I rub my temples. “Uh. ’Cause they’re messed in the head?”

“It makes no sense.”

“It’s racism. It never made any sense.”

Robb paces. “For a child.”

“Remember that school shooting? All the elementary schoolers? People planned to picket at the funeral.”

“That’s batshit.”

I shrug. It infuriates me to my marrow, and yet the world keeps turning. I still have an Econ quiz at two. “It happens all the time after hate crimes. The shooting in that nightclub in Florida.”

“The gay club?”

“Yeah. They’re cool with domestic terrorism as long as it’s ultra-wack white Christians doing the terrorizing.”

“Ultra-wack,” