“My wife and I have a small gathering—it’s nothing fancy. We meet here in Harlem once a month at the café inside Whole Foods on One Twenty-Fifth and Lenox. Your mom wrote a powerful piece for the New Yorker about the struggle to combat gentrification in Harlem. It had such an impact on my friends and me. Do you think she’d be open to speaking to our group?”

So far, I know two things about Mr. Gunderson: one, he sucks with names. And two, he’s not great with irony. If my mom’s article on gentrification had really been a success, there probably wouldn’t be a Whole Foods on 125th Street.

“That sounds nice, but . . . she’s really busy,” I inform him.

“Oh, yes, I understand.” He nods.

“Can I go now, Mr. Gunderson?”

“Yes . . . Wait! Is there a way you can get me her autograph? I’m a bit of a collector. I have a church program signed by all of Dr. King’s children! I’d love to add your mom’s signature to my collection. Is that possible?”

Is this guy joking? Sometimes I have to call my mom’s office and make an appointment to get a hug. It’s bad enough that I have to share her with all of Harlem; now I’m supposed to share her with my teacher? If I were a badass, I’d say, “Boy, bye.”

But I’m not. So instead, I smile politely and mumble something about getting back to him. If I keep going like this, my Afro will rebel against me and turn itself into a perm.

Tragic.

Normally the school day takes forever to end. But now that I have something to do after school, something I’m dreading, the day is flying by. And before I know it, it’s already lunchtime. On my way to the cafeteria, I spot How Much? stickers on students’ notebooks and backpacks.

My mom has outdone herself.

I buy my lunch and head toward Naija, seated at the table near the entrance. We’re still waiting for the last two of our crew to show up.

“Ayo, I know you have a lot on your mind, so I forgive you,” Naija says.

“Forgive me for what?”

“For failing to recognize my hair and how I’m killing it right now,” Naija says proudly. She’s not lying; her hair is beautiful. It’s freshly styled in Havana crochet braids with pale strands of purple, pink, and gray. It flows down to her waist and frames her round face perfectly.

Naija is beautiful. Her russet-colored eyes are big and sparkle with flecks of gold when the sun hits them. She has full lips that kids used to make fun of but now try to replicate. I don’t think Naija’s mother actually gave birth to her. I suspect she was created by midnight itself and left on her mother’s doorstep.