It sat up there like a headstone next to her desk. Some days, I looked at it, fantasized that things were the same, that she’d just run to the bathroom. Other times, I rolled my eyes at the space that she once occupied, but no matter my feelings about her on a given day, her presence was always there in our class. I could see her clearly, hair trying to pull out of its ponytail holder by midmorning as she darted around the room passing out papers or collecting them.

Even the trio that we crushed on, Ricky, Derrick, and Jon Jon, had disappeared. Ricky was there, his family hadn’t left the building yet, but both Derrick and little Jon Jon, barely eleven, had joined the gang, working as Lookouts on the block all day, hoping to rise in power with that police raid creating so many openings.

Ricky’s face reflected my sadness; we both missed our friends and weren’t really trying to replace them only to lose the new ones too.

I didn’t know most of the kids in my class, because so many of them were new, coming from buildings all up and down State Street, but we had one major thing in common: we were all being cast out of our neighborhood. I knew that my family was Lease Compliant, but some of the other kids in my class would continue to be pushed farther north or south until all the Robert Taylor Homes were knocked down.

Ms. Pierce let us talk out our feelings about what was happening. Everyone had sad stories about missing their friends who’d moved away and how they lived in half-empty buildings, and how scary it could be just to walk down their own porch.

The lunchroom had a lower buzz because the school was underpopulated. Ms. Pierce felt sorry for us, so she gave us more of her speeches. She wanted us to be tough. To stay focused. To remember, “If you want to be in a position where the government can’t uproot your life so easily, go get an education, and you’ll have more control over your situation.” Her lines of inspiration got a little rhyme-y sometimes, but most of us kids drank it like much needed water.

I made new friends at school, but I knew I’d miss the old ones forever. I kept the rope that we played double Dutch with. It was absolutely gross, but I didn’t care, and Mama didn’t either. The knotted ends had fingerprints from where my friends had gripped it with candy-stained fingers. I could see small blue stains from snow cone juice and red-orange smudges from Flamin’ Hot Cheeto powder.

I braided that filthy thing, hung it from my doorknob. My hip would sometimes brush against it, setting off a swinging motion that reminded me of time. Back and forth, back and forth, a pendulum.