“Dude,” Robb says. “Twitter’s blowing up.”

“Yeah?”

Robb’s thumb flicks over the screen. “Another shooting. Cop versus kid. In the hood.”

It’s when phrases like “in the hood” slip out of his lily-white ass that I have to give him the side-eye. He doesn’t notice. He’s too into his phone.

“That sucks,” I say.

“They gotta stop this crazy shit, man, seriously.”

“Tell it to the history books,” I say.

“It’s the twenty-first century,” Robb answers. “For crying out loud.”

I bite my tongue. We’ve been crying out loud for quite some time now, haven’t we?

“Whoa. Check it.”

“What?”

“This is the same neighborhood as that other famous one, Tariq Johnson.”

That other famous one? Come the fuck on. “Oh yeah?”

Robb scrolls. “Yeah, they’re saying it’s the same exact street.” He doesn’t even look up. “How messed up is that?”

“Pretty messed up.” It’s easier to agree with Robb than try to get into a conversation.

Robb rolls up off the bed. “I’ll be back,” he says.

No doubt, no doubt.

When he’s gone, I pull up the news on my laptop. It’s good to stay current. And it’s happening not that far from here, really. Less than six hours away.

News of the shooting is popping up all over everything. It stabs me all the way through. My eyes get thick. I pull on a sweater and tuck myself among the cozy pillows.

My mind replays the scene with Robb from moments ago. How … excited he sounded. To him, it’s all a story, all a theory. It’s not everything he sees when he looks in the mirror.

I close my eyes. Things had been feeling okay with Robb, finally feeling okay with some of the other guys, too. My gut says this is going to shake us up.

TYRELL

Differential equations are a slice of heaven as far as I’m concerned. My pencil slides across the page, and I lose myself in the math. Solve for x. Solve for y. The more complicated the better. Mental gymnastics is better than meditation for making the whole world disappear around me.

“Yo, T,” Robb says, bursting into our room. All semblance of calm slips away.

“Tyrell,” I correct him for the thousandth time.

He barrels in like he didn’t even hear me. “Yo, you hear the latest?”

“I’ve been studying.”

“You gotta check your Twitter at least sometimes, dog.”

“I do.” I’m just not on it 24/7, brah.

“Check this. Some kind of shooting happened.” Robb flips his phone toward me so fast that only the key words jump out at me: Police shooting. Child. Underhill.

“That’s tragic,” I mumble. My skin tingles in little ripples, like goose bumps.

“Cops shot a girl. Only thirteen, and retarded or something.”

“Don’t say ‘retarded,’” I correct him automatically.

“Yeah, whatever you call it.” He waves his hand.