Invisible Son

by Kim Johnson, Guy Lockard

Genres: YA Mysteries & Thrillers

Synopsis

From the award-winning and critically acclaimed author of This Is My America comes another thriller about a wrongly accused teen desperate to recclaim both his innocence and his first love.

Life can change in an instant. 
When you’re wrongfully accused of a crime. 
When a virus shuts everything down. 
When the girl you love moves on. 

Andre Jackson is determined to reclaim his identity. But returning from juvie doesn’t feel like coming home. His Portland, Oregon, neighborhood is rapidly gentrifying, and COVID-19 shuts down school before he can return. And Andre’s suspicions about his arrest for a crime he didn’t commit even taint his friendships. It’s as if his whole life has been erased.

The one thing Andre is counting on is his relationship with the Whitaker kids—especially his longtime crush, Sierra. But Sierra’s brother Eric is missing, and the facts don’t add up as their adoptive parents fight to keep up the act that their racially diverse family is picture-perfect. If Andre can find Eric, he just might uncover the truth about his own arrest. But in a world where power is held by a few and Andre is nearly invisible, searching for the truth is a dangerous game. 

Critically acclaimed author Kim Johnson delivers another social justice thriller that shines a light on being young and Black in America—perfect for fans of The Hate U Give by Angie Thomas and Dear Justyce by Nic Stone.

 

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Release date: June 27, 2023

Publisher: Random House Books for Young Readers

Print pages: 416

Sample

ONE

DON'T SPEAK

 

February 27, 2020

I live in the whitest big city on the Blackest block. Simultaneously seen and unseen. I used to hate the erasure. But now, well, now I don’t mind if I stay hidden. Especially since MacLaren Youth Correctional Facility is in my literal rearview. But the longer we idle in Portland traffic, the more reality sinks in that that’s not how any of this works.

Marcus tries to bury this truth with conversations on moving forward. On possibilities. But it will be as hard to shake the strike against me as it is for the windshield wipers to win their battle against this torrential downpour.

Marcus’s and my coexistence in this car proves that fact. There will always be somebody to check me. To explain myself to. To keep at a distance. Which makes who I roll with matter more than ever. And I don’t mean my boy Boogie, who knows I’m more likely to be up late reading Octavia Butler or scouring through my collection of Black Panther comics than be hanging out. I mean my other so-called friends. Correction, white friends who’ve been known to mouth off to an officer without fear. Who don’t think twice about trying to be anything they want.

Meanwhile, I’m not trying to be nothing at all.

Marcus hands me coffee he picked up from the first drive-thru after we left the facility. Coffee is nasty. My stomach can’t take it, but I also can’t say no to him. I’m so close to semi-freedom—I’m not taking any chances. Not today.

“Dre, how you really feeling about all this?” Marcus adjusts his mirror like he’ll see better.

“All right.” What am I supposed to say? Living the dream riding with my probation officer? Can’t wait to get home…so I can still be under surveillance? I know I’m wallowing in my situation, which isn’t like me. I’m the type to kick my feet and claw my way above water—even if it’s only with words. But staying silent seems like the best way to just get home.

Besides, he’s asked this same question fifty-eleven times. He wants something deeper ’cause he takes my silence as not caring. But he’s wrong. I do care. My life felt like it was about to be over until I got community monitoring. But even without more juvie time, I’m still twisted inside with all types of feelings. Like how I got caught up in the first place. And how bad I wanna roll down the window and let the rain drench me as I yell out, I’m free. It’s a wrap. Dunzo. Then swipe my hand below my chin with a cocky grin. But that’s not the kind of care Marcus wants.

“That’s all I get? All right?” Marcus sighs, giving me a once-over. “You hit the jackpot, Dre. The sooner you realize it, the better. Use your mind.” Marcus taps his temple like he just dropped some knowledge.

“Yeah, okay.” I bounce my right foot, fighting the urge to scratch at my ankle.

Don’t get me wrong, Marcus is supposedly one of the good ones. And I came up having a Black juvenile counselor who is more likely to see me as a person than a problem. That’s not how it always goes. Inside, the guys talked about all the power trips from probation counselors who were just waiting for you to fail. The fact mine’s Black and used to be a teacher, I hit the lottery. No question. But this doesn’t change that I have no choice in our situation. He says jump and I gotta say how high.

