Seven Days in June by Tia Williams

Chapter 4

Mantra

“YOU GOTTA LET ME TALK TO TY, PRINCIPAL SCOTT.”

The beleaguered woman leaned forward on her paper-strewn desk. “Mr. Hall, last time you ‘talked’ to Ty, I found him sitting in a fifth-floor window with his feet dangling down the side of the building.”

“His writing was flat. He needed a perspective change.”

“He’s thirteen. You encouraged a child to engage in potentially fatal behavior.”

“Ty spent last year in a maximum-security juvenile detention center. You think that window was the most colorful moment of his life?” He smiled pleasantly, belying the panic he really felt.

Shane Hall wasn’t where he was supposed to be. According to the itinerary issued by his publisher’s publicity department, he was due at the airport five minutes ago. But Ty was his favorite student. And healthy, functional people didn’t leave town without saying goodbye.

At thirty-two, Shane was new to being healthy and functional. When he woke up twenty-six months and fourteen days ago, clean for the first time since he was under five feet tall, he realized that he finally knew how to stay sober. But he wasn’t sure how to be a responsible adult. The program encouraged therapy, but fuck no. He was a writer—why would he give his shit away for free? Instead, he ran five miles a day. Drank his weight in water. Added chia seeds in things. Avoided red meat. And sugar. And hookers.

Patiently, he waited for the day it’d all make him feel normal.

The only thing Shane could ever do well was write, but he’d only ever done it drunk. He’d become a critic’s darling while drunk. He’d gotten rich while drunk. He’d churned out four “hypnotic, ecstatic elegies to shattered youth”—according to the New York Times—while drunk. He’d won the National Book Award while drunk. He’d never composed even one sentence sober, and frankly, he was scared to try. So the writing was on hold for now. He began doing what every nonpracticing writer does—he taught. Because his name opened doors (and attracted donors) at high-paying private schools, he became in demand on the “visiting-author fellowship” circuit.

Shane taught creative writing to elite little shits in Dallas, Portland, Hartford, Richmond, San Francisco—and now Providence, Rhode Island. He was usually hired for a semester only. Just enough time to shake them up, poke holes in their privileged worldviews before they slid back into complacency. Fine, but these weren’t the real reasons he booked teaching tours.

Whenever Shane landed in a new city, he asked his Uber driver where the worst neighborhood was. He’d go and find the most underserved school in the area—the kind of school that made seven-year-olds line up in the cold at 7:15 a.m. for a security check that took almost an hour to pass through, making them late to class, only to then expel them for tardiness. The kind of school that turned a blind eye to school security officers who maced kids for “obscene language.” The kind of school that allowed traumatized, abused, underfed, uncared-for, often homeless children to be carted off to kiddie prisons for made-up infractions.

They’d receive their real education at juvie. And by eighteen, they’d realize that the thing they were most qualified to be was an inmate.

Shane would find a school like this in each city and then practically throw himself at the principal, offering after-school tutoring, mentoring, anything. Shane had a restless urge to help these kids. Actually, he wasn’t sure who was helping whom more.

Shane stood on the other side of Principal Scott’s desk, taking in the dank closet-sized office. And for some reason, his eyes lingered on a yellowing poster plastered to the puke-green painted wall:

Forbidden items: Electronics, Sunglasses, Clothing in Gang Colors.

“Gang colors” was written in red ink, presumably to target any Bloods with big ideas—the cluelessness of which embarrassed Shane. Was that Principal Scott’s idea? He was sure that twenty years ago, she’d taken the gig thinking she could save the youth, like Morgan Freeman in Lean on Me. But today, she was extremely over it—and sporting a violet bruise on her cheekbone where a student had hurled a pencil sharpener at her. Shane had seen it happen.

“Mr. Hall,” she said wearily. “Would you have pulled the window stunt with one of your private-school students?”

“No, ’cause I don’t give a fuck about them.” He froze, realizing what he’d said. Christ, he had to be better about blurting out whatever he was thinking. “I mean…I care. I’m just not as invested. Those kids are legacy at Ivy schools; they’re good. They’re using me for recommendation letters and selfies.”

“You take selfies with your students?”

Was that unethical? Shane didn’t understand social media; he honestly didn’t know. In terms of civilized behavior, he had so many blind spots. Shane wasn’t far removed from the man he’d been when he passed out on Gayle King’s shoulder as Jesse Williams announced that he’d won the 2009 NAACP Award for Outstanding Fiction.

His fans thought he was mysterious—living off the grid, no signings or readings or appearances, because he was a no-fucks-given bad boy. But really, Shane was just a mess. He just didn’t want to be a mess with an audience. So as soon as he could afford to be a nomad, fucking up his life privately from hidden corners of the globe, he did exactly that.

In Tobago, he shared his beach shack with a roommate who wasn’t shocked by his sketchy table manners or infant-esque sleep patterns, because his roommate was a turtle. Shane enjoyed sharing his most demented confessions with that bartender in Cartagena, because she spoke four languages and none of them were English.

