“The meeting is at three. You’re late,” he says again, just in case I missed his announcement the first time. I look at the time on my cell. It’s five minutes after three and the members aren’t here yet. I ignore Milton, getting my keys out and open the door to the meeting room.

“I’m say’n, why do we have to stop at marching? How many marches have we held? They just gonna keep doing the same thing—mistreating us, disrespecting us, and killing us! Let’s give it right back to them!” Walter Powell says to me as he comes toward us.

Walter’s mom is white; his dad is half white. Walter could very easily pass for a white kid, so he goes harder than the rest of us. He wants the whole world to know he’s more down than anyone else in the history of down-ness. His entire life could be set right if someone Black just hugged him and said, “All right, man, we see you! You’re Black like us.”

Milton isn’t done being snarky. “You’re supposed to be here before the rest of us. I can’t keep covering for your missteps.”

I grit my teeth and remind myself that Black-on-Black crime is bad. I step inside, and my jaw drops.

I had forgotten that someone from the adult branch said they’d drop off extra posters for us. And now the room is filled with large protest signs that feature photos of Black people killed by cops: Atatiana Jefferson, Aura Rosser, Stephon Clark, Botham Jean, Philando Castile, Alton Sterling, Michelle Cusseaux: a new crop of strange fruit.

My heart is racing, I’m feverish, and my knees are weak. I know it’s because of them. Their eyes are following me as I walk across the room. The members start to arrive and ask me questions, but I barely hear them. I’m too distracted by the eyes on the posters.

Since they can no longer cry out for justice, they need others to raise their voices in protest. They need someone who can give voice to their pain. That someone’s voice should be loud enough to travel across the universe and back again, like my mom’s. I do not have that voice, and they know it.

I need to get out of here.

I guess the gods heard my prayer, because at that very moment, Devonte texts me. He tells me everyone on the track team is getting together to celebrate the coach no longer losing his job. He wants me to join too. He sends me the address. That’s all I needed.