“You’re close to putting this all behind you now,” Marcus says. “Just lay low. Focus on school.”

I chew on the corner of my lip, holding back a response. Holding back anger to stay numb.

“Come on.” He nudges me. “I know you’re excited to be going home.”

I give a weak nod.

His gaze studies me before he speaks. “Not feeling moving in with your grandparents?”

“I’m fine with it.” I’ve practically lived with my grandparents my whole life back

and forth between their house and apartments in the 100s blocks. So, when I think about home, it’s always the people, not the place. But this time I have to face them knowing they’ll look at me different. And I’m afraid of what they’ll see. There’s no way to go back to what was. I’m Dre now—the Andre they knew is gone.

“I need details if this is gonna work, son. Think of me like family. You can even call me Uncle Marcus. Some kids I work with do.”

“I’ll stick with Marcus,” I deadpan, all business between us.

He’s saying this because I treat him like the probation officer he is, and he’s offended at any insinuation of law enforcement. He’s more police-adjacent, he likes to say. But his actual title is juvenile court counselor, and let’s be real, it’s the same thing.

As much as everybody who works for Multnomah County Juvenile Justice been calling me son. Kid. Young man. Like we’re kin. I know the truth: it’s their J.O.B. They’re following some guidebook on how to make connections. Before I was assigned to Marcus, calling me son sure didn’t stop the first juvenile court counselor from recommending I get an ankle monitor even though the judge wasn’t pushing for that during sentencing.

Here’s the thing, I appreciate that Marcus cares, but we’re not family. Dad wouldn’t like it anyway. Not when Marcus is part of the system designed to lock me up in the first place.

Marcus stares, again. I avoid his inspection by sipping the nasty coffee ’cause I don’t wanna be in my feelings. Things have changed. I need to let the night that led me here go, as hard as that may be.

Once I catch sight of the Coliseum and Lloyd Center, my body loosens up. We’re getting closer to home.

GPS gives directions, but Marcus navigates the streets like he knows them well. I hold back from asking if he’s from my neighborhood. I’d rather believe Marcus was just an old-school dude from Black Portland watching out for me. Not somebody who’s just got a lot of Black and brown kids he calls son.

Marcus veers off route, cutting through the good Popeyes parking lot. Damn I’d love me some Popeyes right about now. I sip more coffee to smack the flavor of butter biscuits and spicy chicken sandwiches out my mouth.

“I’ll go over everything with your family, then follow up with your parents. The paperwork said your mom’s a nurse at a hospital?” 

“At Legacy Emanuel.” He knows this, but I play along. “Won’t be home until five a.m., though.”

We get closer to the edge of my grandparents’ neighborhood down Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard, near my dad’s bookstore. Malcolm’s Bookshop is tucked between a coffee shop and Salt and Straw ice cream, which has a line down the street that blocks the bookstore’s entrance.

I sit up to catch a glimpse of my dad as the open sign flashes in the window, but all I see is the faded Black History Month sign he drags out every year. Books on Martin Luther King Jr. and Rosa Parks are front and center to catch people’s attention. The rest of the display is filled with writers I’ve known my whole life—Amiri Baraka, Gwendolyn Brooks, Ralph Ellison, and Nikki Giovanni—and new releases.

Dad’s gotta be on cloud nine because it’s a leap year, which gives him one extra day for his best sales month. The month he always reminds me is still the shortest of the year.

I can’t say for sure it’s him when someone passes the window. The truth is, I don’t know if I want it to be him. Because if it is, that means he’s not waiting at home for me. If it isn’t, then I’ll have to pretend not to see the disappointment behind his smile when Marcus goes over the program rules.

When the light turns green, I distract my brain with sights of the old and new.

“Things keep changing,” I say, to no one.

I’ve been gone two months, but it feels like a lifetime. The vibe’s all different. Like it’s a dream and I only got part of the details right. And even though I know this view, the colors seem wrong. Red doors and trims. Stakes lodged in grass with security signs. Little things I want to remember from the past to anchor me, to let me know I still belong, but it’s all just out of reach.

