My brothers come home with a message—Daddy’s spending the night at the store.

He also leaves instructions for us—stay inside.

A chain-link fence surrounds our house. Seven puts the big lock on the gate, the one we use when we go out of town. I bring Brickz inside. He doesn’t know how to act, walking around in circles and jumping on the furniture. Momma doesn’t say anything until he gets on her good sofa in the living room.

“Ay!” She snaps her fingers at him. “Get your big behind off my furniture. You crazy?”

He whimpers and scurries over to me.

The sun sets. We’re in the middle of saying grace over pot roast and potatoes when the first gunshots ring out.

We open our eyes. Sekani flinches. I’m used to gunshots, but these are louder, faster. One barely sounds off before another’s right behind it.

“Machine guns,” says Seven. More shots follow.

“Take your dinner to the den,” Momma says, getting up from the table. “And sit on the floor. Bullets don’t know where they’re supposed to go.”

Seven gets up too. “Ma, I can—” “Seven, den,” she says.

“But—”

“Se-ven.” She breaks his name down. “I’m turning the lights off, baby, okay? Please, go to the den.”

He gives in. “All right.” When Daddy isn’t home, Seven acts like he’s the man of the house by default. Momma always has to break his name down and put him in his place.

I grab my plate and Momma’s and head for the den, the one room without exterior walls. Brickz is right behind me, but he always follows food. The hallway darkens as Momma turns off the lights throughout the house.

We have one of those old-school big-screen TVs in the den. It’s Daddy’s prized possession. We crowd around it, and Seven turns on the news, lighting up the den.

There are at least a hundred people gathered on Magnolia Avenue. They chant for justice and hold signs, fists high in the air for black power.

Momma comes in, talking on the phone. “All right, Mrs. Pearl, as long as you sure. Just remember we got enough room over here for you if you don’t feel comfortable being alone. I’ll check in later.”

Mrs. Pearl is this elderly lady who lives by herself across the street. Momma checks on her all the time. She says Mrs. Pearl needs to know that somebody cares.

Momma sits next to me. Sekani rests his head in her lap. Brickz mimics him and puts his head in my lap, licking my fingers.

“Are they mad ’cause Khalil died?” Sekani asks.

Momma brushes her fingers through his high-top fade. “Yeah, baby.

We all are.”

But they’re really mad that Khalil was unarmed. Can’t be a coincidence this is happening after Ms. Ofrah announced that at his funeral.

The cops respond to the chants with tear gas that blankets the crowd in a white cloud. The news cuts to footage inside the crowd of people running and screaming.

“Damn,” Seven says.

Sekani buries his face in Momma’s thigh. I feed Brickz a piece of my pot roast. The clenching in my stomach won’t let me eat.

Sirens wail outside. The news shows three patrol cars that have been set ablaze at the police precinct, about a five-minute drive away from us. A gas station near the freeway gets looted, and the owner, this Indian man, staggers around bloody, saying he didn’t have anything to do with Khalil’s death. A line of cops guard the Walmart on the east side.

My neighborhood is a war zone.

Chris texts to see if I’m okay, and I immediately feel like shit for avoiding him, Beyoncé’ing him, and everything else. I would apologize, but texting “I’m sorry” combined with every emoji in the world isn’t the same as saying it face-to-face. I do let him know I’m okay though.

Maya and Hailey call, asking about the store, the house, my family, me. Neither of them mention the fried chicken drama. It’s weird talking to them about Garden Heights. We never do. I’m always afraid one of them will call it “the ghetto.”

I get it. Garden Heights is the ghetto, so it wouldn’t be a lie, but it’s like when I was nine and Seven and I got into one of our fights. He went for a low blow and called me Shorty McShort-Short. A lame insult now when I think about it, but it tore me up back then. I knew there was a possibility I was short—everybody else was taller than I was—and I could call myself short if I wanted. It became an uncomfortable truth when Seven said it.

I can call Garden Heights the ghetto all I want. Nobody else can.

Momma stays on her phone too, checking on some neighbors and getting calls from others who are checking on us. Ms. Jones down the street says that she and her four kids are holed up in their den like we are. Mr. Charles next door says that if the power goes out we can use his generator.

