Pull by Kevin Waltman Page B

that for him?”
    I mutter out a no , the only acceptable answer. Besides, it’s probably the truth. I fear nothing on the hardwood, but, man, nobody has the brass to lie to my mom when she gets heated up. I take a quick look at Dad. He’s sitting in his chair, hands gripping the armrests. He reaches up slowly, removes his glasses, and wipes his tired eyes. Then he shakes his head. “If you’re looking to me for sympathy, you’re not going to find it. Come on, son. On the same night you were suspended? You have to be smarter than that.”
    Still, at least his tone is one of worn-out disapproval. My mom’s still on full-tilt. “Every detail,” she snaps. “I want to know every single thing that happened tonight.” She levels her index finger at me, all business.
    I go through it. JaQuentin Peggs. His friend. The noise they got up to. All of it.
    â€œDerrick,” my dad says at the end, “what on earth are you thinking?”
    â€œLook. I got out of it as best I could. I didn’t go the party with them. I just got home.”
    â€œI understand that.” He sighs. “But, Derrick, you’re not some prep school kid who keeps getting chances. People will give you a little rope because you can play, but not as much as you think. You screw up too many more times and everyone will think you’re just another thug.” His gaze hardens as he stares past me, thinking about me but something else at the same time. “And you’ll be shocked at how cold the world gets when they decide that about you.”
    I accept the mini-lecture and then take a step toward my room. Mom’s not having it. “Where you think you’re going?” she asks. “Wait here.”
    She storms out of the living room, her feet pounding the floor so hard I’m sure that Jayson’s wide awake now and listening in. She comes storming back down the hall with a city map in her hands, unfolding it angrily as she walks. Ripping right past without even looking at me, she heads to the kitchen. She spreads the map on the table, then turns around to me and Dad. “Come here,” she commands.
    As we walk over, she yanks a kitchen drawer open and unsnaps a red Sharpie. A quick wave of her hand indicates that we best sit, and we obey. In red so thick you’d think it would bleed through onto the table, she marks a big red loop on 465, circling the city. Then she scrawls a 144 inside of it. “You know what that means?” she asks me.
    I just shake my head.
    â€œThat’s how many people got killed here last year,” she says. She’s not shouting now. Instead, her voice has settled into an urgent whisper. “Yeah, when the news covers it, they make it sound like it’s the wholearea’s problem, but”—she takes that Sharpie and presses a big red dot up in Carmel—“they’re not talking about people up here. No. It’s us. These streets.” She motions toward the walls, lingering just an extra millisecond when she’s gesturing up the street toward Wes’ direction.
    She sits now, like she’s exhausted from the effort. She buries her head in her hands. Then she looks up again. “You want more? Sixteen white people got killed. Twenty women. I’m not saying they don’t count, Derrick. I’m saying that most of the people who got killed”—she jabs her index finger at my chest, emphasizing every word—“look just like you. And it’s not just from people in gangs. You don’t think a policeman can lose his mind here just like they do in other cities? Think again. All it takes is for you to be with Wes when he runs into a cop on a power trip.”
    â€œHow do you know all those numbers anyway?” I ask her, trying to hide my skepticism. I mean, I know how things break in the city, but it seems like my mom’s putting it on a little heavy.
    Dad’s the one that