“Yeah. Blink of an eye. But it ain’t so bad,” Marcus says. “I mean…I’m lucky, I guess. My parents passed their place down to me. My family, though, they tried to get me to cash out, but that won’t ever be me. We gotta keep ours. Get that generational wealth.”

I take stock of Marcus, ready to connect to him on some other level. Because I feel all that, the way my grandparents are trying to hold on here. Not let a white rich family push them to cash out on the only place they were allowed to make a home in the first place. But the tightness of plastic around my ankle stops me from responding.

Marcus turns down my grandparents’ block—filled with manicured lawns and renovated solar roofs. Stoops fixed up, but empty of people on the porch.

“Yeah, this is nice, but…”

“Too manufactured.”

“Something like that,” I mumble.

Marcus points. 

“That their house?”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

Relief washes over me that my grandparents’ house looks the same, even with fresh paint. Mom said Dad took a whole month to do it. And it looked good, but she wasn’t going to tell him because he complained about his back the entire time. I laughed, but inside couldn’t help but worry these changes meant my grandparents were next to leave the neighborhood.

Two lanky white kids dash across the street and Marcus slams his brakes, causing a puddle to splash around us. Marcus honks his horn before pulling into my grandparents’ driveway. Brian Whitaker flashes an apologetic grin before swiping his blond hair out of his eyes. Like always, he’s unfazed even though he was milliseconds away from catastrophe. Lockstep, Gavin Davis smiles and waves. Then he takes off down the street. Seeing me is no big deal, it’s as if I never left. Nothing bad ever happens to Gavin, no matter what he does.

“Damn. That was close,” Marcus says.

I do a double take when I see Grandma Jackson waiting on the porch. She clasps her hands together when she sees me and I let out a loose smile, one I’ve been holding on tight to since New Year’s Day. Grandpa waits in the doorway wearing his faded green Vietnam Vet hat, patient as usual.

I grab my crumpled-up duffel bag and step out the car with my hood on to block the rain.

Grandma Jackson wastes no time coming down the porch steps. She throws her arms around me and I melt into her soft skin. Not letting go until I take everything in. From her feeling like she shrunk, to the rose scent coming from her shirt she must’ve line-dried before the rain.

I step back to survey her again. “What’s with the plastic gloves?”

“Oregon’s got its first coronavirus case. Church been talking about keeping safe. This virus is coming whether we believe it or not.”

I wonder which one of these old church ladies filled her head with paranoia that probably also includes slathering Vicks on their top lip to kill whatever’s going around.

In detention, Jeopardy! and the news were all we could watch. I know there were a few cases in the US, but I heard the only place it spread was isolated at a nursing home and I guess it was only a matter of time before it came to Portland. But I didn’t want to believe it could touch us. Not now. Not when I’m just getting my life back.

“All right, Grandma J, you can let go now.” I pull out of her hug.

Marcus grins at us like he’s part of this reunion.

“This is Marcus Smith

,” I say. “My juvenile court counselor.”

Marcus sighs, acting butt-hurt I was all official-like.

“Nice to meet you.” Grandma J eyeballs her gloves before taking them off and wrapping her hand around Marcus’s.

My mom says the aging hands of an older Black woman are filled with more knowledge than the world can contain. I think back to when I had a temp fade with zigzag braids done right on this porch. Mom wouldn’t do it, but Grandma J took her time, telling me stories as she pulled and tugged at my head. When I went to school I swatted away the hands of anyone trying to touch my braids just in case my scalp was truly anointed. I haven’t thought about that in years. I lean in closer to her, reminding the ancestors that I’m still here. That I wouldn’t mind them watching over me every once in a while.

Marcus clings to her hands like he also knows their power.

“Andre will be fine.” Grandma J taps Marcus’s hands before letting go. “You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

“I’m sure that’s true.” Marcus clears his throat. “But I’ll need to do a walk-through of the house. Go over the rules before I sign him out.”

Grandma J leads him inside.

“Hey, it’ll be all right.” I nudge Grandpa, hoping to ease the strain in his eyes. He tugs at his hat. I glance past his shoulder, expecting to see Dad. I blink back the disappointment when no one’s there.

“Good to see you, son.” Grandpa gives me a knowing hug that envelops me in coffee and Old Spice. That combination should make me turn up my nose. Instead, I feel safe again.

