Leaving Atlanta by Tayari Jones Page A

the Hamilton case,” says Officer Brown. “But to my knowledge, Jashante is only missing. Lots of missing
     children are found each day and returned to their parents.”
    Not around here. Not this year. You now know, as undeniably as if you had read it in the World Book Encyclopedia, that Officer
     Brown has nothing useful to share. As a matter of fact, you are more fearful than ever to know that this man is all that stands
     between your generation and an early death.
    “My daddy say it’s the police that’s doing it,” Cinque shouts from the back of the room.
    The class is instantly silenced. Of course, you have long since concluded that the police are ineffective at best. After all,
     twelve children have been abducted. But could the police actually be responsible?
    “How else a white man going to get a kid to get in a car with him?”
    A good point. The class turns its head toward Officer Brown like spectators at a tennis match. The pudgy man does not respond.
    Mr. Harrell intervenes. “Mr. Freeman, out in the hall.”
    “Man,” Cinque complains, slamming his desk shut. “He
my
cousin. I’m just trying to tell y’all what I know.”
    Officer Brown composes himself. “Wait, young man. Sit back down.”
    The eyes swing to the teacher. Is he going to allow this rotund white man to reverse his command? And what about Cinque? Will
     he be broken by the iron will of the law?
    “No,” says Cinque. “Man done put me out and I’m gone.”
    Heads turn again to Mr. Harrell. “Take your seat, Mr. Freeman.”
    Cinque obeys, but not without complaint. “Folks need to make up they mind.”
    Officer Brown clears his throat and speaks. “Listen, kids. Don’t rule anyone out. If we don’t know who
is
responsible, then we don’t know who’s
not
.” Now his tone becomes deliberately authoritative, not unlike the voice that omnisciently declares that four out of five
     dentists surveyed recommend sugarless gum for their patients who chew gum. “But we
do
know that each Atlanta police officer has taken a sacred oath to protect the public, not harm it.” He pauses dramatically
     and looks toward the American flag flaccid in its perch on top of the file cabinet.
    “There may be some individuals
impersonating
officers of the law. But the impostor will not have this!” He dips into his pocket and triumphantly produces a glossy piece
     of metal. “This,” he announces, displaying his shield between his thumb and forefinger, “is the official badge of the Atlanta
     P.D.” He gives it to Angelite and indicates that she should pass it around. “Take a good look. Run your hands across it and
     feel the raised letters. I’ve seen a lot of fakes, and not one of them has had the letters raised up so high that you can
     read it with your fingers.”
    This man is clearly delusional, so you do not point out that a criminal who could steal an official police
uniform
certainly would not neglect to take an official police
badge
. Furthermore, it is nearly time for recess.
    The bell rings and everyone files outside. Last year, your classmates would have sprinted to the playground. But that was
     before last summer’s rains changed the girls. They reported to school on the first day of fifth grade taller than the boys
     and older, too. They were all fastened into pink training bras that you could see through the thin cotton of their button-up
     blouses. Their hair was straightened and turned into tight oily curls. When a group of them stands together, the combined
     scent of Jean Naté and singed hair makes you dizzy.
    This year, all playground activities have become spectator sports. Kick-ballers worry about form as they round the bases.
     Jump-rope girls are careful not to pant with open mouths. You used to sit by the back fence daydreaming; but the idea of being
     watched as you think aggravates your sensitive stomach.
    So you stand all alone during the thirty minutes of freedom before lunch. You never have liked to