“Mom, I don’t want to argue about this,” I reply as I go over to the window.

“That makes two of us. You know very well what this is about. The coach did what he did because he wants to stamp out anything that doesn’t look the way he thinks it should look. This isn’t about hair. It’s about having pride in who you are and where you’re from. How is it that my child, of all people, doesn’t get it?”

“Alex wants to let it go, so we should let it go.”

“Well, this isn’t about what Alex wants. He’s sixteen. He wants to run track, buy five-hundred-dollar sneakers, and hook up with a girl. He’s thinking short term. You are supposed to be thinking long term. That’s the only way you’ll be able to take over for me someday.”

I could say it right then and there, but I don’t. She comes over and looks out the window with me and doesn’t say anything for a few moments. We both silently look out as night starts to fall on Harlem.

“He cried,” she says softly.

“Who?” I ask as I turn to face her.

“Alex. His mother told me when she came to the office. He stood there and let the coach cut his hair and he was stoic. But when he got home, he cried and he couldn’t even tell his mother why.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Did you talk to Alex?”

“No, I . . . Devonte said . . .”

“Devonte Evens. He has his father’s eyes. Gorgeous. Makes it hard to think when you’re around him, doesn’t it?”

I shrug and mutter, “Maybe.”

She laughs softly. “Getti, it’s okay to be distracted by a pretty face and nice eyes. But there’s a difference between being momentarily distracted and letting someone knock you off your path.

“Now, I’m sure Devonte batted his pretty lashes at you and tried to get you to do what he wanted. But you should have seen through it. He ran game on you, and you got sucked into it. If you can’t recognize game from a skinny kid with the vocabulary of five-year-old, you’re in for a world of heartbreak. I don’t care how fine the guy is or how much you want that guy to like you. I didn’t raise you to be a sucker. Is that clear?”

“Then what is it, Mom? What exactly are you raising me to be? You?”

“Is that a bad thing?”

I laugh sardonically. “Well, then we have a problem. I can’t ever live up to you. I will never be as strong, as brave, nor as much of a badass as you are. I’m sorry.”