“That big-headed uncle of yours told us to give you some space, and we have. But ain’t no one around here willing to let anything happen to you and yours, you hear me?”

I nod, still unable to really wrap my head around what I did. My hands are still shaking as she takes out her keys.

Mrs. Wright is full figured, over six feet tall, with onyx skin, deep-set eyes, and full lips. She used to own a small restaurant near here that served Nigerian food. That’s pretty much all I know about her. She opens the door to her apartment and lets me in.

And right away, I know something else about Mrs. Wright: she’s a Trekkie!

She has a wall-to-wall display of Star Trek memorabilia. Her collection includes 3D puzzles of the USS Enterprise, figurines of major characters, and a throw pillow of Spock.

“Wipe your feet,” she says.

I look down at the mat beneath my feet; it’s a braided oval with the words “Please Don’t Trek Your Dirt Inside.” I wipe my feet and enter what is basically a museum to all things Star Trek. But the decor has to take a back seat as I recall what just happened.

“How could I attack her like that? I’ve never had a fight in my entire life! But when she touched my hair . . . I don’t know, I just . . . lost it.”

Mrs. Wright looks over at me and says, “BISeH’eghlaH’be’chugh latlh Dara’laH’be.”

And now, I think it’s pretty clear that I must be suffering from some kind of head injury, because I have no idea what she just said.

She reads my confused expression and says, “It’s Klingon. It means, ‘If you cannot control yourself, you cannot command others.’ ”

“Oh. Okay . . .”

I get a text from Nai and reply, letting her know what happened. She asks if I’m okay. I have no idea if I am or not. But I let her know I will be there as soon as I can.

“Come on into this kitchen and get something hot inside you. It’ll be good for the shock.”

I follow Mrs. Wright into the kitchen because her tone doesn’t really allow room for arguing. She asks how my mom is, and I don’t reply. I guess that tells her everything she needs to know.

She puts a pot on the stove and lights the burner. She has me sit at the table, where Captain Kirk is looking up at me from a coaster.

“Now look, that white woman had it coming. She’s been doing that for a while now. But she’s not the one in the wrong—you are.”

I hang my head. “Yeah, I know. I can’t believe I launched at her like that.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.”

I look up at her with a blank stare.