Free All American Boys by Jason Reynolds Page A

up on Tiffany Watts, giving her the business because even though I was soldier-boy when I was in school, everybody knew I was nice with the moves. Rhythm ain’t never been an issue for me. I was the kid Spoony made dance in front of his friends when we were younger. Show them the latest steps that I picked up from music videos. I owned the block party dance contests. So Jill’s party, like every party,was my time to two-step without it being a march. My time to be at ease, and let the soul seep back into this soldier. Damn shame I didn’t make it. Instead some big-ass cop decided to have a fist party on my face. Y’know, normal stuff. No biggie. I’m just a punk-ass kid. I have no rights. Just got body slammed for no reason. Just got my life threatened, while lying flat on the sidewalk. A broken nose, broken ribs, and a knee in the back is way more exciting than fine-ass girls checking for me (after they finished checking for English).
    Fuck.
    Knock, knock. The door opened and there was Clarissa pushing my lunch cart in.
    â€œGood afternoon, Rashad,” she said. She had one of those voices that no matter what, was nice. Like, it could never sound mean. You know how some people have those voices? Like kindergarten teachers or librarians? “How we feelin’?” she asked, and I was momentarily confused by the “we” she was referring to.
    â€œI’m fine,” I said, forcing a small smile.
    â€œGood. Make sure you try to get yourself up today. You can’t just lie there on your back. Also, I need you to blow into this, as hard as you can.” She held up a strange-looking plastic thing with a hose sticking out of it.
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œIt’s called an incentive spirometer. Because of your ribs,you’re going to do everything you can to not cough. But you need to cough. You gotta make sure you’re getting all the nasty stuff out of your lungs, because if it all stays in, it might turn into pneumonia and we don’t want that.” Then she broke it all down to me as if I was a child, which I appreciated because I had never heard of a spirometer before. Luckily, it was a simpler process than the name suggests. All I had to do, a few times every hour, was breathe in through the tube slowly, hold it, and then breathe out.
    As she set the spirometer on the side table by my bed, she announced, “For lunch today we’ve got chicken tenders, and fries, and a small salad,” while setting the tray down. Then she went through the routine of checking my vitals. Blood pressure, and whatever else. Who ever really knows what all those machines and stuff are anyway? I just know the one they put on my arm is for my blood pressure, but who, besides old people, even knows what blood pressure is? Just make sure I ain’t dying, was what I was thinking as the cuff tightened around my arm.
    Once she left, I got myself up, which was way more painful than I thought it would be. Who the hell knew broken ribs could make everything hurt? Or maybe it was that everything I did made the broken ribs hurt. Seemed like even blinking was painful.
    I waddled slowly to the bathroom so I could handle mybusiness—the post-sleep pee—which was interrupted by another knock at the door. This time, it was my family. Of course.
    â€œRashad?” my mother called through a crack in the door before pushing it open. I had just flushed and washed my hands while performing the strange task of looking at my bruised and broken face, but only in glimpses. That’s all I could take. A few seconds at a time. Three seconds, then back to the sink. Then back to the mirror for three more seconds before darting my eyes over to the paper towels. Anything longer than that made me . . . uncomfortable. Anyway, I was making my way back to the bed when my mother and father came in dressed in their Sunday spiffs. Behind them, even more Sunday. As in, Sunday himself. As in,