Hush Read Free Page A

the toys we played with when we were little kids. The green sweater with TOSSY knitted into it in yellow letters, the TOSSY T baseball cap I used to wear backward. TGIF—TOSWIAH GREEN IS FABULOUS on a pillowcase—a gift from Lulu for my twelfth birthday. Gone. Gone. Gone. Keep walking. Down the long carpeted hall into Cameron’s girlie, pink room with its frilled white curtains and huge GIRL POWER poster on the ceiling. In the corner of the left window, you’ll find a heart painted bright red with a black Magic-Markered arrow through it and the letters C & J. Joseph—the boy she used to love.
    These are the things we left behind.
    When they sell our house, the new people will ask, “Who lived here before?” and the Realtor will give them someone else’s name. She will say, “It was a nice single man, I hear.” Or maybe she’ll say, “A young couple, I think—no kids of their own, but lots of nieces and nephews often coming to visit.” They won’t ask why that bedroom at the end of the hall is painted pink and still smells of Cameron’s Love’s Baby Soft perfume. The journals on my desk will be long gone, so the wife won’t pick one up and flip through it. Won’t say to her husband, “Honey, listen to this . . .”

    MY NAME IS EVIE NOW, AND HERE IS EVIE’S story. She grew up in San Francisco—Pine off of Di visadero. Kind of the border between Pacific Heights and Western Addition. Yeah, of course she knows where Golden Gate Park is. She used to go there all the time. Did you ever see the two-headed snake at the Exploratorium? Did you ever go to the Pork Store Restaurant? Yeah, Evie loved shopping in the Haight, too. They have the coolest clothes over there! But you know what she really misses? Ghirardelli’s at the Wharf. And good sourdough bread and clam chowder. Don’t you?

3
    IT IS SATURDAY. RAINY. MY FATHER SITS BY the window, squinting down at something. I know there is nothing there. He is whispering the Miranda rights— You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be held against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney— over and over again until maybe he believes it now. I sit on the couch watching him secretly, my book open on my lap. When I look back down at the book, the words are spilling over the page and off. The story is about a little girl who finds a dog. The girl in the story is white. The dog isn’t. They love each other instantly, and when she brings him home, her parents smile and say Of course you can keep it.
    There weren’t a whole lot of other blacks in Denver. Cops were our family. Cops were our friends. Daddy was the only black one in his precinct. It was different there, though. Black. White. It didn’t matter. Cops were cops. We were all one big family. All on the same side of the law. We were the good guys. For years and years that was true.
    My father lifts up his arms and lets them fall. He gets quiet again. There is nothing in his eyes anymore. Anna sees it and turns away. Mama sees it and opens her Bible. There isn’t any other place for me to look. In the novel the girl and her family and her dog will live happily ever after. Even though I know what the ending’s gonna be, I keep reading.
    The rain slams against the window. The panes rattle. The gray here isn’t like anything I’ve ever imagined. It is heavy and thick and feels like it’s never going to go away. I turn the page of the book and stare down at the floating words. The tears hurt when they finally come, spilling down onto the pages. I am not the girl. I am not the dog. Who am I?
    Who
    Am
    I?

    Daddy’s patrol car pulls up beside us. Cameron has her cheerleading uniform on under her coat. She is shivering. It is dark. The air smells like snow. We climb into the back, and Daddy turns the heat on full blast. When I press my hand against the metal grate separating us from Daddy, I shiver and try to imagine what it’s like to be under arrest. Daddy drives slowly. I