I moved my face from the iron gate, then Stacia peeled hers off. The building had branded us, the pattern of diamonds printed across our faces. We hung out for a bit, talking about the wrecking ball and updates on our crushes. Then we got back to what we usually did after school—grabbed the rope and started a game, going on with our lives. It wasn’t long before the gate’s imprint faded, but sometimes, when Stacia screwed her face up, and looked like her brothers and sisters, I thought about how that lady was dead, and that Stacia had helped stomp her to death.

That day is cemented in my memory. We watched them knock down what we thought was indestructible. I’d learn that so many things that I thought were solid and structured in my life could be broken down, bit by bit, just like those buildings.

Four
Tonya from the Ten

The shooting had stopped completely, and things were still and quiet downstairs, so we migrated to the kitchen table for dinner. Mama had composed herself after stumbling out of my room, running from my question about being Lease Compliant. She’d started cooking; the motions of preparing meals and the fragrant scents of herbs always soothed her.

Tonya was invited to stay. She ate Mama’s cooking like it was her last meal. Mama kept looking over at her, but Tonya didn’t notice with her back arched over her plate in holy communion with the peas; she almost got mashed potatoes on her nose. Mama couldn’t take it for too long, and eventually said, “Tonya, baby, slow down before you choke.”

Tonya acknowledged the words by cutting her eyes over at Mama, then chewed slower but never really sat up straight like the rest of us. Meechie ate like this sometimes. What Mama usually said to him was “Boy, you are not an animal. Stop shoveling food into your mouth like it’s trying to get away,” but she gave Tonya a voice dripping with honey. We sat at the table, the four of us too quiet, though inside I was cursing Mama out about how she wouldn’t answer my question about moving.

I stared out the kitchen window into the playground. I didn’t even see a nervous cat trotting around. No teenagers leaning on sliding boards, caking. No angry words hugged by bass, sending vibrations throughout the parking lot and upstairs into our windows. A car or two zipped down State Street, the drivers from other neighborhoods, unaware of the war, but no doubt concerned that they were driving by the projects with no streetlights. We knew who caused that blackout, just didn’t know how the gangbangers turned out the lights.