He takes an envelope from his back pocket and hands it over to me. Inside is a single sheet of typed paper. On top is the letterhead from some law firm.

I give it a glance and then look up at him. “This says my mom agrees to accept the apology and doesn’t plan any further actions.”

“Yeah. Coach gave it to me.”

“Why’d he give it to you?” I ask.

“He asked the team if any of us knew you, and I raised my hand. I told him we go way back, since pudding cups.”

“You remember that?”

“Hell yeah. Not everyone is happy to share. Chocolate with vanilla swirl, right?”

My face heats up, and my mouth curls into a goofy smile. I nod.

“See, I remembered. Look, you and me go way back. So I told him he could give this to me and that my homegirl would get her mom to sign it. Can you do that for me, baby girl?”

He called me baby girl. He . . . That’s . . . Oh my God!

He reaches out and strokes my cheek.

Devonte Evens is touching me!

He licks his lips, leans in, and whispers, “Can you fix this for me, baby girl, please?”

I’m lost in the daze of his stare and the feel of his touch. I nod in agreement, although I don’t recall what we were talking about.

“Yeah, I can do it,” I reply.

“Thanks, Ayo,” he says, then he leans in and kisses my cheek.

What the hell just happened?

Chapter Three

Who Are You?

I shove the paper in my jacket pocket. It was crazy to tell Devonte I could help. The fact is that I have no idea how to change my mom’s mind about the coach. That’s what happens when I look into a gorgeous guy’s eyes—I lose my damn mind. Fine, I will try to talk to my mom and see what she says. But right now, I have to focus on my original mission: freedom.

I walk by the mural, the one Devonte referred to, and stop to look at it. It’s one of my favorites. It was inspired by Edward Hopper’s painting Nighthawks. It’s of four people sitting at a diner in the dead of night. Dell’s dad—Rocky—is an artist and was commissioned to make the mural by See Us.

He reimagined the painting and made it a tribute to some of the writers from the Harlem Renaissance: Langston Hughes, Countee Cullen, Zora Neale Hurston, and Anne Spencer. I look at them and swear they are nodding encouragingly at me.

“All right, wish me luck.”