I go upstairs to change into some clean sweats, and when I step outside my bedroom, I walk out to the landing with a towel to see if I can reach that spiderweb, but I can’t. That’s when I notice Shanice’s backpack down on the hall table by the kitchen. I didn’t hear them come in. I walk down the hall to her room, and as usual, her door is closed. Because she’s not allowed to lock it, out of courtesy and respect for her privacy I always knock. For some reason, tonight I ease it open. I don’t know why I’m not shocked when I see George sitting on the edge of Shanice’s bed with his hand pressed on top of hers pushing up and down inside his black pants. His eyes are closed peacefully, but Shanice is scrunching hers so tight I can tell it hurts, because she’s biting her bottom lip the same way I am. An inferno invades my whole body, and then, suddenly, feels like a block of ice. George’s eyes open wide and he looks frightened. Shanice drops her head. In a split second, I look at these walls, which I can’t even tell are yellow because they’re plastered with magazine photos of probably every hip-hop singer and rapper on the planet. Four pair of sneakers are lined up under her bed. They should be in the closet. Why aren’t they? I’m tempted to do it, but now I’m sinking in water so deep I can’t move. I shake my head back and forth, trying to get to the surface, but it’s sealed tight. I try to take a deep breath and leap, push, but I’m stuck. This fucking room is too small. Stuffy. And suffocating. Why’d we put her in here anyway? And why’s it so noisy? Why’s that stupid music blasting so loud all of a sudden? Who turned it on? I wish those kids on the walls would stop singing and rapping. “Shut the hell up!”

George is trying to zip his pants and stand up at the same time, but it doesn’t matter. He has to get past me. I have been spared. I have thawed out. I don’t need air to stop him. Which is why I grab the halogen lamp from the desk near the doorway and walk toward him and stop. We are eye to eye. He opens his mouth to say something, and maybe he does, but I don’t hear a word of it. I start pounding him over the head with this lamp until the sight of blood and Shanice’s screaming stops me.

“I’m sorry,” he screams, trying to flee from the room, holding his head.

“You get back here, you sick motherfucker!”

“Mama, stop it!” Shanice yells.

“I’m really sorry,” George says again, and runs out the door. I hear him heading downstairs.

I follow him. He’s putting a dish towel up to his head when I catch up to him. He’s not hurt that bad. Not bad enough. He looks at me. Pitifullike.