Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Dedicated to the Black boys and girls who didn’t have a camera to document their trauma and whose stories we may never know.

I would also like to dedicate this book to my family and especially to my sister, Cindy, because she’s the strongest, most courageous woman I know. But she hates sappy stuff like that, so . . .

I dedicate this book to my sister, Cindy, because it’s hard for her, knowing that our mom loves me more.

PS. “I’m so happy.” *Joey Tribbiani voice*

Epigraph

Love does not begin and end

the way we seem to think it does.

Love is a battle, love is a war;

love is a growing up.

—James Baldwin

Chapter One

Afro Rules

I drained all the color out of Harlem. I made the wind so angry it’s pounding on the window like po-po at the front door. I even made the tree branches mad—so mad, they bend away from me. Everyone who looks out the window thinks it’s just a cold, gray day in September, but I know the truth: Harlem is giving me the side-eye.

But despite my neighborhood’s tantrum, I will follow through with my plans. I can’t keep putting it off. I had all summer to break the news to my mother and I didn’t. I stayed silent. Well, no more.

Do you hear me, Harlem? You can howl and roar all you want; today is the day I claim my freedom.

I nod pointedly at the window and turn my attention back to homeroom. We’re only a week into the new school year and most of the students have already broken up into groups.

There’s a bunch of guys in the back of the room gathered in a circle. They bounce in rhythm to the music coming from their mini speaker. I call them the Knights, short for “Knights of the Hip-Hop Round Table.” They love hip-hop and live to argue about every aspect of it. Their discussions are generally peaceful—except for the time they were arguing about who the greatest rapper was and someone said “Drake.”

Drake?

Seriously?

Sitting across from the Knights are a group of girls with long nails and even longer weaves. They’re perfectly put together, from their sculpted eyebrows to their designer boots. For them, mirrors are a religion and Rihanna is their high priestess. I call them the Narcs after Narcissus, the hunter in Greek mythology who was so vain, he fell in love with his own reflection.

But don’t get it twisted—vain doesn’t always mean stupid. Last year they held a workshop during lunch called Lace Front for Beginners. They charged twenty bucks a head and cleaned up. And now they have their own YouTube channel, with over three hundred thousand followers.