I’m wearing my mom’s perfume today. It’s a light citrus scent with a hint of vanilla. It always smelled much better on her. I also wore her scarf. It’s her favorite because it’s the softest one. I remember her hugging me while wearing it. It sounds nuts, but having her things near me make me feel like she’s there. I think I’ll put something of hers on every day, anything to take away the daily flashes I get of her lying in a bed, unresponsive.

Before I went to see her this morning, I picked out a book of poems from her shelf—Just Give Me a Cool Drink of Water ’fore I Diiie. It’s Maya Angelou’s first book of collected poems. My mom loves it. Devonte took me to the hospital and I read some of the poems to her. I tried to focus on the words on the page and not the loud silence that comes with coma victims. I was able to read a good chunk of the book, but I had to go before school started. I promised her that I would be back in the morning, with a new book. I’d like to think she heard me.

I’m late for first period but manage to make it in time for second period, English. On the first day of school, we were given a syllabus for each class. I had highlighted a lesson plan called “Race & Society”—that’s the day the class would have to review Ava DuVernay’s documentary 13th, in addition to Ta-Nehisi Coates’s Between the World and Me.

I highlighted that section because I knew there would be some kind of drama and I was going to skip that day. My English class has only a handful of people of color. As far as Black folks go, it’s me, Milton, and another member of See Us, Denise Winston. This unit wasn’t supposed to be coming up for another few weeks. However, thanks to current events, the lesson was moved up.

I discovered this when I walked into the class and saw what was on the whiteboard. And now that I have already entered, I can’t skip it. Can I ask to use the bathroom and then not come back? Does that make me a poor student, or worse, a bad Black girl? Will my card get taken away if I bail?

“Ayo, take your seat,” Mr. Cutler says.

I remember Mrs. Wright’s warning about checking my “white folks tolerance” gauge. I checked it this morning, and it was low, but not dangerously so. But now that we are here, about to discuss race with a mostly white class, I’m left to recalibrate. And it’s just as I thought: I don’t have enough in me to sit through what’s about to come.