he wasn’t looking forward to it. From the sound of things, this kid Kahlil was no angel, but there was no escaping the fact that Ali had drawn first blood. Still, Alex thought, maybe he could play the cop card with Officer Weyland, just to establish some common ground between them. It was worth a try, anyway.

  Alex put himself in his office and out of earshot of the family before he picked up his phone. Then he dialed the number he’d gotten off of MPD’s central directory.

  “Hello?” a voice answered on the second ring.

  “Hi, Officer Weyland?”

  “Speaking.”

  “My name’s Alex Cross. I’m Ali’s dad, and—”

  “I know who you are,” Weyland answered, followed by a long silence.

  Still, Alex pushed on. “I wanted to touch base with you about what happened at school today. I’m hoping we can get these two boys together for a handshake. Maybe also let them talk things through—”

  “Excuse me, Detective Cross, but I’m going to stop you right there,” Weyland told him. “You’re kidding me with all this, right?”

  Alex clenched his jaw. “Why would I be kidding about anything right now?” he asked, trying not to sound as annoyed as he felt. This was supposed to be his thing. Usually, Alex could talk to anyone.

  But Weyland wasn’t having it. “Let’s just say the optics on this speak for themselves,” he answered.

  “And what’s that supposed to mean?” Alex asked.

  “Violent cop, violent kid,” Weyland said. “You don’t really need me to do the math, do you?”

  Alex turned away from the phone, long enough to check his own temper. Up to now, he’d gotten nothing but support from the Fraternal Order of Police, including his union reps and his fellow officers. He knew there were cops out there who saw him as one of the bad apples, but he hadn’t been expecting to confront it in person. Much less over a middle school fight.

  “I assume you’re talking about the Walter Yang case and my trial,” Alex said, as calmly as he could. “Have you even read the report? Or do you just assume you know what happened?”

  “I’m not going to get into it with you,” Weyland shot back. “I already have enough to deal with out there, thanks to cops like you. Just keep your boy away from mine unless you want another lawsuit on your hands. And don’t call this number again.”

  Unbelievable. It was maddening, but there was nothing Alex could do for it. Even if he wanted to continue the conversation, Victor Weyland had already hung up.

  So much for finding common ground.

  AT LEAST I didn’t have to apologize to Kahlil after our fight. I totally thought Dad was going to make me do that, but he never even brought it up. You know I never did.

  He was serious about me being grounded, though. There was no going anywhere, no TV, no PS4—no fooling. When he and Bree went to work the next morning, I was on suspension at home with Nana. The only choice I had was whether I wanted to do my schoolwork at the kitchen table or the dining room table.

  I took the dining room since Nana spent way more time in the kitchen. No offense to Nana Mama. It was more about trying to catch some time alone so I could work on the Gabe stuff. As much as that was possible without leaving the house, anyway. It was weird, like Dad and I had the same problem. We both wanted to be out there doing our thing, and we were both stuck on desk duty.

  So I did what I could. While Nana thought I was working on a book report about Brown Girl Dreaming for my English class, I was also checking social media. And when I was supposedly doing some pre-algebra homework, I was actually googling for other missing kid cases in Southeast DC. I wanted to see if there might be any kind of pattern going on, but there wasn’t, as far as I could tell.

  In between all of that, I was also grabbing time whenever I could to text with Ruby, Mateo, and Cedric
. It sounded like things were starting to hop on their end. Ruby and Mateo’s dad was organizing a vigil at his church for Tuesday, and Cedric was handing out flyers before and after school. The social media numbers were going up and up, too.

  RUBY: This is really taking off. You should be proud of yourself for getting it started.

  ME: Thanks. I would have felt prouder if I’d been actually getting something done instead of just wishing and worrying about it at home. Still, Ruby was turning out to be a pretty awesome second in command.

  The other thing I kept doing was sending texts to Gabe, at least a couple times a day. I didn’t know if he was reading them, but it was as close to talking to him as I was going to get. I wanted him to know I was there, like a lighthouse sending out beacon after beacon, text after text. In a way, it didn’t even matter what I wrote. I just wanted to keep that light on, in case Gabe ever needed it to help him find his way back home again.

  ME: What’s up? Did you know you have your own Facebook group now? And a hashtag, too. #FindGabeQualls

  ME: You there? It’s been fourteen days since you disappeared. I know maybe you can’t talk, even if you are getting these messages. But I just wanted to say hey.

  ME: Guess who got suspended from school? That would be me. I got in a fight with Kahlil W and survived, if you can believe that.

  ME: Hey. Just saying hi.

  ME: Please just answer me once if you’re okay. I need to know.

  ME: Hello?

  ME: Anyone there?

  ME: Please?

  I WOKE UP thinking about Gabe every day now. Went to sleep thinking about him, too. Every hour that went by was another hour where I felt like I should have gotten more done. It was like an ache in my brain. And in my heart, too. I couldn’t focus on anything else.

  Not even on the room around me sometimes.

  “That doesn’t look like social studies to me,” Nana said, coming into the dining room, where I was on day two of my at-home prison sentence. “What are you doing there, young man?”