Uncle Carlos checks on us too. Nana takes the phone and tells Momma to bring us out there. Like we’re about to go through the shit to get out of it. Daddy calls and says the store is all right. It doesn’t stop me from tensing up every time the news mentions a business that’s been attacked.

The news does more than give Khalil’s name now—they show his picture too. They only call me “the witness.” Sometimes “the sixteen- year-old black female witness.”

The police chief appears onscreen and says what I was afraid he’d say: “We have taken into consideration the evidence as well as the statement given by the witness, and as of now we see no reason to arrest the officer.”

Momma and Seven glance at me. They don’t say anything with Sekani right here. They don’t have to. All of this is my fault. The riots, gunshots, tear gas, all of it, are ultimately my fault. I forgot to tell the cops that Khalil got out with his hands up. I didn’t mention that the officer pointed his gun at me. I didn’t say something right, and now that cop’s not getting arrested.

But while the riots are my fault, the news basically makes it sound like it’s Khalil’s fault he died.

“There are multiple reports that a gun was found in the car,” the anchor claims. “There is also suspicion that the victim was a drug dealer as well as a gang member. Officials have not confirmed if any of this is true.”

The gun stuff can’t be true. When I asked Khalil if he had anything in the car, he said no.

He also wouldn’t say if he was a drug dealer or not. And he didn’t even mention the gangbanging stuff.

Does it matter though? He didn’t deserve to die.

Sekani and Brickz start breathing deeply around the same time, fast asleep. That’s not an option for me with the helicopters, the gunshots, and the sirens. Momma and Seven stay up too. Around four in the morning, when it’s quieted down, Daddy comes in bleary-eyed and yawning.

“They didn’t hit Marigold,” he says between bites of pot roast at the kitchen table. “Looks like they keeping it mostly on the east side, near where he was killed. For now at least.”

“For now,” Momma repeats.

Daddy runs his hand over his face. “Yeah. I don’t know what’s gon’ stop them from coming this way. Shit, much as I understand it, I dread it if they do.”

“We can’t stay here, Maverick,” she says, and her voice is shaky, like she’s been holding something in this entire time and is just now letting it out. “This won’t get better. It’ll get worse.”

Daddy reaches for her hand. She lets him take it, and he pulls her onto his lap. Daddy wraps his arms around her and kisses the back of her head.

“We’ll be a’ight.”

He sends me and Seven to bed. Somehow I fall asleep.

Natasha runs into the store again. “Starr, come on!”

Her braids have dirt in them, and her once-fat cheeks are sunken.

Blood soaks through her clothes.

I step back. She runs up to me and grabs my hand. Hers feels icy like it did in her coffin.

“Come on.” She tugs at me. “Come on!”

She pulls me toward the door, and my feet move against my will. “Stop,” I say. “Natasha, stop!”

A hand extends through the door, holding a Glock. Bang!

I jolt awake.

Seven bangs his fist against my door. He doesn’t text normal, and he doesn’t wake people up normal either. “We’re leaving in ten.”

My heart beats against my chest like it’s trying to get out. You’re fine,

I remind myself. It’s Seven’s stupid butt. “Leaving for what?” I ask him.

“Basketball at the park. It’s the last Saturday of the month, right?

Isn’t this what we always do?” “But—the riots and stuff?”

“Like Pops said, that stuff happened on the east. We’re good over here. Plus the news said it’s quiet this morning.”

What if somebody knows I’m the witness? What if they know that it’s my fault that cop hasn’t been arrested? What if we come across some cops and they know who I am?

“It’ll be all right,” Seven says, like he read my mind. “I promise.

Now get your lazy butt up so I can kill you on the court.”

If it’s possible to be a sweet asshole, that’s Seven. I get out of bed and put on my basketball shorts, LeBron jersey, and my Thirteens like Jordan wore before he left the Bulls. I comb my hair into a ponytail. Seven waits for me at the front door, spinning the basketball between his hands.

I snatch it from him. “Like you know what to do with it.” “We’ll see ’bout that.”

