The footage out of Underhill from last night is unreal. Everyone is posting it. I see it over and over in my feed. Most of the clips are the same after a while, but I check them all anyway.

My favorite, the one I find most striking, is of a young kid throwing a bottle through a storefront window. It was shot on someone’s phone, it’s all vertical and weird, but you can see his face in a semi-close-up. He’s crying and furious all at the same time. First there’s this pause where he looks down at the bottle in his hand, then his face goes monstrous for a second while he puts his whole arm into the throw. He watches it land, then you just see him run away, crying. It’s awesome. At the tail end of the frame, as the little boy leaves, the phone gets juggled and red and blue lights flash somewhere in the shot and then it’s cut. I keep trying to find out what happened next. Did they catch the kid? The cameraman? Social media is asking, but no one has it yet. I keep checking.

On my way into poli-sci, I bump into Kwame, this guy who’s in two of my classes. We roll on the same wavelength, I guess.

“‘Sup?” We slap hands. He passes me a flyer from a stack in his arms.

“We’re planning a vigil,” he says. “In memory of Shae Tatum.”

“That doesn’t sound like much. What does it do?”

“Raises awareness on campus.”

“Yeah, but what about some kind of action? You know, to send a message?”

Kwame nods. “It’s a marathon, not a sprint,” he says. “Student organizing got it done in the ’60s and it’ll get it done in our generation, too. It’s gonna look different, though.”

I wave my phone. “More technological.”

“Well,” Kwame says. “You should come by the Black House later, if you’re interested in the work we’re doing.”

“Sure thing, sure thing.” I grin. DeVante’s always going down to the African American Student Center. I could tag along. The more I watch of these videos, the more I know something has to be done.

KIMBERLY

“It’s a relief,” says the woman in my stylist’s chair. “Don’t you think?”

“What? Sorry.” My hands can weave perfect plaits without my mind checking in. I’m elsewhere, but the customer doesn’t need to know that.

She flips through a copy of O. “A break from the coverage. At least you’re showing regular TV in here.”

On the monitor over our heads, The View is playing.

“Yes, it’s tragic,” I murmur.

“You’re so distracted,” she says. “Heh. Must be thinking about a man.”

“What, no, I, no—” I sputter.

She laughs like an auntie. “Must be a hot man.”