Mama hugged Meechie. His face cracked for a quick second, then he seemed to suck it back in place; he was about to cry but didn’t. The whole thing made me weep instantly: the police busting in, the waiting, the freezing, my brother, out of the house, and in a cell? He broke free from Mama and wrapped his arm around the back of my neck. He smelled like some strong mustard greens, but I could smell a tiny hint of his Cool Water cologne.

“Stop crying,” he told me. It was bossy, but I knew it was his best attempt to console me.

Mama tapped us a little, and said, “Come on.”

It was about four in the morning by then, and still dark outside. I just knew that Mama would question Meechie about the whole thing. I planned to sit quietly and take in all the details. When we got home, though, she made us soup and grilled cheese sandwiches and Meechie mumbled, “Thanks, Ma,” then went to his room and closed the door. Mama just stared at the place where the kitchen and the hallway met, all dumbfounded. That was the first sign that our Meechie never made it back home. Mama decided to leave him alone and give him some time to get back to what she thought could be normal again.

I ate my food, then got up, doing a fake pee dance. I went to Meechie’s room, not the bathroom. The door was closed, but I could hear him moving around in there. He wasn’t the type to talk out his feelings, but I eased his door open anyway. I stopped when I saw what he was doing. He had his headphones on his ears, but they were blasting so loud that I could hear the music. Shirtless, he punched at the air with tight fists while rapping:

Have that red shit pouring out your hair

Nigga, any-fucking-time, nigga, any-fucking-where

I would’ve been horrified to hear the words alone come out of his mouth, but paired with his Raiders cap banged to the side and pants sagging under his boxers, he looked just like the dudes downstairs, and that gave me a chill. He jumped around his room, throwing jabs at Michael Jordan’s face, the Sox caps on the wall, his neon crossing guard belt from elementary school on his dresser. I couldn’t decide whose right then and there, but this makeover was somebody’s fault. I eased the door closed and tried to act normal when I returned to the kitchen with Mama. Meechie had begun a sort of metamorphosis, and though I’d regret not telling Mama about it, back then, my allegiance was to him. He was my brother, and I didn’t want to do anything to get him into more trouble.