Saturday, June 14, 2014
Lia had stopped reading her father's journal for answers.
Now she was reading it for patterns.
She sat at her desk with the notebook open beside her, sunlight spilling through the blinds and cutting across the pages. Tylil's handwriting filled most of the paper in tight, deliberate lines.
Questions before conclusions.
People remember stories. Paper remembers facts.
Follow the repeated names.
She had underlined the last one twice.
The address was still there.
311 DeKalb Avenue.
She had searched it enough to know what the building looked like. Residential. Old Brooklyn architecture. The kind of place that could disappear into the neighborhood if you weren't looking for it.
That was what bothered her.
There was nothing about it that explained why her father had cared.
No obvious connection.
No giant red flag.
Just a name on paper.
Lia leaned back and looked toward her window.
Brooklyn had been changing for years.
Everybody knew it.
Buildings that had been empty were suddenly worth millions. Old storefronts became restaurants with menus nobody in the neighborhood could afford. Families moved because rent climbed. Developers called it revitalization.
People who had lived there called it something else.
Lia didn't know which side her father would've taken.
Maybe both.
She picked up her phone.
There was one person she could ask without making the question sound suspicious.
Deion.
She opened their messages and typed.
You ever notice how much DeKalb changed?
His response came a few minutes later.
Changed how?
She smiled.
The whole area.
Three dots.
Brooklyn changed everywhere.
That's what I'm saying.
Another pause.
Why you thinking about DeKalb anyway?
Lia stared at the screen.
She could tell him.
Or she could tell him enough.
She chose enough.
Been looking at old pictures of Brooklyn.
You doing research now? 😂
Maybe.
For what?
She looked at the journal again.
Then typed.
Your pops ever work around there?
The response took longer this time.
Probably. My pops been everywhere.
Lia sat forward.
What kind of work?
Construction.
Like what?
Renovations. Demolition sometimes. Building stuff. Whatever they pay him for.
Lia read the message twice.
Nothing strange.
Nothing incriminating.
Still, something about the answer felt incomplete.
She decided not to push.
That's crazy.
Why?
Her thumb hovered over the keyboard.
She almost typed the address.
Instead:
Brooklyn keeps getting rebuilt and everybody acts like nobody lived there before.
Deion responded almost immediately.
That's how it is.
Then:
My pops says that's where the money is.
Lia looked at the journal.
That sentence stayed with her.
She locked the phone.
For now, she had enough.
At the SSU student recreation facility, Jermaine caught the ball on the wing.
Rome was already moving.
Jermaine drove right.
The defender stepped up.
Rome cut behind him.
Jermaine didn't look.
The pass hit Rome in stride.
"Easy," Rome said, laying it in.
Jermaine jogged backward.
"You better stop acting like I ain't the one making these passes."
"You ain't got no choice."
"That's not how basketball works."
Rome laughed.
"Worked that time."
They checked up again.
Same team.
Same rhythm.
They'd been playing together too long for either of them to need much instruction.
Rome pushed the ball.
Jermaine filled the lane.
Rome slowed just enough.
Jermaine knew what was coming.
The pass came.
Two steps.
Finish.
An older player shook his head.
"Du Bois boys got chemistry."
Rome pointed at Jermaine.
"He better know."
Jermaine grinned.
Monique watched from the bleachers, laptop balanced against one knee.
She'd spent most of the morning telling herself she wasn't going to spend every day worrying about the future.
Then she looked at her friends playing basketball and realized they were doing exactly what she had been trying to remind herself to do.
Enjoy the summer.
She closed the laptop.
Nasir's Saturday looked nothing like Jermaine's.
His phone had been ringing since breakfast.
One community organizer needed confirmation about a stage.
Another wanted to know whether Nasir would speak.
A neighborhood association had changed the location of one event.
A youth group wanted him to stop by their Juneteenth program.
Another organizer needed help coordinating vendors.
It was the kind of work that never looked complicated until you were the person everyone expected to answer.
