Page 13 of Seven Days in June

Shane was halfway down the hall before she could finish the word.

Shane found Ty slumped over a desk in an empty classroom. Trancelike, he was doodling on the cover of his composition notebook. He’d scribbled on it so much that he could no longer see the designs. But if he ran his fingers over it, he could feel the grooves from the ball-point pen. Shane had been watching him do this for weeks. It must comfort him, somehow.

Ty was enormous for his age—about three hundred pounds—and at six foot four, he was two inches taller than Shane. The boy had a morose self-consciousness that quickly turned to rage if he felt embarrassed or threatened. But he trusted Shane. Shane didn’t roast him for wearing the same massive sweatpants and hoodie every day. And Shane knew that he lived with his aunt in a Portuguese-gang-run trap house (and that his mom and sister were last seen soliciting, together, in Hartford Park), but never mentioned it. Shane talked to Ty like they were the same.

Shane stood across from him, leaning against the teacher’s desk, and told Ty he had to leave Providence.

Ty didn’t look up. “Where you going.”

“To Brooklyn. The Littie Awards are there, this Sunday,” he explained. “I’m a presenter. Which is weird, ’cause I don’t go to awards shows.”

“Why.”

“Ever heard of Gayle King?”

“Who?”

“Never mind,” mumbled Shane. “I don’t go ’cause they’re meaningless. In 2013 the National Book Critics Circle gave Best Fiction to Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie instead of me. Do I think she’s a superior writer? Nah. But it’s all subjective.”

The corner of Ty’s mouth curved. “You mad.”

“Hell yes, I’m mad,” said Shane. “’Cause I care. It took fortunes made and lost, one tarot-card reader, and too much AA for me to be evolved enough to say those words.I care about things.”

Ty knew he was being led somewhere. “You say that to say what.”

“Ty, why do all your questions sound like statements?”

“The fuck that means.”

“Look, I’m admitting that I care about awards. What do you care about?”

“Nothing. I ain’tsoft, nigga.”

“Ain’t no niggas in here.”

Ty was confused. “You Dominican?”

“What? No. And Dominicans are niggas. Google ‘African diaspora’ and learn something. Jesus.” Shane shook his head. Time was ticking. “Listen, caring about things don’t make you soft. It makes you alive.”

Ty shrugged.

Shane eyed Ty for a moment, his expression serious. Ty looked back, challenging him.

“Tyree.”

“Yeah.”

“You need to listen to me.”

“Yeah.”

“This school is not designed for you to excel. It’s raising you up for prison. Your every move is criminalized, by design. In most schools, kids don’t get expelled for saying ‘fuck’ or get tased for tardiness or incarcerated for missing one detention. In most schools, eighth-grade boys aren’t terrorized this way. They’re allowed to be kids, nothing on their minds but pussy and Roblox.”

Ty’s eyes focused on his notebook. He was painfully aware that Shane was referring to him. He’d been sent to juvie for missing a detention.

“You’re mad about it? You wanna fight? You’re not wrong. They’ll tell you you’re an animal, but you’re not.You’re a sane person reacting to an insane situation.And I know, ’cause I been you. It took me getting locked up three times by twelfth grade to learn the lesson that you’re gonna learn today.”

Shane paused, realizing he was talking so fast, his words were running into each other. “I fought, too. Just like you.”

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