keeping on keeping on

01. JUSTIN

"If we are lucky, the end of the sentence is where we might begin. If we are lucky, something is passed on, another alphabet written in the blood, sinew, neuron, and hippocampus; ancestors charging their kin with the silent propulsion to fly south, to turn toward the place in the narrative no one was meant to outlast."

- Ocean Vuong, A Letter To My Mother That She Will Never Read

The only moving things I like are cars, dogs, and basketball players.

I don't like moving houses, or jobs, or towns, or cities, or states.

Yet somehow, I don't get a Ford Mustang, a golden retriever, or a chance to shoot hoops with Lebron James. Instead, I get a small house in the suburbs, away from all my friends in the city. I mean, I get it – Dad is probably working really hard so I could get the things I like, but I'd much prefer it if he did it back home, where the lights were bright and our TV had cable.

Mom says they want the best for me. I want to believe her, but the best can't be rows of not-so-modern houses and new classmates who look at me funny. If anything, it's them who look funny. Their hair falls in curtains over their eyebrows, almost everyone's the color of straw. Maybe one or two kids have hair that's like mine – like instant ramen noodles. Mom and Dad told me that where they come from, everyone's hair looks like that. Everyone's skin is the color of the molasses from the grocery store that's way too expensive, and no one looks at anyone funny.

"Oh, Justin. We didn't even know what molasses was," Dad once told me.

"Even soy sauce was a luxury," Mom added.

Sometimes, Tom pulls me aside and tells me about it. He talks about how different people were back home, and here in America. He tells me I need to develop thick skin and a strong heart. He punches me on the chest when he says that, and I'm always left a little bit out of breath.

I'm usually half-asleep on the school bus – the good cartoons are always on late at night, and Tom always wants to watch them with me. There are times I forget he's seven years older than me. There are times I forget that we've just moved from the hustle and bustle to boring old suburbia.

Now that we've moved again, the third time for Mom and Dad and Tom, and the second for me, you'd think we'd be used to it by now. Well, the when we first moved here, I spent a heck of a lot of time trying to convince dad to get me a bike tire because the kids on our street said it was cool, but the moment I did, they'd all gotten actual bikes. What was left for me to do?

I just kind of gave up. Mom works a night shift because it pays more, and Dad is trying his best to get promoted, and Tom has a bunch of friends that actually like him. I hate being ten and left out of everything.

At least I'm good at waking up before the school bus stops. And staying awake through all my classes, which get really boring when we talk about history. Especially the kind of history that involves invasions and slaves and death. Either way. I kind of just sit in the classroom and listen even if I feel stares burning into the back of my head.

When lunch rolls around, I eat by myself. The white kids that tricked me into getting a bike tire stay away from me now. Sammy and Shaun are more like me, but they choose to stay away from everyone. (I think they're afraid to get beaten up like I did when I tried to make friends.)

I can't wait to get home and play basketball with Tom. I'm almost as tall as him – I take after Dad in that way. Tom says I have what it takes to be great basketball player; he was always better at football, anyway. Even so, he teaches me how to dribble between my legs and shoot three-pointers and dunk. For this afternoon, he promised me chicken nuggets from McDonald's if I could shoot at least ten three-point shots in a row.

My anticipation means I bound straight out of school in excitement. This means I don't look where I'm going. That means I knock everyone's bikes over in one fell swoop.

"HEY!"

I consider running.

I don't get the chance to.

I get pushed into the pile of bikes I so conveniently created and I look up to see a pudgy red face glaring at me. "Beat it."

"I-I'm sorry," I say. This must look hilarious – I'm at least a foot taller than this guy.

He kicks my side. Not so hilarious. "Get lost, Justin. No one wants you here."

"Go back to Africa!" someone else sneers through the throbbing of my skull.

From what Mom and Dad and Tom tell me, I wish I could.

The best I can do is get up and sit at the very back of the school bus. At least Tom will be home in awhile. When he punches me in the chest, it doesn't hurt.

***

I wake up in a pool of my own drool, the sound of the highly inferior morning cartoons making its way into my ears. Before anything else, a warm surge of rage makes its way up my throat. Where the heck is Tom? Where are my chicken nuggets?

When I move to get up, everything spins. My side hurts. When I touch the back of my head, my hand comes back with dried blood.

"Oh god, Justin, you're awake!"

I've never heard Mom scream quite like she did at that moment. Suddenly, Dad's there, and he's screaming, too, and we're all screaming, but it sounds like they actually know why they're screaming.

"Oh Justin, Justin, Justin..."

"Oh god, oh god, oh god..."

"He was just – "

"How could he – "

"Justin, baby boy, dear God..."

"Oh god, Tom – "

I stop screaming. "Tom?"

They stop screaming. It seems to be noisier than before.

"Where's Tom?"

"Justin..." Dad sighs, and it's like he's let out every ounce of air within him.

"Where's Tom, Dad? Mom?"

"Oh, baby..." Mom holds me tight, but nothing hurts anymore.

"He said we'd play ball. Where is he?"

Mom shakes her head, choking on a sob. Dad's hairy lip quivers. My mind hops to all sorts of places, but it refuses to arrive at the one I know is right.

"Justin," Dad gulps, "your brother's been shot."

I don't remember much after that. The scent of chicken nuggets does nothing to settle my turning stomach. A black sweater scratches at my arms as I pull it over my head. Mom and Dad's grips cut off the circulation to my hands. Sad smiles and comforting words blur together. Even an offer to play basketball from my uncle ("I bet you can't make ten three-point shots in a row, sport!") doesn't help.

I didn't know they could prepare bodies so quickly.

There are a lot of moving things that I don't like.

But looking at Tom in that coffin, I wish that he would.