I look into his eyes and marvel at just how warm they are. Then I think about how little it matters. When he gets stopped by the cops, none of it will matter. They won’t know that he uses humor to hide his insecurities. It won’t matter to them that he holds doors open for girls or makes the best hot chocolate in the world. They will see what most see when they look at him . . . a reason to fear.

I remember reading about the places in the world that are considered the least racist. I could see myself moving to some of the places on the list. A place where I don’t need to stage a protest to simply be allowed to exist. That’s it, problem solved. I will keep Devonte, my mom, and everyone else I love safe by moving to another country.

“Did you know Ghana has really impressive runners?”

I’m not sure if that’s true, but it might be, so . . .

“You’re being crazy random right now,” he says.

“They also have something called jollof rice. It’s a staple. It’s supposed to be really good.”

He smiles and looks at me like I’m crazy, but something on TV catches his eye. His smile fades. “Ayo . . .”

I follow his gaze. The protest has become a riot. Protesters and cops are clashing; cars are being set on fire, bottles thrown, tear gas fills the air. I look for her—my lifeline. She’s in the center, because where else would she be? I watch, horrified, as a cop yanks a teenage girl by her hair and drags her down to the ground. My mom rushes to her aid, like a ferocious lion. The cop aims his weapon at my mom and shoots . . .

Chapter Eleven

Into the Deep

A nanosecond after Mom’s body hits the ground, my skull caves in and my brain hovers, in fragments, just above my head. Logic says she won’t get up; she’s just been shot in the head. But logic has not met my mother. While chaos and panic invade both the crowd on TV and Devonte, I stay still and wait. I wait for my mom to get up because she knows I can’t do this without her. She will get up.

Except she doesn’t.

I’m watching a girl with my face fall onto her knees and sob hysterically. She lets out a guttural wail that comes from somewhere so dark and deep that she didn’t even know a place like that existed. The boy she’s with tries to help her, but she is beyond his reach. She won’t survive; we both know that. The only thing I can gift to the girl with my eyes is the gift of nothing. And so, we both black out . . .