I holler to let Momma and Daddy know we’ll be back later and leave.

At first Garden Heights looks the same, but a couple of blocks away at least five police cars speed by. Smoke lingers in the air, making everything look hazy. It stinks too.

We make it to Rose Park. Some King Lords sit in a gray Escalade across the street, and a younger one’s on the park merry-go-round. Long as we don’t bother them, they won’t bother us.

Rose Park occupies a whole block, and a tall chain-link fence surrounds it. I’m not sure what it’s protecting—the graffiti on the basketball court, the rusting playground equipment, the benches that way too many babies have been made on, or the liquor bottles, cigarette butts, and trash that litter the grass.

We’re right near the basketball courts, but the entrance to the park is on the other side of the block. I toss the ball to Seven and climb the fence. I used to jump down from the top, but one fall and a sprained ankle stopped me from doing that again.

When I get over the fence Seven tosses the ball to me and climbs. Khalil, Natasha, and I used to take a shortcut through the park after school. We’d run up the slides, spin on the merry-go-round till we were dizzy, and try to swing higher than one another.

I try to forget all that as I check the ball to Seven. “First to thirty?” “Forty,” he says, knowing damn well he’ll be lucky if he gets twenty

points. He can’t play ball just like Daddy can’t play ball.

As if to prove it, Seven dribbles using the palm of his hand. You’re supposed to use your fingertips. Then this fool shoots for a three.

The ball bounces off the rim. Of course. I grab it and look at him. “Weak! You knew that shit wasn’t going in.”

“Whatever. Play the damn game.”

Five minutes in, I have ten points to his two, and I basically gave him those. I fake left, make a quick right in a smooth crossover, and go for the three. That baby goes in nicely. This girl’s got game.

Seven makes a T with his hands. He pants harder than I do, and I’m the one who used to have asthma. “Time out. Water break.”

I wipe my forehead with my arm. The sun glares on the court already. “How about we call it?”

“Hell no. I got some game in me. I gotta get my angles right.” “Angles? This is ball, Seven. Not selfies.”

“Ay, yo!” some boy calls.

We turn around, and my breath catches. “Shit.”

There are two of them. They look thirteen, fourteen years old and are wearing green Celtics jerseys. Garden Disciples, no doubt. They cross the courts, coming straight for us.

The tallest one steps to Seven. “Nigga, you Kinging?”

I can’t even take this fool seriously. His voice squeaks. Daddy says there’s a trick to telling OGs from Young Gs, besides their age. OGs don’t start stuff, they finish it. Young Gs always start stuff.

“Nah, I’m neutral,” Seven says.

“Ain’t King your daddy?” the shorter one asks. “Hell, no. He just messing with my momma.”

“It don’t even matter.” The tall one flicks out a pocket knife. “Hand your shit over. Sneakers, phones, everything.”

Rule of the Garden—if it doesn’t involve you, it doesn’t have shit to do with you. Period. The King Lords in the Escalade see everything going down. Since we don’t claim their set, we don’t exist.

But the boy on the merry-go-round runs over and pushes the GDs back. He lifts up his shirt, flashing his piece. “We got a problem?”

They back up. “Yeah, we got a problem,” the shorter one says.

“You sure? Last time I checked, Rose Park was King territory.” He looks toward the Escalade. The King Lords inside nod at us, a simple way of asking if things are cool. We nod back.

“A’ight,” the tall GD says. “We got you.” The GDs leave the same way they came.

The younger King Lord slaps palms with Seven. “You straight, bruh?” he asks.

“Yeah. Good looking out, Vante.”

I can’t lie, he’s kinda cute. Hey, just ’cause I have a boyfriend doesn’t mean I can’t look, and as much as Chris drools over Nicki Minaj, Beyoncé, and Amber Rose, I dare him to get mad at me for looking.

On a side note—my boyfriend clearly has a type.

This Vante guy’s around my age, a little taller, with a big Afro puff and the faint signs of a mustache. He has some nice lips too. Real plump and soft.

I’ve looked at them too long. He licks them and smiles. “I had to make sure you and li’l momma were okay.”