After Marcus tours the house, we end up at the kitchen table, where Grandma J serves a plate of warm pound cake. I don’t hesitate to get mine.

Marcus balances his cake on his clipboard. He’s already got that look in his eye like he can’t wait to be invited to Sunday dinners. Him being family and all. I gotta give it to him, he practices what he preaches. That is, until he stacks his papers on the table. My appetite shrivels right on up.

“Dre will be part of our Community Monitoring Program for Multnomah County Juvenile Justice.”

“Andre,” Grandma J corrects.

“I’m sorry?” Marcus says.

“He’s Andre. Been Andre Jackson his whole life.” She sits up with her shoulders back, letting him know who I am, for real. I lift my head higher, begging for the old me to stay in her eyes.

“Yes, that’s right. Andre.” Marcus hands over the materials. “The program helps

keep Andre in the community with a restorative justice plan we’ve developed together. You all are an important part of his success.”

Grandpa slides his glasses on, cross-examining the fine print. Distrust written all over his face. Shame strikes me with every restriction as it’s shared with my grandparents, like I’m being kicked in the chest.

“He’ll have his monitor on for GPS tracking.” Marcus points to my ankle.

I reluctantly lift my right pant leg. The black monitor’s on snug like an extension of my limb.

“The judge approved community service for his detention with a required electronic monitor. He has to charge it every day for two hours.” He hands over a long extension cord to go with the charger.

And here’s the thing, the look my grandpa gives me, it verifies my situation more than when the judge made her decision.

All I wanted was to come home, so I had no problem with having community monitoring instead of a longer detention sentence. Even the guys inside gassed me up after court, making me feel like I won.

I didn’t win.

Yeah, I left detention, but the guilt still clings to me. Now literally to my ankle. I flash back to Gavin running with Brian next door. Probably hanging out with my boy Eric. The guilt sure didn’t stick with Eric and Gavin, that just bounced right off and onto me.

“He’ll need to keep within these designated areas.” Marcus highlights my limitations on a printed map of Portland. It’s the same, but somehow seems more restricted than the first time he showed me.

“Is this really necessary?” Grandma J says.

“Unfortunately.” Marcus shows the paragraph where it details the boundaries.

“He can work, or is it only free labor at the pool house?” Grandpa doesn’t break eye contact with Marcus after practically calling my service requirement slavery.

“Five hours a week is the agreement, plus restitution.”

“Can he get it wet?” Grandpa asks.

I tap my foot waiting for the answer. The only reason I didn’t ask myself is because I want it so bad.

“He can. It’s waterproof. Sometimes it acts up if it’s submerged for too long.”

I release a relieved breath that doesn’t last. There’s no guarantee Terry will even

let me use the pool. I haven’t spoken to him since my fate was sealed with the backpack full of stolen goods found in my Parks & Rec locker. And even if he does let me, there’s a little part of me that fears the pool would empty at the sight of me doing laps with an ankle monitor. Liberal whites’ façade be damned.

“He’ll be monitored for strange patterns. Curfew is nine p.m. within one hundred feet of home.” Marcus takes an exaggerated pause. “And no parties.”

Marcus expects me to react, but that’s the least of my worries.

“What about school?” Grandma J says. “He’s a senior, why wait to get started in spring?”

“The school preferred he begins after spring break.”

“Seems like y’all want him to fail. What’s he supposed to do with all his free time then?” Grandpa’s glasses slip down his nose as he locks eyes with Marcus, then Grandma J—something between them goes unspoken. But I can read between the lines, they don’t trust I’ll stay outta trouble. Grandpa’s words of warning, Don’t ever give them reason, repeat in my head.

“He still has assignments to finish from MacLaren,” Marcus says. “Grant High School has agreed to provide credit. They are a restorative justice school, so this should be a good transition place for your grandson.”

“Well, the rule in this house is we go to church to restore our souls,” Grandma J says.

“I can’t make it.” I wince. “I have to report to the Parks and Rec.”

“On a Sunday?” Grandpa shakes his head. “You need Jesus, not manual labor. That’s the problem, they always thinking labor gonna solve things. Seems to me, free labor caused all the problems, but you probably don’t understand all that.” He sneers at Marcus, and I’m sensing he’s got the same view as Dad—Marcus is a sellout. I almost feel bad for Marcus. Almost.

