Kimberly goes on. “Not only was it bad PR, it was damaging the actual business. So, really, we never had a moral awakening on race. There was no great change of heart in America after the 1960s.”

Ding-ding! Jackpot! “And that’s why we’re still stuck making signs and marching. In the twenty-first century.” I hold up the NO JUSTICE, NO PEACE poster board. “Sucks, doesn’t it?”

Kimberly’s quiet for a minute. She traces her finger along the bottom of the words. “Does everybody know that’s not what it means?” she asks softly. “Was it just me?”

Crud. I’ve accidentally made her feel stupid. I rush to correct it. “Oh, gosh, no. Most people don’t fully get it. It’s a really good question. And you really know your history. I’m so impressed. You’re really smart.” And now I’m a babbling idiot. Perfect.

“It’s just…” She hesitates. “I still don’t understand why we should use it. Isn’t the point of slogans to be really clear?”

“It’s clear enough.”

“But it’s not,” she argues. “We just had a whole conversation about how it isn’t.”

And you know what, she’s right.

DEVANTE

Robb’s left their door open. I know from history that Tyrell hates when he does that. I knock at the jamb. Tyrell pulls out his earbuds and turns around.

“Hey, man,” he says.

“Hey.”

Tyrell is not enamored by throw pillows. He’s the only guy in our suite, one of the only guys on the whole floor, who’s never been by to see Doc DeVante and lie on my “couch.” Maybe he’s shy. Maybe he doesn’t have any problems. He doesn’t seem to have any friends, either.

A shot of guilt pierces me. Maybe I should be making more of an effort.

“So I’m going with Robb down to the Black House. You wanna come?”

Tyrell shakes his head. “I need to focus on my studies.”

“We’re talking about protest responses after the White Out march.”

“Not interested, thanks.”

He barely has the time of day for me. I don’t get it.

“Doesn’t it upset you?”

He looks at me, full on, for one long second. “What?”

Is he kidding? My fingers spring out wide. “White supremacists marching in the streets of an American city.”

“Oh.” Back to his math books. “Yeah.”

Forget it.

This punk comes from some entitled place. He doesn’t know what it’s like to live the streets. Bro lives his life according to some spreadsheet. I want to shake him. Get out in the world. Know what we’re up against.

How do I make him understand?

ROBB

“SCORE is planning a demonstration at the courthouse, during the grand jury deliberations.” I scroll through my phone as DeVante and I walk along the campus path toward the black student union. “We should go to that.”

“All the way in Underhill?”

“It’s only about six hours.” I grin. “Sometimes five, the way I drive.”

A fleet of bikers zooms toward us. “Not sure,” DeVante says.