Begin Again

chapter seven

"WHAT ABOUT HIM?"

I follow Miles' line of vision, noticing a lone Black teenage boy sitting on a park bench. He has a basketball between his feet, watching other teenagers play on the court.

I'm slowly starting to gather materials for my internship application. The first part of my portfolio is interviewing people on the street, specifically Black people on the street. I want to take pictures of as many young Black teenagers as possible while getting a few quotes to put with the image.

Surprisingly, as I'd been leaving my apartment that afternoon, Miles had also been heading out after finishing up working with Talia. He'd seen me leaving and inquired where I was going, noticing my camera slung around my body. When I'd told him, he'd asked if he was okay to tag along. I had agreed.

We've been walking up and down the streets of Bedford-Stuyvesant in Brooklyn, trying to find at least one person I can talk to. But it hasn't been going as well as I'd hoped. The people I've approached so far will either turn their noses up at me or are highly skeptical of talking to me, which I wholeheartedly understand.

Miles has pointed out a boy that can't be a day over fifteen, which is precisely the age I need. He also doesn't look too unfriendly, with an expression one of rapt enthusiasm as he watches the basketball game, occasionally letting out a hoot when someone makes a basket. Without letting any more of my doubts convince me to turn around and go back home, I walk steadily over to him while Miles hangs back so it doesn't look too intimidating.

"Hi," I say, smiling at him. The boy looks up once and then turns his attention back to the game before doing a double-take. His mouth falls open a little before he coughs out awkwardly, giving me a half-smile. I chuckle at his expression.

"Hey."

"I know this might sound weird, but I'm doing a sort of project," I explain, pointing to my camera as proof. "And I was wondering if I could ask you a question?" The boy looks around nervously, and I frown, searching my brain for something else to say that can hopefully pacify him. I'm not a journalism major, and I have no idea how to interview strangers, which is probably why I'm having such terrible luck today.

"My name is Evie, and I go to NYU," I ramble, the boy raising his brows. "Uh—I just wanted to ask you about being Black in New York."

That gets his attention, and he shifts his body toward me. "What about it?"

I relax, realizing he's slowly becoming interested in what I need from him. "With the murder of Jermaine Bowers." His face scrunches up at the name, clearly becoming uncomfortable, but I barrel on. "I just wanted to ask if you ever feel unsafe walking around?"

The boy blows out a breath. "Hell yeah. Every time I leave the house, my mom gives me this look as if she's trying to memorize my face or some shit." He shakes his head, clearly upset. "It freaks me out because I never want her to have to bury me. It's just–a mom shouldn't have to bury her son; it should always be the other way around. That's the way it's supposed to be." Quickly typing out his response on my phone, it breaks my heart to hear the misery in his voice. He's so young. Someone so young shouldn't have to worry about things like that.

"Thank you," I say softly, pulling my camera around. "Do you mind letting me take a picture of you?" He nods, and I bend over, looking through the lens as he looks straight at the camera. He isn't smiling, his face set in a grim expression, which mirrors the quote he's just given me.

"What's your name?" I ask, putting the camera down.

"Samuel."

I give him a sympathetic smile. "I hope you know the stuff you just told me—that look in your eyes as you talked about your mother burying you—all of that anger. You can use it. You can use it to make some difference." Samuel nods at my words, clearly taken aback by my forceful tone.