If i were your boyfriend, p.1
If I Were Your Boyfriend, page 1
If I WERE YOUR BOYFRIEND
Earl Sewell
If I WERE YOUR BOYFRIEND
It is better to be hated for who you are than to be loved for who you are not.
—Candice Sewell
For my daughter Candice Sewell
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
READING GUIDE QUESTIONS
CHAPTER 1
Wesley
“You look like you’re a smart-aleck with a dishonest heart who wants to say something really stupid.” The brawny police officer had singled me out to make an example of. She was eager for me to challenge her in some way so she’d have the authority to use force against me. She was much taller than I was and had a solid-looking jaw, a fierce and unyielding glare and appeared to be powerful enough to crush my skull with her bare hands. It was obvious that she spent all of her spare time at the gym, pumping iron. She was as tall as a tree in the rain forest and at any moment I thought she would howl out a battle cry like Xena the Warrior Princess.
I’d just walked down a ramp from the back door of a bus with about five other guys who were restrained. The bus had been converted into a transport vehicle to move detainees from the local jailhouse to a facility specifically designed for juveniles. Along with the five other guys, I was now standing outside in the pouring rain, and I wasn’t happy about my Nike sneakers and clothes getting soaked.
“Come on, say something. I can see everything you’re thinking.” A pellet of saliva flew from the officer’s mouth and landed on my lip just below my nose. For a brief moment I could smell her tart breath. I didn’t respond to her verbally. Instead I looked at her and elected to answer her with silence and a smart-aleck facial expression. When she reached the conclusion that she couldn’t provoke me beyond my facial contortions, she moved on to the guy who was shackled up in front of me. He asked how long we had to stand out in the rain and she shouted at him so viciously that his composure snapped like a twig and he began crying tears of sadness. Punk was the first thought that flashed in my mind when I saw his chin take a nosedive into his chest and his shoulders slump forward. His body began jerking violently as his emotions took control of him.
“You are not to speak to each other!” She tapped the butt of her revolver with her index finger. The officer smirked at him as if she’d accomplished a particular goal. She then roared out instructions like a lion in the wilderness.
“You are to march into the building and line up with your backs against the wall and await further instructions.”
No one said a word or uttered a single sound except for the guy who wouldn’t stop crying. I wanted to smack him on the head to make him shut up, but I couldn’t. I didn’t know about everyone else, but I felt a very strong anxiety attack swelling up within me. As we marched into the building, I found it difficult to move because the steel shackles the police placed around my wrists and ankles were ratcheted on very tightly and were gnawing deep into my skin. I was doing my best to control my renegade feelings from surfacing and making me do something stupid, but it wasn’t easy trying to contain an emotional swell that was like a wild beast buckling iron bars. I tried to reposition the steel bracelets into a more comfortable position, but I only made my situation worse. I felt as if the armor I was being restrained with were sawing straight through to my bones.
Once inside we lined up against the wall as we were instructed to do. A few moments later a handful of police officers appeared and stood by each one of us.
“Come with me,” said a male Hispanic officer with a slight smile. His eyes and skin were brown and his black hair was freshly cut and styled. He had a medium build and walked with presence and purpose. He escorted me through a series of giant and impenetrable doors.
“So, what are you in for?” he asked. The tone of his light Spanish accent seemed friendly and caring. His demeanor was nothing like the madwoman who had escorted me off of the bus.
“I don’t know,” I answered.
“Come on, man. There’s no need to be angry with me. I’m not the one who put you in here. You did that all on your own.” He was right. I didn’t have any reason to have an attitude with him. He was just doing his job.
“Alcohol abuse among other things,” I said.
“So, you have a drinking problem? You’re too young to toss your life away over alcohol, amigo.”
I didn’t say anything because he didn’t understand anything about what I was going through. And I certainly wasn’t his friend.
“I’m Officer Sanchez. You’ve been assigned to my unit. I’m going to process you into our system,” he said. Officer Sanchez escorted me into a small room and sat me down in front of a desk with a computer.
“Give me a moment, I’ll be right back,” he said, and then exited the room, making sure to lock the door. It was so quiet in the room that the silence seemed loud. Maybe it was because I could hear myself thinking. I could hear my thoughts lying to me, telling me that everything would be okay and that I’d be released. I looked around to try to distract my mind. The room was cold and uninviting. The walls were made of solid brick and were painted white and the floor was gray like a rain cloud. Ten minutes passed by before Officer Sanchez came back and sat at the computer. He took a deep breath, then began typing. He stopped pecking at the keyboard with his two index fingers and began talking.
“Wesley Morris, why were you driving a stolen car while you were drunk?” he asked. I couldn’t tell if he was actually concerned or just asking an obvious question.
