Brenner stared.
“Because I’m trying to establish who you are.”
“My name is Jalen Brooks.”
“You could tell me anything.”
Jalen looked toward the mall entrance.
His mother should have been coming.
He had received the text eleven minutes ago.
Maybe the cashier line was long.
Maybe she stopped somewhere else.
He looked back at Brenner.
“I can call her.”
The officer’s eyes narrowed.
“That your plan?”
“What?”
“Call somebody and have them tell me whatever story you want?”
Jalen’s face warmed.
“No.”
Brenner held out one hand.
“Phone.”
Jalen did not give it to him.
Several shoppers moved around them now.
Nobody stopped.
Jalen understood something he had not fully understood before that afternoon.
Being watched by strangers did not make you less alone.
Sometimes it made you more aware that nobody intended to become involved.
Brenner’s hand remained extended.
“I said phone.”
“Am I being arrested?”
The question came from a school assembly.
Know your rights.
Stay calm.
Ask whether you’re free to leave.
The officer’s face hardened.
“Who taught you that?”
Jalen’s mouth went dry.
“My dad.”
“Your dad a lawyer?”
“No.”
“What is he?”
Jalen stared.
“Was.”
Brenner paused.
Jalen looked away.
The officer lowered his hand slightly.
Then the moment passed.
“What did he do?”
“He was an architect.”
Brenner looked unimpressed.
“Phone.”
Jalen shook his head.
“I’ll show you something.”
Before Brenner could respond, Jalen unlocked the phone himself.
His lock screen appeared.
The photograph had been taken two birthdays earlier.
Jalen stood in front wearing a gray sweater and a paper party hat someone had forced onto his head. Andre stood behind him with one arm around Jalen’s shoulders. Beside Andre was Jalen’s mother, Camille Brooks, laughing because Andre had frosting on his cheek.
Andre had been alive for another seven months after the photograph.
Jalen kept it as his lock screen because changing it felt like admitting the picture belonged to the past.
He turned the screen toward Brenner.
“That’s my mom.”
Brenner looked.
“So?”
“She’s inside.”
“You expect me to identify somebody from a family picture?”
“She’s wearing a blue suit today.”
Brenner almost laughed.
“There are a lot of women in blue.”
“She said she’d be right back.”
The officer looked at the photograph again.
Then at Jalen.
“You got a receipt for the skateboard?”
Jalen froze.
“What?”
“Receipt.”
“No.”
“How long have you had it?”
“Two years.”
“Where’d you get it?”
“My dad.”
“Convenient.”
Jalen stared.
The word hit harder than it should have.
Brenner continued.
“We had a report last week of boards disappearing near the parking structure.”
“This one is mine.”
“You said that.”
“My initials are under it.”
“Show me.”
Jalen turned the skateboard over.
Near the rear truck, scratched into the wood beneath layers of chipped paint, were the letters J.B.
Andre had carved them with a pocketknife the day he gave it to him.
Brenner crouched.
He looked.
“Could stand for anything.”
Jalen felt something inside him start to fracture.
Not fear.
Something closer to disbelief.
“My name is Jalen Brooks.”