I try hard not to roll my eyes, because that would get back to my mom and I’d be in trouble. Nate is die-hard when it comes to the cause, and any time spent on anything else is time wasted.

“I’m running an errand for my mom, so . . .”

“Oh, sure. Don’t let me stop you,” he replies. I start walking away, hoping it’s the end of it. “Youth membership is down this month, I think you can do a better job at recruiting, don’t you?”

ARGH!

“Okay, I’ll try,” I reply without looking back.

A few minutes later, I knock on Ms. Hightower’s door. She calls out in the mandatory gruff and uninviting New York tone, “Who is it?”

“It’s me, Ayo,” I reply.

I hear her footsteps as she comes closer. She opens the door wide and beams at me. I’m all but certain that Adina Hightower escaped from an Annie Lee painting, specifically the one called You Hungry? And just like many women in Lee’s paintings, Ms. Hightower is fleshy, round, and lives for colorful house dresses.

Her hair is dyed a rich, deep copper that complements her wheat-colored complexion. She’s in her seventies, but thanks to her wide eyes, baby face, and freckles, the little girl she used to be is never too far from view.

“Oh, so you just gonna keep growing like a weed, huh?” she says, her once-rough tone now warm and inviting. “C’mon in,” she says as she embraces me. Ms. Hightower gives the best hugs. It’s like being held by a cloud—a cloud that smells like chamomile tea and summer.

Her apartment is a monument to the Apollo Theater. Ms. Hightower worked there for over four decades. On her wall are meticulously framed photographs of her with Jimi Hendrix, Parliament, the Jackson 5, Aretha Franklin, James Brown, and many others. She’s arranged them in such a way that it tells her life story.

I can count on two things when I come over to see Ms. Hightower: a cautionary tale and diabetic candy. The cautionary tale she gives me today is her favorite one; it has to do with her most prized possession—a framed, autographed picture of her favorite singing group, Patti LaBelle and the Bluebelles. Inside the framed picture is a train ticket they sent Ms. Hightower. A ticket for a ride she didn’t have the courage to take.

Ms. Hightower doesn’t just know how to sing—she knows how to saaaaaang. This city is full of talented singers who can make you stop and take notice. But to stand out here in Harlem, home of the Apollo Theater, you better bring it. And Ms. Hightower could do that like no other.

“Please tell your mama I plan to pay her back,” Ms. Hightower vows as I help her unload the bag of groceries.

“You know she won’t take any money,” I reply.