“The car wasn’t stolen, it belongs to my mother.”
“When you take a car without getting permission, that’s called stealing, even if it is your mom’s car.”
“How is that stealing when I was going to bring it back? Last time I checked, true car thieves don’t return a car after it’s stolen.” Officer Sanchez threaded his fingers together behind his head. His chair groaned as he reclined back. We looked at each other for a long moment before he asked another question.
“What’s your relationship with your mother like?”
“I don’t know,” I answered.
“Do you guys get along?” he continued questioning me.
“Obviously we don’t since she said I stole her car.”
“Hey, I’m just trying to understand what happened here, okay?”
“I don’t even know why I’m here. I didn’t really do anything wrong.” Officer Sanchez was silent again. It was clear that he could see right through me, but I didn’t care.
“Do you want me to call your mom right now?” he asked.
“No, I’d rather be locked up in here than be around her,” I answered truthfully.
“Why?”
“Because it’s probably better for me here. I’ll be away from her and all of her bull.”
“Do you think your mom is too hard on you?”
“I don’t want to talk about my relationship with her anymore. Besides, it is what it is,” I said as I once again tried to adjust my wrists so that the handcuffs felt more comfortable.
“Well, as a matter of procedure I have to call her,” said Officer Sanchez.
“Whatever, man,” I uttered.
Officer Sanchez pressed the speaker button on the phone and then dialed my mom’s phone number, which I’d provided earlier. I sat in my seat, shackled up and glaring at the phone as it rang. I heard my mom answer.
“Hello, Ms. Carter. This is Officer Sanchez from the County Juvenile Detention Center. How are you today?”
“I’ve seen better days,” my mom answered through the speakerphone. The sound of her voice made my blood pressure rise. My mother and father were divorced. Their marriage was always on shaky ground, but when my mom refused to stop drinking, that was the breaking point. After my mom won the bitter court battle for custody over me, she started using her maiden name. She didn’t want any association with my father.
“I can understand that. It’s not easy for a parent to go through this sort of thing.” There was a short moment of silence and then Officer Sanchez continued. “Ms. Carter, I have here in the room with me your son, Wesley, who said he wanted to speak to you.” Officer Sanchez motioned with his hands for me to speak at will. I really didn’t have anything to say to her, but he insisted that I speak.
“Hey,” I said.
“Wesley, why are you doing this?” my mom asked.
“I didn’t do anything,” I insisted.
“You are just making things harder than they have to be. You’re going down the wrong path, Wesley, and that hard head of yours is going to keep getting you in trouble if you don’t change.”
“You know what, I wouldn’t be in trouble if you weren’t always on my back and pushing me so much. I mean, you don’t like me, you pick your boyfriends over me and on top of that you re offended by my very presence. So you can save your little speech for another time.”
“Wesley, you know that’s not true,” she said, defending herself.
“Then why did you report your car stolen when you knew that I had it? You knew your car wasn’t stolen. Did one of your boyfriends suggest that you do it?”
“Don’t twist this around on me, Wesley!” The anger in her voice flooded the small room I was sitting in. “Why are you drinking again?” she asked.
“You know what, just forget it. I can’t believe you have the nerve to ask why I’m drinking. Now I know for sure that I’m better off here.” I leaned back in my seat and refused to say anything more.
“Wesley, I want you to think about what you’ve done while you’re in there. Do you understand me?” she asked.
“Whatever,” I answered her just so she’d shut up. At that moment Officer Sanchez stepped back into the conversation.
“Ms. Carter, will you be at Wesley’s upcoming court hearing?”
“Yes, his father and I will be there,” she said. After sharing a few pleasantries, Officer Sanchez hung up the phone.
“Why is your relationship with your mother so poisonous?” he asked.
“Like I said, it is what it is, man. She doesn’t care about me and I don’t care about her.”
I suppose Officer Sanchez didn’t know how to respond to my comment so he didn’t. He went about the business of processing me into the system. After I signed several documents regarding my personal belongings, Officer Sanchez walked me through another series of doors and into a small shower, which was about the size of a tiny fitting room at a clothing store.
“There is shampoo and soap over there on the shelf.” He pointed. “I need you to get undressed and hand me your clothes.”
“What? While you watch?” I asked, horrified at the thought of him looking at me while I undressed.
“Amigo, this is the way it goes down in here. These are the rules you must follow.” He removed my shackles.
“What if I refuse?” I asked.
“Trust me, you don’t want to do that.” Our eyes locked and I knew he was dead serious about what he’d just said.
“Fine, man,” I said, then got completely undressed and handed over all of my clothes.