And that ruins it. Don’t call me by a nickname if you don’t know me. “Yeah, we’re fine,” I say.

“Them GDs helped you out anyway,” he tells Seven. “She was killing you out here.”

“Man, shut up,” Seven says. “This is my sister, Starr.”

“Oh yeah,” the guy says. “You the one who work up in Big Mav’s store, ain’t you?”

Like I said, I get that all. The. Time. “Yep. That’s me.”

“Starr, this is DeVante,” Seven says. “He’s one of King’s boys.” “DeVante?” So this is the dude Kenya fought over.

“Yeah, that’s me.” He looks at me from head to toe and licks his lips again. “You heard ’bout me or something?”

All that lip licking. Not cute. “Yeah, I’ve heard about you. And you may wanna get some Chapstick if your lips that dry, since you’re licking them so much.”

“Damn, it’s like that?”

“What she means is thanks for helping us out,” Seven says, even though that’s not what I meant. “We appreciate it.”

“It’s all good. Them fools running around here ’cause the riots happening on their side. It’s too hot for them over there.”

“What you doing in the park this early anyway?” Seven asks.

He shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs. “Posted up. You know how it go.”

He’s a d-boy. Damn, Kenya really knows how to pick them. Anytime drug-dealing gangbangers are your type, you’ve got some serious issues. Well, King is her daddy.

“I heard about your brother,” Seven says. “I’m sorry, man. Dalvin was a cool dude.”

DeVante kicks at a pebble on the court. “Thanks. Mom’s taking it real hard. That’s why I’m here. Had to get out the house.”

Dalvin? DeVante? I tilt my head. “Your momma named y’all after them dudes from that old group Jodeci?” I only know because my parents love them some Jodeci.

“Yeah, so?”

“It was just a question. You don’t have to have an attitude.”

A white Tahoe screeches to a stop on the other side of the fence.

Daddy’s Tahoe.

His window rolls down. He’s in a wifebeater and pillow marks zigzag across his face. I pray he doesn’t get out because knowing Daddy his legs are ashy and he’s wearing Nike flip-flops with socks. “What the hell y’all thinking, leaving the house without telling nobody?” he yells.

The King Lords across the street bust out laughing. DeVante coughs into his fist like he wants to laugh too. Seven and I look at everything but Daddy.

“Oh, y’all wanna act like y’all don’t hear me? Answer me when I’m talking to you!”

The King Lords howl with laughter.

“Pops, we just came to play ball,” Seven says.

“I don’t care. All this shit going on, and y’all leave? Get in this truck!”

“Goddamn,” I say under my breath. “Always gotta act a fool.” “What you say?” he barks.

The King Lords howl louder. I wanna disappear. “Nothing,” I say.

“Nah, it was something. Tell you what, don’t climb the fence. Go round to the entrance. And I bet’ not beat y’all there.”

He drives off. Shit.

I grab my ball, and Seven and I haul ass across the park. The last time I ran this fast, Coach was making us do suicides. We get to the entrance as Daddy pulls up. I climb in the back of the truck, and Seven’s dumb butt gets in the passenger seat.

Daddy drives off. “Done lost y’all minds,” he says. “People rioting, damn near calling the National Guard around here, and y’all wanna play ball.”

“Why you have to embarrass us like that?” Seven snaps.

I’m so glad I’m in the backseat. Daddy turns toward Seven, not even looking at the road, and growls, “You ain’t too old.”

Seven stares ahead. Steam is just about coming off him.

Daddy looks at the road again. “Got some goddamn nerve talking to me like that ’cause some King Lords were laughing at you. What, you Kinging now?”

Seven doesn’t respond. “I’m talking to you, boy!” “No, sir,” he bites out.

“So why you care what they think? You wanna be a man so damn bad, but men don’t care what nobody thinks.”

He pulls into our driveway. Not even halfway up the walkway I see Momma through the screen on the door in her nightgown, her arms folded and her bare foot tapping.

“Get in this house!” she shouts.

She paces the living room as we come in. The question isn’t if she’ll explode but when.

Seven and I sink onto her good sofa.

