“A balaclava, Jamal,” I repeated, more forcefully this time. “You know, a mask.”

He didn’t even look up, just flicked through the channels. “Yeah, sure. I’ll just run down to the store, get you a bat and a balaclava real quick. Anything else? Maybe some gloves, so you don’t leave fingerprints?”

I shook my head. “Jamal,” I said again. “Seriously.”

His eyes went wide, but then he laughed, assuming I was kidding. “What are you gonna do, rob a bank or something?”

I didn’t crack a smile.

Instead, I swallowed hard, my throat burning with the words I hadn’t spoken out loud yet. “Mason hurt Beverly.”

Jamal stilled.

“You don’t get it,” I hissed, my voice dropping lower. “Mason…he laid his hands on her.”

Jamal’s face softened, though I could see the unease in his eyes. He rubbed his face, glancing at his parents in the kitchen. His mom and dad were speaking to each other in Arabic, and I could understand half of it—well, a little more than half if I really concentrated. My Arabic was improving, but right now, I wasn’t in the mood to practice.

I was too focused on the image of Beverly’s red-rimmed eyes.

“Come on, man,” Jamal sighed. “What the hell are you gonna do with a bat, huh? You’re gonna go to Mason’s house and start swinging it around? I’m telling you, this won’t end well. You do something crazy like this, you’re the one who’s going to pay for it in the end. Trust me,” he said, the usual joking tone gone from his voice.

I stepped closer, my voice low enough so his sister wouldn’t overhear us. “What would you do if it was Amina, huh?” I demanded. “What would you do if someone put his hands on her and then tried to make it her fault?”

Jamal’s expression darkened, his eyes narrowing as if I’d hit a nerve. “Don’t bring my sister into this, Blake.”

“You’d want to do the same thing, wouldn’t you?” I pressed.

He stared, his usual carefree expression vanishing as he considered the question. I saw him running through the possibilities, calculating in his head, and his face grew darker with each thought. “I’d—” He stopped, looking at me as if I had just unleashed something terrible from the depths of his mind.

He looked at his sister, his jaw tightening. Then he muttered something under his breath in Arabic, more to himself than to me, clearly torn.

Before he could respond, his little sister, who had been sitting in the corner like a little ghost, suddenly perked up. “Are we fighting someone? Because, like, I’m really good at karate now.”

Jamal and I both looked at her. She was clutching a juice box like it was her weapon of choice.