Free All American Boys by Jason Reynolds Page B

Jerome Johnson. As in, Pastor Jerome Johnson.
    â€œSon, Pastor’s here to see you,” my father said as I eased back into bed, flashing my ashy butt at everybody, including God.
    They brought the pastor ? I sort of fell quickly onto the mattress and whipped my legs around until they were on the bed. Pathetic. My mother helped me adjust, fluffing the pillow behind my head and pulling the sheet over me, up to my chin, which was way too far. She kissed my forehead and stared at me as if she was trying to recognize the kid beneath the bruises and bandages. “You okay?”
    â€œI’m fine,” I said, short. She nodded, then glanced at the food tray. She lifted the plate cover, the condensation dripping all over my chicken tenders. Damn. Soggy chicken tenders suck. “You haven’t eaten?”
    â€œIt just got here. I just woke up.” I said in a take it easy tone.
    She kissed my forehead again, then leaned back so I could get a clear shot of my father, three-piece suited and shiny-shoed. And the minister, Pastor Johnson, dressed in an oversize suit, a gold chain with a gold cross lying perfectly in the middle of his fat satin tie. In his hand, the Bible. What else.
    â€œHow you feelin’, Rashad?” the pastor asked. Everybody was asking that, as if I was ever going to tell them the truth. Nobody wanted to hear the truth, even though everybody already knew what it was. I felt . . . violated. That’s the only way I can put it. Straight-up violated. And now, to make it worse, I had to have church. Well, sorta church. I had to have prayer.
    Now don’t get me wrong. I don’t have a problem with a good prayer. I mean, I believe in God. At least I think I do. I just wondered where God was when I was being mopped by that cop. And I knew that’s what the pastor had come to tell me. That God was there. That God was always there. Which, to me, is the wrong thing to say, because if he or it or whatever was there and didn’t do nothing, then that would make God my enemy. Because he let it happen. I would muchrather Pastor Johnson say that God wasn’t there. That he was busy. That he turned his back, just for a second, to check on somebody else, and that asshole officer snuck right by him and got me. But . . . nope.
    â€œSon, I just stopped by to tell you that God is with you. He’s always with you,” the pastor started, predictably. “And everything happens for a reason.”
    Reason? This felt like a good time for me to grab my spirometer, because I was in need of a deep breath. I mean, seriously, what reason could there have been for this? Let me guess, I was too good-lookin’ and needed an extra bump on my nose, a reminder that only English Jones runs the school?
    â€œNow we’re going to offer up a prayer for your healing, son, believing that God’s gon’ mend you,” the pastor said. “Let’s all bow our heads and look to the Lord.”
    My mother and father lowered their heads and closed their eyes. I didn’t do either. Kept mine open, and my head up, looking at the three of them, wondering if any of this mattered. I knew it mattered to them, my parents, and maybe that should’ve been enough for me to participate, but did it matter to me? I’m not so sure. The prayer was long and dramatic, full of the preachy punches in between each point. The pastor mentioned how Jesus was persecuted ( heh ) and Saul was made blind ( heh ) and Job was tested ( heh ) and Davidbeat Goliath ( heh ). My mother followed right behind the pastor, accompanying his rhythmic prayer with hallelujah whispers, and my father’s manly but, I guess, godly grunts, all eventually—finally—leading to an amen.
    â€œAmen.” Spoony stood in the doorway, nodding his head, and clapping his hands, a sarcastic look on his face. Man, was I happy to see him. Ma was too. Dad, well, not so much.
    â€œPastor, you remember my