She studied me, her eyes warm but knowing. “Why are you angry, Blake? What happened?”

Jamal answered for me, giving me a sideways glance as if he wasn’t sure whether he should spill the whole thing.

“Someone messed with his sister’s life.”

The word sister made me cringe, a harsh reminder of everything I couldn’t change.

For a split second, I wanted to shut him down right there.

His mom’s expression grew somber. Unspoken concern settled over her features, but all she said was, “You should not let anger take root in your heart. Anger…” she paused, her voice softening, “poisons your body. It makes you sick in ways you can’t see.”

Jamal’s dad took a seat and added, “You know, when I was your age, I tried to fight the world too.”

I looked up, my grip tightening on the plate in my hands.

He leaned back in his chair, eyes distant, like he was seeing something far beyond this kitchen. “I thought if I hit hard enough, if I proved my strength, the world would bend to me. That if I could make someone else feel small, I’d finally feel big. But the world doesn’t work like that. You don’t win just because you swing first.” He let out a deep breath, the kind of sigh that spoke of years lived and lessons learned. “All it did was make me tired, make me bitter.”

I didn’t say anything.

Jamal was watching us, quieter than I’d ever seen him.

His dad set down his cup with a soft clink. “You think hitting someone will change what happened?” He shook his head. “Maybe for a moment, you’ll feel like you’ve done something. But when the dust settles, when your anger cools, you’ll still be standing in the same place, holding the same pain. And now, the world will have a reason to hit you back.”

I swallowed hard.

Jamal’s mom, who had been quiet until now, finally spoke. “Justice is not the same as revenge, habibi.” Her voice was gentle, but firm. “One heals; the other destroys.”

Jamal’s dad studied me intently before nodding. “If you want to fight for something, fight for her. Fight to ensure she never ends up in that position again. But don’t waste your fists on someone like him. He’s already lost.”

I exhaled slowly, my hands trembling.

I wasn’t sure I was ready to let go of my anger.

Mason had already made his choice.

And so had I.

12

BEVERLY, 1997

15 years old

Steam curled around me in thick clouds, clinging to my skin as I stood under the scalding water, scrubbing until my skin burned. My nails dug into my flesh, desperate to rid myself of the invisible weight that clung to me, to punish the relentless feeling that wouldn’t release its grip.