“Where were y’all?” she asks. “And you better not lie.” “The basketball court,” I mumble, staring at my J’s.

Momma leans down close to me and puts her hand to her ear. “What was that? I didn’t hear you good.”

“Speak up, girl,” Daddy says.

“The basketball court,” I repeat louder.

“The basketball court.” Momma straightens up and laughs. “She said the basketball court.” Her laughter stops, and her voice gets louder with each word. “I’m walking around here, worried out my mind, and y’all at the damn basketball court!”

Somebody giggles in the hallway.

“Sekani, go to your room!” Momma says without looking that way.

His feet thump hurriedly down the hall.

“I hollered and told y’all we were leaving,” I say.

“Oh, she hollered,” Daddy mocks. “Did you hear anybody holler, baby? ’Cause I didn’t.”

Momma sucks her teeth. “Neither did I. She can wake us up to ask for some money, but she can’t wake us up to tell us she’s going in a war zone.”

“It’s my fault,” Seven says. “I wanted to get her out the house and do something normal.”

“Baby, there’s no such thing as normal right now!” says Momma. “You see what’s been happening. And y’all were crazy enough to go out there like that?”

“Dumb enough is more like it,” Daddy adds. I keep my eyes on my shoes.

“Hand over your phones,” Momma says.

“What?” I shriek. “That’s not fair! I hollered and told y’all—”

“Starr Amara,” she says through her teeth. Since my first name is only one syllable, she has to throw my middle name in there to break it down. “If you don’t hand me that phone, I swear to God.”

I open my mouth, but she goes, “Say something else! I dare you, say something else! I’ll take all them Jordans too!”

This is some bullshit. For real. Daddy watches us; her attack dog, waiting for us to make a wrong move. That’s how they work. Momma does the first round, and if it’s not successful, Daddy goes for the KO. And you never want Daddy to go for the KO.

Seven and I hand her our phones.

“I thought so,” she says, and passes them to Daddy. “Since y’all want ‘normal’ so much, go get your stuff. We’re going to Carlos’s for the day.”

“Nah, not him.” Daddy motions Seven to get up. “He going to the store with me.”

Momma looks at me and jerks her head toward the hall. “Go. I oughta make you take a shower, smelling like outside.” As I’m leaving, she hollers, “And don’t get any skimpy stuff to wear to Carlos’s either!”

Ooh, she gets on my nerves. See, Chris lives down the street from Uncle Carlos. I am glad she didn’t say any more in front of Daddy though.

Brickz meets me at my bedroom door. He jumps up my legs and tries to lick my face. I had about forty shoe boxes stacked in a corner, and he knocked all of them over.

I scratch behind his ears. “Clumsy dog.”

I would take him with us, but they don’t allow pits in Uncle Carlos’s neighborhood. He settles on my bed and watches me pack. I only really need my swimsuit and some sandals, but Momma could decide to stay out there the whole weekend because of the riots. I pack a couple of outfits and get my school backpack. I throw each backpack over a shoulder. “C’mon, Brickz.”

He follows me to his spot in the backyard, and I hook him up to his chain. While I refill Brickz’s food and water bowls, Daddy crouches beside his roses and examines the petals. He waters them like he’s supposed to, but for some reason they’re dry looking.

“C’mon, now,” he tells them. “Y’all gotta do better than this.”

Momma and Sekani wait for me in her Camry. I end up in the passenger’s seat. It’s childish, but I don’t wanna sit this close to her right now. Unfortunately it’s either sit next to her or next to Sir-Farts-a-Lot Sekani. I’m staring straight ahead, and out the corner of my eye I see her looking at me. She makes this sound like she’s about to speak, but her words decide to come out as a sigh.

Good. I don’t wanna talk to her either. I’m being petty as hell and don’t even care.

We head for the freeway, passing the Cedar Grove projects, where we used to live. We get to Magnolia Avenue, the busiest street in Garden Heights, where most of the businesses are located. Usually on Saturday mornings, guys around the neighborhood have their cars on display, cruising up and down the street and racing each other.

Today the street’s blocked off. A crowd marches down the middle of it. They’re holding signs and posters of Khalil’s face and are chanting, “Justice for Khalil!”