While Shane Hall had had tremendous success thanks to his writing, the writing happened to come from a person who was never supposed to be famous.

Which, in the highly conventional literary world, had only made him more so.

Glancing at his watch, he realized he was dangerously close to missing his flight. Assessing his options, Shane furrowed his brow. And then scratched at his biceps, just under his short-sleeve tee. He tugged at his bottom lip a little, distracted. Nervous tics, all. But Shane felt a faint energy shift in the room. Principal Scott’s gaze had gone from weary to…watchful.

Shane was a fidgety person (a new thing he realized, now that he felt everything). But calling attention to his mouth, his arm, his anything wasn’t fair. He knew that he pulled a strong reaction from women. He’d first realized this when he wasn’t much older than Ty. Back then, Shane hadn’t really known why he elicited this response, and he hadn’t cared. He’d just been grateful to have a card to pull, something to use when he was desperate, hungry, and alone.

You think I look like an angel? Good, maybe you’ll leave me here with the register while you get my favorite soda in the back. You think I’m a thug? Good, maybe you’ll hire me to rob your ex’s crib. You think I’m fuckable? Good, maybe you’ll give me a place to stay for a month.

Shane neutralized himself. Healthy, functional people didn’t take shortcuts.

“I’ll buy your lunch for a month,” he blurted out.

“Excuse me?”

So much for no shortcuts.

“You got Venmo? I don’t carry cash—I have poor impulse control.”

Half-heartedly chuckling, she said, “Go ’head. He’s in detent…”

Shane was halfway down the hall before she could finish the word.

Shane found Ty slumped over a desk in an empty classroom. Trancelike, he was doodling on the cover of his composition notebook. He’d scribbled on it so much that he could no longer see the designs. But if he ran his fingers over it, he could feel the grooves from the ball-point pen. Shane had been watching him do this for weeks. It must comfort him, somehow.

Ty was enormous for his age—about three hundred pounds—and at six foot four, he was two inches taller than Shane. The boy had a morose self-consciousness that quickly turned to rage if he felt embarrassed or threatened. But he trusted Shane. Shane didn’t roast him for wearing the same massive sweatpants and hoodie every day. And Shane knew that he lived with his aunt in a Portuguese-gang-run trap house (and that his mom and sister were last seen soliciting, together, in Hartford Park), but never mentioned it. Shane talked to Ty like they were the same.

Shane stood across from him, leaning against the teacher’s desk, and told Ty he had to leave Providence.

Ty didn’t look up. “Where you going.”

“To Brooklyn. The Littie Awards are there, this Sunday,” he explained. “I’m a presenter. Which is weird, ’cause I don’t go to awards shows.”

“Why.”

“Ever heard of Gayle King?”

“Who?”

“Never mind,” mumbled Shane. “I don’t go ’cause they’re meaningless. In 2013 the National Book Critics Circle gave Best Fiction to Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie instead of me. Do I think she’s a superior writer? Nah. But it’s all subjective.”

The corner of Ty’s mouth curved. “You mad.”

“Hell yes, I’m mad,” said Shane. “’Cause I care. It took fortunes made and lost, one tarot-card reader, and too much AA for me to be evolved enough to say those words. I care about things.”

Ty knew he was being led somewhere. “You say that to say what.”

“Ty, why do all your questions sound like statements?”

“The fuck that means.”

“Look, I’m admitting that I care about awards. What do you care about?”

“Nothing. I ain’t soft, nigga.”

“Ain’t no niggas in here.”

Ty was confused. “You Dominican?”

“What? No. And Dominicans are niggas. Google ‘African diaspora’ and learn something. Jesus.” Shane shook his head. Time was ticking. “Listen, caring about things don’t make you soft. It makes you alive.”

Ty shrugged.

Shane eyed Ty for a moment, his expression serious. Ty looked back, challenging him.

“Tyree.”

“Yeah.”

“You need to listen to me.”

“Yeah.”

“This school is not designed for you to excel. It’s raising you up for prison. Your every move is criminalized, by design. In most schools, kids don’t get expelled for saying ‘fuck’ or get tased for tardiness or incarcerated for missing one detention. In most schools, eighth-grade boys aren’t terrorized this way. They’re allowed to be kids, nothing on their minds but pussy and Roblox.”

Ty’s eyes focused on his notebook. He was painfully aware that Shane was referring to him. He’d been sent to juvie for missing a detention.

“You’re mad about it? You wanna fight? You’re not wrong. They’ll tell you you’re an animal, but you’re not. You’re a sane person reacting to an insane situation. And I know, ’cause I been you. It took me getting locked up three times by twelfth grade to learn the lesson that you’re gonna learn today.”

Shane paused, realizing he was talking so fast, his words were running into each other. “I fought, too. Just like you.”

Well, not exactly. Like Ty, “violent and unpredictable” had been stamped in Shane’s student file since grade school. Unlike Ty, Shane’s violence wasn’t about rage. He didn’t even fight to win. It was about hurting himself, soothing his self-destructive streak—to tear his skin, shatter his bones, gag blood. And that was what kept him shuttling from foster homes to group homes to finally nothing, because no one wanted to adopt a hollow-eyed, passed-over preteen Black boy with disturbing compulsions and an unsettling…beauty…that was weird on a kid so tragic.

