“I’ll get some ice for it. Who hit you?”

“My dad.”

“Wait a minute. I’m your dad.”

“I meant my stepdad.”

“That white boy hit you in your eye hard enough to do this?”

“Yep.”

“Why?”

“Because he found some weed in my backpack.”

“You smoke marijuana?”

“Sometimes.”

“That stuff ain’t no good for you.”

“Whatever.”

“I thought you was into that ROTC junior-army stuff and everything.” I get a cigarette out the pack and light it.

“I was. Those aren’t any good for you.”

“I know. Was?”

“I only did it because they made me.”

“Who?”

“My parents.”

When I hear the words “my parents” I know he ain’t talking about me and his mama. Damn.

“What grade you in?”

“Eighth.”

“And how old are you again?”

“Thirteen and a half.”

“That’s what I thought. But what exactly made him haul off and just punch you in the eye?”

“I sorta got smart with him, I guess.”

“Where was your mama?”

“Standing right there, holding Heather, watching.”

“What?”

“She never says or does anything. He runs the show around our house. She’s like his puppet.”

“Did you hit him?”

“After he hit me, of course I did.”

“Really?” I’m trying not to let him see the smirk on my face, but right now I’m feeling proud that he’s got enough balls to stand up for hisself. “What’d you hit him with?”

“My fist.”

“No fooling,” I say, but I’m thinking, Wow, that shoulda really put a hurting on him. “Did he hit you with his fist?”

“Yes he did. Quite a few times.”

“Where is he now?”

“At home.”

“And did they know you were coming here?”

“No. They don’t know where I am.”

“So have you, like, run away or something?”

“Exactly,” he says.

“And where you running away to?”

“Right here. I wanna live with you.”

“Damn,” is all I can say, but what’s really on my mind is how I’ma get out to their house to put my foot in this motherfucker’s ass. I swore if he ever laid a hand on my son I was gon’ hurt him, and I meant it.

“Aren’t you glad to see me?” he asks.

“Yeah. Of course I am. Just not under these kinda circumstances. I wasn’t expecting you tonight.”

“I can sleep on the couch. I don’t mind.”

“Wait a minute, Jamil. First of all. It’s a little more complicated than you just coming over here to move in and sleeping on my couch. Your mama got custody of you. You’re a minor. You can’t just move in here with me ’cause you feel like it.”

“Then why don’t you get custody of me?”

“What’s he do?”

“Todd?”

“Yeah, Todd.”

“What do you mean?”

“You sure talk proper. Just like a little white boy.”

He swerves his head around like Stevie Wonder. I guess he’s tired of hearing this. “But it’s cool.” I say it like I’m apologizing. “You sound smart.”

And he do, and it wouldn’t kill me to talk like I graduated from high school. Especially in front of him. I know better. And I know he can’t be too impressed by the way I talk.