Coach Me

“What are you looking for, Lakes?”

I gasp and turn around with the photos in my hand, finding Torres who is already staring back at me with his arms folded over his chest by the door.

“Oh—I uh…” I replace the photos on the nightstand. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been snooping.”

He sighs and steps into the room, dropping his arms and looking at the pictures in the silver frames. For a while he just stares at the photos, and I don’t know what to do. Should I walk out? Leave him to think? I feel like I’ve intruded on something personal and I feel awful about it.

“You know why I took immediate action with Hamilton after Howard tripped you?” he asks, and his voice is soft. Careful. I’ve never heard it like this before.

“No,” I whisper. “Why?”

“Because Howard was vindictive and wrong, and she deserved to pay for what she’d done.” His eyes lift to mine. “She would have gotten away with it if I hadn’t spoken to Hamilton. From the moment she saw you, she stereotyped and discriminated against you—a lot of those girls did—and I didn’t like it. Hell, even Foster did, and I took action with her too because if there is one thing I can’t stand, it’s when people like you and me are judged for the color of our skin. We bleed red just like everyone else. We work hard, we’re talented, and we know we’re worthy of great things, but this country has made it so hard for us to have it. And when we do have it, we are shown that we won’t ever fit in because of people like Howard and Foster, and are made to feel like we don’t deserve it.”

His jaw ticks and he sits on the edge of his bed, shaking his head. I sit with him and reach for his hand to hold it. We’re quiet for a while—so quiet I can hear a new movie playing in his living room, and hear the people upstairs padding across their floor.

“What happened to your dad, Joaquin?” My voice is just as soft and careful as his was when he came into the room.

All he can do is shake his head, as if the memory of what happened to his father is so painful that he can’t speak. He squeezes my hand and shuts his eyes, his lashes nearly touching his cheekbones. He then draws in a breath and looks up at me.

“He was shot and killed by a cop,” he finally says.

I let the words digest, unable to think—to breathe. “W-why?” I whisper, my voice cracking.

He drops his head. Squeezes my hand even more. “I was twenty when it happened. I was in college but on summer break. I had track practice over the summer and my father was helping out with delivering water bottles, oranges, snacks—stuff like that.” He works hard to swallow.

“There was one night when he was driving me home. He drove a white Impala, and apparently there was an APB out on an Impala. The cops were looking for a Hispanic male around my father’s age. He fit the description of the assailant, so he was pulled over. Pops did everything by the book. He handed the cop his license, said ‘Yes sir and no sir’ but…it wasn’t enough. The cop told him to get out of the car and I panicked. Pops told me everything was going to be fine as he got out of the car. I looked out of the back window and saw the cop talking into his walkie. He seemed nervous—almost agitated, and he had his hand on his gun. The person on the walkie said something and the next thing I know, the cop pointed his gun at my dad. My dad only wanted to know what had happened. His hands were in the air, but he was concerned and he had every right to be. He had no idea what was going on and wanted answers. My dad…he had a temper problem, I will say that, but he…he was a good man.” His voice cracks and I feel an ache in my chest. “The gun went off,” he continues. “The cop shot him three times in the chest.”

“Oh, my God.” I bring a hand up, cupping my mouth as I stare at him. It doesn’t take long for my eyes to sting from tears.

I can’t believe it. I’ve heard so many stories on the news about people who are wrongfully killed by cops, but to know it’s happened to someone I know—someone I care deeply about—is…it’s indescribable. How do you react to someone telling you this kind of story? How do you not feel angry for them?

I feel his pain—feel him as he squeezes my hand and releases it repeatedly, as if he’s trying to control his rage, his hurt.