Something pulls me out of my thoughts—a figure trying to get up the stairs without being noticed.

“Rosalie Bosia, what are you hiding?!” I ask.

She shrugs and bats her lashes like she’s just a sweet innocent little girl. But it’s clear she’s hiding something behind her back.

“All right, lets see it, missy!” I order.

She shows me what she’s been hiding—a half-empty container of Häagen-Dazs rum raisin ice cream. There was a sale, two for the price of one. My mother had hers yesterday and now she’s moved on to mine.

“That’s it! You cannot be trusted. From now on—all desserts will be regulated by me! I’m sorry, but you have shown yourself untrustworthy.” I take the ice cream, and she comes after me.

“Just one more scoop!” she begs.

“No! You have to learn.”

“Aw, c’mon, Getti, you have to let me have the rest.”

“Why is that?”

“It’s a rule. People that get shot in the head get as much ice cream as they want,” she says with a straight face. I crack up and hand her back the container. She feeds me a spoonful and then eats the rest.

“Are you packed already?” she asks. It’s spring break and all of us, including Milton and Devonte, are going to Miami Beach. Uncle Ty and his wife have a rental place and invited all of us to come hang out for a week. It’s all we’ve been talking about for weeks. I was supposed to be packed already, and I’m not.

“I’m gonna pack now,” I tell her.

“The guys will be here in half an hour, girl, get going!” my mom shouts from downstairs.

I quickly throw whatever is clean or clean-adjacent into my suitcase. I jump into the shower and rush to get dressed. I come downstairs and into the living room. “Are they here yet?” I ask my mom.

My mom doesn’t respond. She’s transfixed with what’s happening on the news. I look on as the reporter repeats, “An unarmed African American woman, Lashay Horton, is dead after officers mistook her apartment for that of a murder suspect . . .”

My mom gets on her phone and starts making calls immediately. I’m right behind her; my first one is to Milton. He tells the rest of the group. They’re in a cab headed this way. I continue to make calls. We need to put a meeting together quickly and see how we want the youth division to respond to this. I’m already on my sixth call when my mom taps me on the shoulder.

“Hang on, Mom, I gotta see how many people we can get to meet tonight, and I have to call—”

“Spring break, remember?” she says.

The trip.

“Oh.” I put my cell down.