“My birthday is less than two months away, and my mom is planning my annual scavenger hunt. If I successfully complete the hunt, I can ask for whatever I want. This year, I’ll ask for my freedom.”

“So if you can’t talk your way out of See Us, you’ll treasure-hunt your way out?” Naija says.

“Exactly. The only bad part is that I would have to wait six weeks for my birthday to come around. That’s why the speech is plan A. It’s harder to carry out, but it gives me my freedom faster than plan B.”

“So, you’re really quitting See Us?” Shawn asks.

The question settles at the bottom of my stomach like lead. I look down at my tray of food, and suddenly, the thought of eating repulses me. My stomach is completely sour. I push the tray away.

Dell looks at me in disbelief. “Um, hello? Young, Black, and hungry over here!”

I slide my tray to him as a new wave of self-doubt crashes down on me. I groan and rest my head on Naija’s shoulder. She strokes my arm and says, “Don’t worry, Ayo, all she can do is stop loving you.”

I know Naija is only joking, but See Us is my mother’s legacy, and now I’m walking away from it completely . . .

What if my mom really does stop loving me?

Chapter Two

Handle That

When school is over, I ask my friends if they want to hang out, but they all have things to do. Naija, who knows me too well, says, “Just tell her.”

“You’re right. I can do this. I’m ready,” I reply as I look toward the exit. But while my mouth says I am able, my body disagrees. I can’t seem to move. Naija places her hand on my back and guides me toward the exit. “Thanks,” I tell her.

I usually take the bus, but this time, I decide to walk, to give myself enough time to gather my courage. As I go down the busy street, I walk past a group of Black women wearing stark white dresses and white head wraps, with Bibles tucked neatly under their arms. They have perfect posture, elongated necks, and judgment in their eyes. I see them all the time; they attend a basement church called the Good Shepherd a few blocks away from here. We call them the Water Ladies because they think they walk on water.

Every time they see my friends or me, they have a comment to make about how we are turning out all wrong. They blame our parents.

“Ayo, you ain’t tamed that hair yet?” the leader, Mrs. Curtis, says.

“Nope, still an Afro,” I mutter, like I do every time she asks me that, which is every time she sees me.