I should be out there with them, but I can’t join that march, knowing I’m one of the reasons they’re protesting.

“You know none of this is your fault, right?” Momma asks. How in the world did she do that? “I know.”

“I mean it, baby. It’s not. You did everything right.” “But sometimes right’s not good enough, huh?”

She takes my hand, and despite my annoyance I let her. It’s the closest thing I get to an answer for a while.

Saturday morning traffic on the freeway moves smoothly compared to weekday traffic. Sekani puts his headphones on and plays with his tablet. Some nineties R&B songs play on the radio, and Momma sings along under her breath. When she really gets into it, she attempts all kinds of runs and goes, “Yes, girl! Yes!”

Out of nowhere she says, “You weren’t breathing when you were born.”

My first time hearing that. “For real?”

“Uh-huh. I was eighteen when I had you. Still a baby myself, but I thought I was grown. Wouldn’t admit to anybody that I was scared to death. Your nana thought there was no way in hell I could be a good parent. Not wild Lisa.

“I was determined to prove her wrong. I stopped drinking and smoking, went to all of my appointments, ate right, took my vitamins, the whole nine. Shoot, I even played Mozart on some headphones and

put them on my belly. We see what good that was. You didn’t finish a month of piano lessons.”

I laugh. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Like I was saying, I did everything right. I remember being in that delivery room, and when they pulled you out, I waited for you to cry. But you didn’t. Everybody ran around, and your father and I kept asking what was wrong. Finally the nurse said you weren’t breathing.

“I freaked out. Your daddy couldn’t calm me down. He was barely calm himself. After the longest minute of my life, you cried. I think I cried harder than you though. I knew I did something wrong. But one of the nurses took my hand”—Momma grabs my hand again—“looked me in the eye, and said, ‘Sometimes you can do everything right and things will still go wrong. The key is to never stop doing right.’”

She holds my hand the rest of the drive.

I used to think the sun shone brighter out here in Uncle Carlos’s neighborhood, but today it really does—there’s no smoke lingering, and the air is fresher. All the houses have two stories. Kids play on the sidewalks and in the big yards. There are lemonade stands, garage sales, and lots of joggers. Even with all that going on, it’s real quiet.

We pass Maya’s house, a few streets over from Uncle Carlos’s. I would text her and see if I could come over, but, you know, I don’t have my phone.

“You can’t visit your li’l friend today,” Momma says, reading my mind once a-freaking-gain. “You’re grounded.”

My mouth flies wide open.

“But she can come over to Carlos’s and see you.”

She glances at me out the corner of her eye with a half smile. This is supposed to be the moment I hug her and thank her and tell her she’s the best.

Not happening. I say, “Cool. Whatever,” and sit back. She busts out laughing. “You are so stubborn!”

“No, I’m not!”

“Yes, you are,” she says. “Just like your father.”

Soon as we pull into Uncle Carlos’s driveway, Sekani jumps out. Our cousin Daniel waves at him from down the sidewalk with some other boys, and they’re all on their bikes.

“Later, Momma,” Sekani says. He runs past Uncle Carlos, who’s coming out the garage, and grabs his bike. Sekani got it for Christmas,

but he keeps it at Uncle Carlos’s house because Momma’s not about to let him ride around Garden Heights. He pedals down the driveway.

Momma hops out and calls after him, “Don’t go too far!”

I get out, and Uncle Carlos meets me with a perfect Uncle Carlos hug

—not too tight, but so firm that it tells me how much he loves me in a few seconds.

He kisses the top of my head twice and asks, “How are you doing, baby girl?”

“Okay.” I sniff. Smoke’s in the air. The good kind though. “You barbecuing?”

“Just heated the grill up. Gonna throw some burgers and chicken on for lunch.”

“I hope we don’t end up with food poisoning,” Momma teases.

“Ah, look who’s trying to be a comedian,” he says. “You’ll be eating your words and everything I cook, baby sis, because I’m about to throw down. Food Network doesn’t have anything on me.” And he pops his collar.

Lord. He’s so corny sometimes.