“No one’s coming to save you. You have to do it.” Shane lowered his voice, wanting Ty to work hard to hear this. “Do not react to the school security officers. Do not fight. Stay low, work hard, graduate, and get the full entire fuck out of this city. And don’t come back until you’re in a position to help a kid like you. You understand me?”

Silence.

“Ty.” Shane stepped forward, smashing his fist down on Ty’s desk. The boy jumped. “You understand me?”

Ty nodded, shell-shocked. Shane was like his fun faux uncle. He’d never seen him be so serious. Hesitantly, he said, “I get so heated. I can’t stay low.”

“Yeah, you can.” Shane’s shoulders relaxed a bit. “Have faith.”

“Oh. Church.”

“I mean, if that works for you. But I meant faith in yourself. What do you like?”

Ty shrugged broadly. “I guess…planets.”

“Why?”

“I like…that there’s more out there. I don’t know. I like thinking about other worlds.” He was at a loss to describe something he’d never even thought about. “I…I used to draw the planets when I was a li’l nigga. Stupid shit.”

“Nice.” Shane pulled a Trident pack out of his pocket and popped two pieces into his mouth. Then he tossed one to Ty, who caught it with one hand. “There’s eight planets, right? I don’t remember all their names. Do you?”

“Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune.”

Shane folded his arms across his chest. “When you wanna fight, recite them in your head. It’s called a mantra. A mantra’s like a magic spell for your brain, telling it to chill.”

“That’s dumb.”

“Is it? You like Game of Thrones, right?”

“No.”

“You taught yourself Dothraki. I’ve seen the inside of that notebook.”

Ty shrugged again, his chin disappearing into his neck.

“What does Arya do? When she’s in danger? She recites the names of people she wants to exact revenge upon. It’s her mantra, and it keeps her alive. The planets will be your mantra.”

Ty could barely hide his delight and mortification at being compared to Arya Stark, and his head sank farther into his neck, rolls of skin puddling up beneath his cheeks.

“You got a mantra?” Ty actually delivered this question as a question.

“Yeah.”

“What is it?”

“Mine,” said Shane simply. He did have one. It was a gift from a girl when he was a boy. And back when he really needed it to, it had worked.

He checked his watch. It was time to go to New York.

“You need activities,” said Shane. “Your science teacher told me you like astronomy. So I set you up with an internship at the Providence Planetarium. Also, every Friday at three thirty, you’ll be a science tutor for struggling students. And don’t forget, Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune.”

“Wait. You already knew I liked planets?”

Shane grinned and gave Ty a hearty pound.

“And you said you couldn’t name them all, but you just did!”

“Of course I know the planets,” said Shane, patting his jeans pockets, making sure he had his wallet. “I tricked you.”

Ty’s mouth opened.

“It’s your mantra, not mine. You had to say it out loud to give it power.”

“I’m clueless,” whispered Ty, in awe.

Shane chuckled a little. He’d miss Ty so much. He wanted to hug him, but his file said that he didn’t like being touched. Shane understood; neither did he.

He was headed for the door, when Ty’s voice stopped him.

“Do you…Maybe you need help? In New York?”

Shane turned to face him. “Help?”

“Can I go with you?” Ty’s voice was a shy mumble. “I could be your assistant.”

Shane’s shoulders slumped a little. “If you need me, I’ll come back. Anytime. For any reason. I promise.”

Ty blinked several times and slumped down in his chair.

“You won’t even have time to miss me, dog. I’ll text you relentlessly.”

The boy nodded.

“I gotta go. Be good. Just…be good,” said Shane, and then he all but sprinted out the door. He’d run out of words to say. And he was late. And there was a lump in his throat and a tingle behind his eyes. He wasn’t going to cry, though. He hadn’t since he was seventeen.

Shane slid into the driver’s seat of the rented Audi, blasted the AC, and sped down Route 1 toward Green Airport. He loved that kid too much. He didn’t know how to mentor without loving. Maybe doing this wasn’t healthy.

He knew Ty probably wouldn’t make it to his planetarium internship. He might not make it, period. Shane couldn’t control that, but he would stay in touch. He always did. He had a Ty or a Diamond or a Marisol or a Rashaad in every city. He’d keep them all alive by sheer force of will.

The new Shane didn’t love and then vanish.

That was what he’d done to her. Which was the real reason he was going to New York.

Shane didn’t want—or deserve—anything from her. And he hated the idea of disrupting her life or dredging up the past. But he had to explain what he couldn’t before. Then he’d go.

To his credit, he knew this was a terrible idea. To his discredit, he was doing it anyway.

He had to. Shane couldn’t pretend to embrace his new life when he was still on the run from his old one.

She was a fire he’d started ages ago—and for too long, he’d just let it smolder. It was time to put it out.