Nasir sat at a table inside the community center with Melo, Bishop, and another man.
Darius.
He had been around long enough that Nasir didn't need to introduce him.
Darius looked over the schedule in front of them.
"You're trying to hit all of these?"
Nasir took a sip of coffee.
"That's the plan."
"You can't be in five places at once."
"I know."
"Then stop planning like you can."
Melo laughed under his breath.
"Darius woke up choosing violence."
Darius barely smiled.
"I'm being realistic."
Nasir looked back at the schedule.
He knew Darius wasn't wrong.
Juneteenth had grown beyond one neighborhood.
The celebrations were everywhere now.
Block parties.
Church programs.
Community festivals.
Youth tournaments.
Concerts.
Cookouts.
Political events.
Families gathering in parks and on streets that had spent generations carrying their history.
Nasir wanted to be there.
Not because it looked good.
Because he believed he should be.
Bishop flipped through her notes.
"Security's going to be the bigger issue."
Darius looked toward her.
"For which event?"
"The main celebration."
Nasir nodded.
"We'll have people there."
"How many?"
"Enough."
Darius gave him a look.
"That answer usually means you haven't decided."
Melo leaned back.
"He's been doing this longer than you've been complaining about it."
Darius looked at him.
"And yet I'm still right."
Nasir laughed quietly.
"Both of you are annoying."
The tension broke.
For a moment, it was just four people sitting around a table trying to make a community celebration work.
No secrets.
No speeches.
No politics.
Just logistics.
At least, that's what it looked like.
Nasir picked up the schedule.
"Move me from the east-side event. I'll stay at the main celebration longer."
Bishop nodded.
"I'll adjust it."
Darius leaned forward.
"And the security around the main stage?"
"Keep the exits clear."
"Already handled."
Nasir looked at him.
"Good."
Darius nodded.
The conversation moved on.
Later that afternoon, Nasir stepped outside alone.
The neighborhood was alive.
Children rode bikes through the street.
Music came from somewhere down the block.
A woman carried bags of food toward a folding table.
Two older men argued about basketball outside a storefront.
Normal.
That was what Nasir wanted.
Normal.
His phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
He opened the message.
You can't be everywhere.
Nasir stared at it.
No name.
No explanation.
His thumb hovered over the screen.
Another message arrived.
Choose carefully.
He didn't respond.
He looked across the street.
Nothing.
People walking.
Cars passing.
A bus stopping at the corner.
Nobody standing there waiting for him.
Nasir put the phone back into his pocket.
His face hadn't changed.
But his attention had.
He walked back inside.
Melo looked up from the table.
"You good?"
Nasir nodded.
"Yeah."
Melo studied him for a second.
Nasir didn't elaborate.
He didn't know what the message meant.
Not yet.
And he wasn't going to let two sentences change how he moved without knowing who sent them.
Inside, Darius was still reviewing the schedule.
He looked up when Nasir returned.
"You change your mind?"
"Yeah."
"About what?"
Nasir pulled out a chair.
"I'm staying at the main event longer."
Darius nodded.
"Probably smart."
Nothing about his voice sounded unusual.
Nothing about his expression gave Nasir a reason to question him.
Nasir sat down.
They went back to work.
That evening, Lia opened her notebook again.
She looked at the questions she'd written earlier.
Who worked there?
Who owned it?
She added one more.
Who benefited?
Her phone sat beside the journal.
Deion's messages were still open.
She didn't know whether he'd been completely honest.
She didn't know whether his father remembered 311 DeKalb.
She didn't even know if the address meant what she thought it meant.
But she knew one thing.
Her father hadn't written it down for no reason.
Lia closed the notebook.
She wasn't going to tell Deion about the journal.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
Outside, Brooklyn was preparing for another summer weekend.
People were getting ready for Juneteenth.
And somewhere beneath the noise of construction, celebration, politics, and everyday life, old histories were still sitting where somebody had left them.
Waiting for the right person to start asking questions.