Some guy I didn’t recognize was standing right behind us, arms crossed, eyes full of something that pissed me off on instinct. “You’re lucky they even let you in this country,” he said to Jamal. “I know your type.” He tapped his temple. “I watch the news.”

My vision went white.

I didn’t hear the rest.

I hit him so hard I felt his nose crunch beneath my fist.

“Say it again,” I spat. “I dare you.”

“Blake!” Jamal’s voice rang out, but I wasn’t done.

The rage hadn’t drained out of me yet. It was still clawing up my throat, burning through my veins.

“You wanna say it again?” I roared. “Come on! Say it again!”

I barely heard the shouts. Barely felt the hands grabbing me, pulling me back. Barely heard Tiffany’s voice somewhere behind me, screaming, “Oh, you think that’s funny? Laugh now, bitch!” before she grabbed some girl’s hair and yanked hard enough to make her cry out.

Everything was heat and blood and noise.

More bodies. More shoving.

Hands grabbing me, trying to pull me back.

I turned just in time to see a fist swinging toward me.

Everything blurred.

Beverly’s voice was swallowed by the chaos around me.

Someone screamed.

Tiffany’s nails raked across the girl’s scalp as she yanked her down by the hair. “Apologize,” Tiffany demanded. “Say it, bitch. Say you’re sorry!”

The girl shrieked, trying to break free. “For what?” she cried.

“For being a racist piece of⁠—”

Someone pulled me back, just to slam me against the wall.

Jamal came out of nowhere, shoving the guy off me with enough force to send him stumbling back. “You good?” he asked, barely sparing me a glance before squaring up to the dude who had just slammed me against the wall.

Then Nathan’s voice cut through the chaos. “Must be nice,” he sneered. “Having everyone fight your battles. Guess that’s what happens when you’re some unwanted little kid nobody ever⁠—”

Beverly’s fist cracked against his jaw before he could finish. “That’s for Blake,” she hissed, wincing as she shook out her hand. “And for Jamal. Ow.”

“Oh, look,” Nathan’s bleeding friend muttered from the floor, “his girlfriend’s defending Jamal. Guess she’ll open her legs for anyone if they smile at her long enough.”

The night ended in the police station.

39

BEVERLY, 1999

17 years old

I had never in my life been inside a police station like this.

Sure, I had visited before—Dad had taken me once or twice when I was younger, let me sit at his desk, even bought me a donut like it was some great adventure. Back then, I had felt untouchable. My dad was Officer Price, after all.