Aunt Pam tends to the grill on the patio. My little cousin Ava sucks her thumb and hugs Aunt Pam’s leg. The second she sees me, she comes running. “Starr-Starr!”

Her ponytails fly as she runs, and she launches herself into my arms. I swing her around, getting a whole lot of giggles out of her. “How’s my favorite three-year-old in the whole wide world doing?”

“Good!” She sticks her wrinkly, wet thumb back in her mouth. “Hey, Auntie Leelee.”

“Hey, baby. You’ve been good?”

Ava nods too much. No way she’s been that good.

Aunt Pam lets Uncle Carlos handle the grill and greets Momma with a hug. She has dark-brown skin and big curly hair. Nana likes her because she comes from a “good family.” Her mom is an attorney, and her dad is the first black chief of surgery at the same hospital where Aunt Pam works as a surgeon. Real-life Huxtables, I swear.

I put Ava down, and Aunt Pam hugs me extra tight. “How are you doing, sweetie?”

“Okay.”

She says she understands, but nobody really does.

Nana comes busting out the back door with her arms outstretched. “My girls!”

That’s the first sign something’s up. She hugs me and Momma and kisses our cheeks. Nana never kisses us, and she never lets us kiss her. She says she doesn’t know where our mouths have been. She frames my face with her hands, talking about, “Thank the Lord. He spared your life. Hallelujah!”

So many alarms go off in my head. Not that she wouldn’t be happy that “the Lord spared my life,” but this isn’t Nana. At all.

She takes me and Momma by our wrists and pulls us toward the poolside loungers. “Y’all come over here and talk to me.”

“But I was gonna talk to Pam—”

Nana looks at Momma and hisses through gritted teeth, “Shut the hell up, sit down, and talk to me, goddammit.”

Now that’s Nana. She sits back in a lounger and fans herself all dramatically. She’s a retired theater teacher, so she does everything dramatically. Momma and I share a lounger and sit on the side of it.

“What’s wrong?” Momma asks.

“When—” she begins, but plasters on a fake smile when Ava waddles over with her baby doll and a comb. Ava hands both to me and goes to play with some of her other toys.

I comb the doll’s hair. That girl has me trained. Doesn’t have to say anything, and I do it.

Once Ava’s out of earshot, Nana says, “When y’all taking me back to my house?”

“What happened?” Momma asks.

“Keep your damn voice down!” Ironically, she’s not keeping hers down. “Yesterday morning, I took some catfish out for dinner. Was gonna fry it up with some hush puppies, fries, the whole nine. I left to run some errands.”

“What kinda errands?” I ask for the hell of it.

Nana cuts me “the look” and it’s like seeing Momma in thirty years, with a few wrinkles and gray hairs she missed when coloring her hair (she’d whoop my behind for saying that).

“I’m grown, li’l girl,” she says. “Don’t ask me what I do. Anyway, I come home and that heffa done covered my catfish in some damn cornflakes and baked it!”

“Cornflakes?” I say, parting the doll’s hair.

“Yes! Talking ’bout, ‘It’s healthier that way.’ If I want healthy, I eat a salad.”

Momma covers her mouth, and the edges of her lips are turned up. “I thought you and Pam got along.”

“We did. Until she messed with my food. Now, I’ve dealt with a lotta things since I’ve been here. But that”—she holds up a finger—“is taking it too damn far. I’d rather live with you and that ex-con than deal with this.”

Momma stands and kisses Nana’s forehead. “You’ll be all right.”

Nana waves her off. When Momma leaves, she looks at me. “You okay, li’l girl? Carlos told me you were in the car with that boy when he was killed.”

“Yes, ma’am, I’m okay.”

“Good. And if you’re not, you will be. We’re strong like that.” I nod, but I don’t believe it. At least not about myself.

The doorbell rings up front. I say, “I’ll get it,” put Ava’s doll down, and go inside.

Crap. Chris is on the other side of the door. I wanna apologize to him, but dammit, I need time to prepare.

Weird though. He’s pacing. The same way he does when we study for tests or before a big game. He’s afraid to talk to me.