“The shower is on a timer. By the time it stops I’ll be back with our standard inmate gray jogging pants and sweatshirt. All of the detainees wear them. After you get dressed, I’ll take you through orientation so that you’ll know the rules and what is expected of you while you’re here. After we’re done with that, I’ll show you your sleeping quarters and then take you to the common area where the other detainees are.”
Officer Sanchez shut the door and locked me inside the tiny shower. I pressed a white button on the wall and the water came on. I stepped under the showerhead and got goose bumps as the water splashed against my skin. It was freezing cold at first but then adjusted automatically. I preferred nice long hot showers, but since there were no sill valves on the wall to adjust the temperature I had to live with bathing in water that was barely warm. I closed my eyes, punched a wall a few times with the side of my fist and then thought about how I was going to survive. The shower turned itself off and I moved over to the door to open it but I couldn’t. I stood at the door, naked, wet and cold, searching for any signs of Officer Sanchez. When I didn’t see him I took a few steps backward and placed my back against the wall. I folded my arms across my body, exhaled and tried to keep myself from going completely insane.
CHAPTER 2
Keysha
“Wake up, Keysha, we’re almost there,” said Grandmother Katie. I opened my eyes just as she turned off Main Street and onto Church Street. I stretched out my body and released a loud yawn. She and I had been driving several hours from my dad’s home to her house in the country. I tried to stay awake and keep her company during the long journey, but once the landscape changed from picture-perfect suburban homes to farmland, barns and smelly cows, it was all too easy to fall asleep from visual boredom.
“Where are we?” I asked as I brought myself back from the land of the sleeping.
“We’re just about there. I live on this street,” she said as we drove past a neighborhood playground. There was a Little League football game going on and I briefly watched as a young boy ran about ten yards for a touchdown.
“This is it,” she announced as she brought her car to a hard stop directly in front of her home.
“It’s a beautiful home,” I complimented as I studied the yellow two-story frame house. The white picket fence, which was in need of a fresh coat of paint, outlined the boundary of the property. I noticed the porch swing that was swaying back and forth and could hear it squeaking.
“I just love this time of the year. It’s so pretty to see the season change from summer to fall,” she said as I studied several auburn leaves billowing downward from trees that were around her property.
“I pay the young man who lives a few doors down to rake up the yard for me. He does a good job and he’s reliable. Next year he’ll be heading off to college and I’ll have to find a new person who is willing to do the work for me.” She paused for a long moment, so I turned my attention to her. She was smiling at me as if I were the most precious thing she’d ever seen. Her smile, her eyes and her spirit made me feel warm all over.
“Well, come on, let’s get all of your belongings inside.” Grandmother Katie pressed the trunk release button and we both got out of the car. I removed my belongings from the trunk and followed Grandmother Katie up the pathway toward the house. I wrestled with my suitcase as I pulled it up the front porch steps one at a time. Once on the porch I looked to my left through a window and saw Smokey, who was Grandmother Katie’s black Labrador retriever. We talked about her dog during the journey to her house. Smokey had tucked his head beneath the drapes and was greeting us with loud barks.
“Hey, Smokey.” Grandmother Katie waved to her dog as if he were a real person. Smokey responded to her greeting by whining and then barking again.
“It’s okay, Keysha, he’s not going to bite you. If anything, he’ll try to lick on you.”
“Being licked by a dog would not be cool,” I said. As soon as she placed her door key in the lock tumbler, Smokey barked even louder. When the door finally opened, Smokey rushed up to her, wagging his tail, wiggling his body and sniffing her clothing.
“Did you miss me, Smokey?” she asked as he petted him on his head.
“He loves it when you pet him,” she said. “I’m afraid that I’ve spoiled him.”
Smokey came over to me and I let him sniff my hands, my clothes and my luggage. Once he approved of me, he rushed back inside the house. I listened as his paws clicked against the hardwood floor.
As I entered her home the first thing I noticed was all of the photos on the wall. There were pictures everywhere of her, my grandfather, my dad, her parents and my grandfather’s parents. One entire corner of the room felt like a visual history book. I was about to ask some questions, but she interrupted my train of thought.
“Bring your suitcase along and follow me. I’ll show you the room where you’ll be sleeping.” I followed her up the wooden staircase that groaned the moment we began climbing.
“You can sleep in here,” she said as she opened a door to one of the bedrooms. I wheeled my suitcase to the center of the room and plopped down on the bed. The yellow paint on the walls was a little too bright for my taste. There was an old dresser in the room, a desk with a sewing machine and a built-in bookshelf on the far wall. The lime-green bedding complemented the curtains and the pictures of fruit hanging on the walls. The room was very clean. In fact, it was too clean and looked as if no one had slept in it for a long time.
“Well, is the room okay with you?” she asked. I turned and smiled at her.
