I’m sorry,” Diggins says, “but it’s the truth.”
Jessup wants to scream. It’s the exact same thing that Hawkins said in the driveway this morning. It doesn’t matter what really happened. None of it matters, Jessup thinks. Not the time in the weight room, sweat dripping off him, his muscles quivering with exhaustion, not the wind sprints, the hours watching film, the willingness to sacrifice his body to stop a ball’s forward motion. It doesn’t matter that he’s always been a good student, not just smart but diligent, up late, up early, keeping his work organized, reading ahead, extra-credit assignments. It doesn’t matter that he’s done everything right, that he’s had no margin for error, that his classmates have Spanish tutors and math tutors, $1,500 SAT prep classes and private instruction for thousands more, science camp and math camp, internships with state representatives because Mom’s sister knows somebody, an entire existence of parenting devoted to ensuring excellence, the American dream not something to aspire to but a birthright. It doesn’t matter what Jessup has done, he knows; it’s never going to be enough. The starting gun went off well before he was born, and no matter how fast he runs, he’ll never win this race.
“But I didn’t,” Jessup says. “I didn’t call him the N-word.”
“And it doesn’t matter whether or not I believe you, either. What matters is that kids are talking, and what’s going around is that you used a racial slur,” Diggins says. “Can I ask you a question, Jessup?” He glances at Jessup but then speaks without waiting for an answer. “Do you hate me?”
“What?”
“Do you hate me? Simple question.”
“No,” Jessup says. He thinks of the game ball. Wonders if David John has put it in his bedroom. “Of course not.”
“What about that church you go to? It’s a white power thing, isn’t it?”
“I haven’t gone there in years.” Hesitates. Says, “You know about what happened with my brother and my stepdad?”
Diggins nods.
“I haven’t gone there since any of that happened.” Doesn’t say that he’s supposed to be going tomorrow with his family.
“What about that kid up there, the one in the coat and tie, goes to your church?”
“It’s not my church.”
Diggins ignores him. “What’s his name? The one who’s on CNN and Fox and always spouting off? Goes to Cortaca University. What is it? Buddy Rogers?”
“Brandon.”
“Brandon, then. Does he hate me?”
“Probably,” Jessup says. The truth is certainly more complicated, Jessup thinks, because if you listen to the way Brandon talks, it’s not hate. It’s not fear, either. It’s something else. Like Brandon looks at black people and doesn’t even think of them as people. Which is worse.
“I’ve seen him on the news, and he doesn’t use the N-word. Doesn’t blame the Jews or Mexicans. He does it nice and subtle. A dog whistle. Says ‘urban violence,’ or ‘thug culture,’ but we all know what he means.”
Jessup can see the lights of the gas station in Tracker’s Corners coming up. From there, it’s a quarter mile until the turn, another quarter mile until his driveway.
“Why don’t you let me out here,” he says. “I’ll walk.”