Free There Are No Children Here by Alex Kotlowitz Page B

Horner, from the Vice Lords, from the summer. It was the onlyplace that offered him a respite. He thought a lot about the fun they had had there hunting for snakes, the momentary peace of mind it had given him.
    The summer’s violence had woefully unnerved Pharoah, and his stutter, which only a few months before had been nearly imperceptible, had become a real impediment to communicating. Words tangled in his throat. Once, unable to speak, he had to write a question to a friend on a napkin. Sometimes he would struggle so hard to get a sentence out that LaJoe could see his neck muscles constricting; it was as if he were trying to physically push the words up and out. It was painful for LaJoe to hear Pharoah stumble over his thoughts. When he was younger, he had talked so proper, she thought. Friends used to joke that he talked like a white person. Embarrassed by his stammer, Pharoah kept to himself, hanging out mostly with Porkchop, who followed his cousin everywhere, silently, like a shadow.
    Pharoah now trembled at any loud noise. LaJoe worried about his vulnerability. And then a few weeks ago, while bullets tore past the living room window, Pharoah had pleaded with her, “M-m-m-mama, M-m-m-m-mamma, make’em, make’em stop!” As the gunfire continued, he fainted.
    Earlier in the summer, Lafeyette, along with James, had given in to Pharoah’s pleadings and agreed to go back to the railroad tracks. But on a Saturday afternoon, as the boys gathered in the breezeway, a band of teenagers from across the street ran wildly through the corridor, pummeling the three youngsters. Mimicking the behavior of some of the older gang members, they pulled Lafeyette’s and James’s jackets over their heads and hit them in their stomachs. Pharoah refused to fight back and ran into the apartment before “the shorties,” as these young gang members were called, could grab hold of him. James and Lafeyette followed when they realized they were hopelessly outnumbered and outsized. No one was hurt, just shook up.
    The next day, the three heard that someone had got trapped under a train and lost his legs while hunting for snakes. Rumor here is often taken for truth. Given the brutality of Horner, almost everything is believable. So the boys, particularly the older ones, decided not to take any chances with their own limbs.
    “Man, you … you lied,” Pharoah whined, as he ducked yet another blow from his brother.
    “I ain’t lied. Don’t tell no stories,” Lafeyette countered.
    “Let’s … let’s …”
    Pharoah pushed his head forward as if that might help the words travel up his throat and out his mouth. But Lafeyette grew impatient and walked away without letting Pharoah finish his thought. He just wasn’t going. That was it. It wasn’t safe.
    “Mama,” Lafeyette said to LaJoe, “I ain’t going back there. Tell Pharoah that. I ain’t going.”
    The summer—and particularly Bird Leg’s death—had begun to change Lafeyette. He kept his worries to himself now. LaJoe couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him cry. She scolded Lafeyette for being cruel or too hard on Pharoah, but she knew it was only because he felt protective of the younger boy. For a twelve-year-old, he felt too responsible. She remembered one afternoon when Lafeyette, braving gunfire, tried to get a young friend to take cover. Nine-year-old Diante was the younger brother of William, the successful snake hunter who had been killed last spring. When the gunfire erupted, Diante had remained glued to the swing, repeating over and over, “I wanna die. I wanna die.” Lafeyette wouldn’t leave him there alone.
    And then in early September, Lafeyette witnessed a firebombing, or “cocktailing,” as it’s called, but he refused to talk about it. He knew better. Lafeyette watched as three teenagers hurled three Molotov cocktails through the windows of the apartment next door. The people who lived there ran a makeshift candy store, selling candy