Quan is stunned. Not only by the blatant use of his “given” name, but also by just about every word that came out of Martel’s mouth. Quan is fully aware of what Martel does now, and he’d be lying if he said he was expecting dude to be college-educated. Also, that quote hit Quan right in the chest.

   But where does he even begin?

   “Start with home,” Martel says as if Quan’s question has appeared on his forehead. “I know you been spendin’ a good bit of time with my guys. Which means home ain’t really a place you wanna be, am I right?”

   Now Quan has a knot in his throat. When he left “home” this morning, Mama and Dwight were all boo’d up on the couch, watching TV. Mama with a fading bruise on her left jaw and her wrist in a brace that got way too much use from a person who didn’t play sports or have carpal tunnel.

   Shit was sickening.

   And he tells Martel so.

   He tells Martel everything. (Almost.)

       At one point Martel goes to get him another ginger brew, but this time he gives it to Quan iced in a glass with something bitter added that burns a bit going down but makes his muscles unclench.

   When Quan is done, Martel tells him how the organization functions and offers Quan an in, provided he can abide by the rules.

   (Quan does notice there’s no explanation of what happens if one breaks said rules, and it does make him hesitate—but only for a second.)

   And then he’s in. Just like that.

   “So I’ll see you at Morning Meeting tomorrow, eight a.m. sharp,” Martel says as they both rise to their feet. It’s a statement, not a question. And that’s when Quan realizes there’s no turning back.

   So…he leans in. “Tel, can I ask you something?” he says.

   Martel slips his hands into his pockets and lifts his chin. “Whassup?”

   “That, uhh…” and Quan gestures to the fragrance diffuser plugged in beneath Sir Huey. “Which scent is it?”

   At this, Martel smiles so bright, Quan has to look away. “It’s Spring Sunrise.”

   Quan nods, now filled with some emotion he can’t name. “That’s what I thought,” he says. “I’ll, uhh…see you in the morning.”

   He heads back up the hallway and out the door.

April 4

    Dear Justyce,

    Yo, so when Doc was here earlier (picking apart my Native Son vs. Invisible Man essay, the chump), he told me today is the anniversary of Dr. MLK’s assassination. Which of course made me think of your punk ass.

    (Yeah, I drew a li’l smiley face. So what?)

    In your last letter to me, you asked why I joined the Black Jihad. And to be honest, the question irritated me. So I wasn’t gonna answer.

    But then I got to thinkin’ about the whole assassination thing.

    Sidenote: you ever notice that word begins with “ass” twice? I wonder if that mean something etymologically. Bet you ain’t know I knew THAT word, sucka!

    (Real talk: Doc got my ass prepping for a “practice” SAT. Which I can’t believe I agreed to do. Dude is persuasive as shit.)

    Anyway, Doc was tellin’ me more about King’s life and how a lady tried to kill my mans in 1958 with a letter opener (!!) at a book signing (!!!!!). In addition to helping me make the firm decision that I never want to be an author (bruh!), talking about Dr. King made me think of that one real short letter you wrote to him in your notebook right after Manny passed. The one when you lamented the fact that Manny hadn’t never done nothing wrong, but he lost his life anyway.

         Which made me think about your question. Because really, the shit that happened to MLK and to Manny—what happens to good dudes all the time—played a big role in my decision.

    Not those things directly (I obviously joined before what happened to Manny), but the fact that they happen at all. That a dude just tryna get equal rights for folks can get taken out. That a kid who ain’t never even done nothing criminal can get taken out.

    And then the fact that niggas like me and Trey who DO do wrong get punished more harshly than white kids who do the same shit? If Brock or Conrad steals a cell phone in the mall, they get a finger wagged in they face and gotta volunteer in a soup kitchen a couple times. I get branded a “career criminal” and locked up with the key thrown out. I know I told you about the dude who stabbed his pops, but bruh, if I had a dollar for every white boy I’ve seen come into detention and leave within a couple days—both back when I was fourteen AND now—I could prolly buy my way out this bitch.

    Shit’s wack, Justyce.

    Anyway, after seeing that shit happen over and over, then getting out and coming “home” and finding nothing changed there, I guess I was just fed up. Stayed in school cuz “truancy” was a probation violation that would’ve landed my ass on house arrest (definitely a no-go), but having that “Delinquent” on my record made folks treat me different even though I stayed caught up while I was in and did my work (well) once I got out.

         My mama had her own shit going on. And I hadn’t heard from my dad since he went in. I sent him letters for like the first six months he was locked up, and even one while I was, but he never responded.

    I just ain’t really have nobody in my corner, Justyce. I think that’s why your question rubbed me the wrong way. Like how could YOU possibly understand? I know shit with your dad wasn’t…“Optimal” feels like a good word. But I remember your moms vividly, and she wasn’t ’bout to let you mess up. You went to that fancy-ass school and had all type of support…How could you possibly understand the inner workings of a hood cat like me?

    But thinking about you and about Manny and Dr. King after Doc left today…it’s a pretty significant gap between that letter where you basically gave up, and the one you wrote when you got to Yale. I know you came to visit ME somewhere in between there, and you weren’t doing so hot. Not sure if you ever used that number I gave you (kinda surprised you haven’t mentioned it), but as I was sitting here pondering, I thought to myself maybe—JUST maybe—I wasn’t giving you the benefit of the doubt.

    So.

    The reason I joined the Black Jihad: I needed backup. Support without judgment. People who hadn’t—and wouldn’t—give up on me.

         I needed a family.

    And it wasn’t all bad like people assume. It wasn’t all about turf and crime and bullshit like that. Martel is a visionary. His grand plan involves building a community center and opening a bookstore in our neighborhood. He wanted to help people.