"I understand you and all the other kids are trying to make sense of Jared's death. But a story about the devil? C'mon, buddy, use your common sense."
* * *
Trevor's mother walked into their house first and then turned to his father. "Steven. Our son could have been arrested."
"But he wasn't," he replied. "Teenagers do stupid stuff. We did. So hopefully he learned a lesson."
"He's an African American man who can't pull stunts like this," she said. "That's a valuable lesson. The consequences could be far more severe than a slap on the wrist for a mistake."
"Ma," Trevor said, "I'm not stupid about how my skin color might affect my life."
"It shouldn't. Unfortunately, it does. And you can't ignore that fact in favor of doing something stupid with your friends."
Steven kneaded Diedre's shoulders. "Let's all sit and talk about this. Then we can relax and put this behind us."
Trevor plopped onto the beige suede sofa with a groan.
"All right, sweetheart." She sat in the matching chair across from him. "You're on the threshold of going out into the big, bad world."
He'd had this conversation with his parents before. Don't put yourself in harm's way. Be smart. Be respectful. Don't be perceived as a threat. The conversation had been altered over the years, but the theme remained the same.
"For a moment," his father said, "think about how tonight could have ended differently. What if it was only you in that house? Or you and a couple of your Black friends. Do you think the policemen would have treated you differently?"
Trevor thought about standing at the top of the stairs and looking down at the officer. He imagined the policeman aiming his gun and shooting without hesitation. He didn't want to believe it could have happened that way. But he had to accept that it very well could have. "Yeah, it's possible the police would have treated me and my Black friends differently."
Relaxing in the chair, his mother nodded as if she'd accomplished her goal. Her expression shifted from dour to sympathetic. "Your father told me about this devil business. Which, I must point out, is absurd. What on earth made you think that going into that house would prove an exorcism took place there?"
Trevor sensed an impending interrogation. "Ma, don't question me like I'm a suspect in a court case."
She narrowed her eyes. "Excuse me?"
"No offense, but Dad said we should talk and move on. I don't want to feel like I'm defending myself and my friends."
"I'm not asking you to defend yourself. I'm asking you to explain yourself."
"Isn't that the same thing?"
"Actually no, it's not."
* * *
Adam sat at the top of the stairs and listened to his parents argue that their son was behaving recklessly. "Nerves in overdrive because of school and basketball," his mother said. "Teenage rebellion," his father suggested.
In his bedroom, he fell onto his bed and stretched his arms above his head. They ached because of the game. His left knee throbbed, and he worried that it might be an ACL injury. Perhaps his emotional high from winning the game had clouded his judgement. What he'd initially considered a dull ache now felt warm and painful. He gently massaged the spot directly above his knee.
Being hauled down to the police station and the possible knee injury brought the thought of college to the forefront of his mind. He couldn't afford to screw up his chances at playing for a good school. But he also considered himself a valuable recruit. A few schools had outright told him so. Therefore, he believed that the trip to the police station wouldn't ruin his chances at college. Besides, he hadn't been arrested. He and his friends were treated like dumb teenagers who'd been caught doing dumb things. Stupid teenagers don't think about the consequences.
He dressed in a T-shirt and shorts, then texted Conner. Dude.
What's up?
U in serious trouble?
No. U?
Nope.
Good. Told mom about Jared and she laughed at me.
Story is hard to believe.
Yeah.
Adam looked out his window. Conner's bedroom light was on. I'm hungry and my knee aches. Can I come over?
For food or u need me to work on ur knee?
Both.
Ok. Leftover pasta.
Be over in a few.
Minutes later, Adam found Conner in the kitchen, placing two bowls of pasta onto the table. "Hey. Smells good."
"Mom made pesto penne. There's chopped chicken too if you want to add it to your bowl."
Sitting, Adam shook his head. "No protein overload."
"How does your knee feel?"
"Hurts a little."
"Is it getting worse or just exertion from the game?"
"I don't know." Adam spooned pasta into his mouth. "Thankfully, it's not constant. So that's good."
"You should get it checked out."
"Yeah, I know."
"Are you scared to?"
Yeah, because basketball is my ticket into college. Can't do it with so-so grades and hardly any money. "A little. But I'm probably just stressing myself about it. I'll be fine."
"You need to mention it to Coach. The athletic trainer can take a look at your knee."
During the remainder of their meal, they discussed the night's game and the trip to the police station. Then they headed upstairs to Conner's bedroom. In the hall, they ran into Conner's father.
"What are you two up to?" he asked.
"Going to massage Adam's knee."
Mr. Preston looked at Adam sympathetically. "Great game tonight. You be careful with that knee of yours. I want NBA season tickets."
Adam smiled. "Yes, sir. You'll get the VIP treatment."
Mr. Preston smiled in return. "All right, boys. Be quiet. And don't stay up too late."
Closing the bedroom door, Conner said, "You know the drill. On the floor."
Yawning, Adam stretched out on the floor and bunched his shorts up to his crotch. "Maybe I should have taken some aspirin."
"I'll get some ibuprofen when I get the lotion."
Alone, Adam surveyed the room he'd been in hundreds of times. In the Preston home, he always felt comfortable and welcomed and safe. The Preston family had always treated him like an honorary son. And he regarded Conner as the person he was