“While Terry Jones is disappointed about what happened, he also believes in your grandson. I’m sure they’ll work something out. We all want him to succeed…. That’s also why I need to be in contact with Dr—Andre twice a day. There will be at least one surprise home visit a week.”

I jump up. “Twice a day?” They told me he’d be in touch. They didn’t say that in touch.

“Mostly quick calls.” Marcus pats my shoulder. “But I expect you to answer right away, son.”

“How long is this for?” The bass in Grandpa’s voice picks up, claiming Alpha. I’m his son as far as he’s concerned. And he doesn’t like anybody

monitoring me but him. Even my dad defers to Grandpa. Grandpa breaks his gaze and takes his glasses off, letting them dangle at his fingertips.

“Six months. Until he turns eighteen. If he completes the program, he’s done.”

This’ll never be done.

“He’s a good boy.” Grandma squeezes my hand. I want to cling to that side of innocence, not let the world turn me into…a man. A monster.

Marcus nods before going over more rules. I pretend I’m not fazed. Pretend that somehow, I’ll get back to the way things used to be, like playing ball at the courts with Eric and our friend Boogie, being a lifeguard, teaching kids how to be guppies who will grow into dolphins. But inside, I’m a raging storm filled with anger and humiliation that everything I was before is gone. Because the world sure don’t look at me like I’m still Andre. It’s Dre now. No matter what Grandma J tries to tell them.

 

TWO

I CAN'T GO FOR THAT

 

 

February 27, 2020

The second Marcus leaves, Grandma’s on her tippy-toes covering my cheeks with kisses. It’s as if she’s playing catch-up to everything that’s changed about me. I’ve been so starved for positive attention I soak it all up.

I sling my arm around her. And for a moment, I let myself believe that everything’s fine. That this was only a blemish on my life. And the people I love, well, they won’t let the outside world dictate who I am.

When it’s clear I slow down her cooking, she kicks me out the kitchen.

For a split second I think Grandpa will let me sit in his chair, but nope. He directs me right on back to the couch instead. The way he’s inspecting me, he’s probably been making a to-do list since he heard I was being released.

Grandpa turns on the news. The president, who I refuse to acknowledge, speaks at some rally in South Carolina:

So a number that nobody heard of, that I heard of recently and I was shocked to hear it, thirty-five thousand people on average die each year from the flu. Did anyone know that? Thirty-five thousand, that’s a lot of people. It could go to a hundred thousand, it could be twenty-seven thousand…. You hear thirty-five and forty thousand people and we’ve lost nobody and you wonder if the press is in hysteria mode. CNN fake news and the camera just went off, the camera. The camera just went off. Turn it back on. Hey, by the way, hold it. Look at this, and honestly, all events are like this. It’s about us. It’s all about us. I wish they’d take the camera, show the arena, please. They never do. They never do.

Grandpa lowers the sound and falls asleep within minutes. The continued lunacy the so-called president spews is mind-boggling. I don’t know what’s worse, that he gets away with saying this stuff out loud or that people travel in droves to listen to him. I think he’ll say anything as long as the cameras keep rolling. And if it brings viewers, well, the media will keep the spotlight on him. Both right and left.

I focus on the news ticker at the bottom but it’s all doom, way too depressing. I thought in the new year the chaos of politics would be settled, but things aren’t better. In fact, they’re worse.

I scroll through my social media, recalling old passwords. Then go down my feed for what I’ve missed. It doesn’t take too long to realize the world kept spinning and I don’t have the energy to catch up.

Grandpa snores. Taking a nap right now is tempting, but I don’t dare go to my room here because I know Grandpa will rise up like he caught the Holy Ghost and give me something to do to stay outta trouble. So instead, I get up and wait for my dad by the window, stomach twisting with nerves.

The neighborhood is quiet as rain pours. I’m strangely alert, standing in the same spot Grandma J was when the whole block lit up with red and blue flashing lights. Prickles run up my neck. I feel like I’ve been transported, replaying that day over and over again.

I wish I took my Black ass home early New Year’s Eve. Wish I went to Boogie’s house instead of the Whitakers’. Wish I did so many other things. ...