I open the door and lean against the frame. “Hey.” “Hey.” He smiles, and despite everything I smile too.

“I was washing one of my dad’s cars and saw you guys pull up,” he says. That explains his tank top, flip-flops, and shorts. “Are you okay? I know you said you were in your text, but I wanted to be sure.”

“I’m okay,” I say.

“Your dad’s store didn’t get hit, did it?” he asks. “Nope.”

“Good.”

Staring and silence.

He sighs. “Look, if this is about the condom stuff, I’ll never buy one again.”

“Never?”

“Well, only when you want me to.” He quickly adds, “Which doesn’t have to be anytime soon. Matter of fact, you don’t have to ever sleep with me. Or kiss me. Hell, if you don’t want me to touch you, I—”

“Chris, Chris,” I say, my hands up to get him to slow down, and I’m fighting a laugh. “It’s okay. I know what you mean.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Another round of staring and silence.

“I’m sorry, actually,” I tell him, shifting my weight from foot to foot. “For giving you the silent treatment. It wasn’t about the condom.”

“Oh . . .” His eyebrows meet. “Then what was it about?” I sigh. “I don’t feel like talking about it.”

“So you can be mad at me, but you can’t even tell me why?” “It has nothing to do with you.”

“Yeah, it does if you’re giving me the silent treatment,” he says. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Maybe you should let me determine that myself?” he says. “Here I am, calling you, texting you, everything, and you can’t tell me why you’re ignoring me? That’s kinda shitty, Starr.”

I give him this look, and I have a strong feeling I look like Momma and Nana right now with their “I know you didn’t just say that” glare.

“I told you, you wouldn’t understand. So drop it.”

“No.” He folds his arms. “I came all the way down here—” “All the way? Bruh, all what way? Down the street?” Garden Heights Starr is all up in my voice right now.

“Yeah, down the street,” he says. “And guess what? I didn’t have to do that. But I did. And you can’t even tell me what’s going on!”

“You’re white, okay?” I yell. “You’re white!” Silence.

“I’m white?” he says, like he’s just hearing that for the first time. “What the fuck’s that got to do with anything?”

“Everything! You’re white, I’m black. You’re rich, I’m not.”

“That doesn’t matter!” he says. “I don’t care about that kinda stuff, Starr. I care about you.”

“That kinda stuff is part of me!”

“Okay, and . . . ? It’s no big deal. God, seriously? This is what you’re pissed about? This is why you’re giving me the silent treatment?”

I stare at him, and I know, I know, I’m straight up looking like Lisa Janae Carter. My mouth is slightly open like hers when I or my brothers “get smart,” as she calls it, I’ve pulled my chin back a little, and my eyebrows are raised. Shit, my hand’s even on my hip.

Chris takes a small step back, just like my brothers and I do. “It just

. . . it doesn’t make sense to me, okay? That’s all.” “So like I said, you don’t understand. Do you?”

Bam. If I am acting like my mom, this is one of her “see, I told you” moments.

“No. I guess I don’t,” he says. Another round of silence.

Chris puts his hands in his pockets. “Maybe you can help me understand? I don’t know. But I do know that not having you in my life

is worse than not making beats or playing basketball. And you know how much I love making beats and playing basketball, Starr.”

I smirk. “You call that a line?”

He bites his bottom lip and shrugs. I laugh. He does too. “Bad line, huh?” he asks.

“Awful.”

We go silent again, but it’s the type of silence I don’t mind. He puts his hand out for mine.

I still don’t know if I’m betraying who I am by dating Chris, but I’ve missed him so much it hurts. Momma thinks coming to Uncle Carlos’s house is normal, but Chris is the kind of normal I really want. The normal where I don’t have to choose which Starr to be. The normal where nobody tells you how sorry they are or talks about “Khalil the drug dealer.” Just . . . normal.

That’s why I can’t tell Chris I’m the witness.

I take his hand, and everything suddenly feels right. No flinching and no flashbacks.

“C’mon,” I say. “Uncle Carlos should have the burgers ready.”

We go into the backyard, hand in hand. He’s smiling, and surprisingly I am too.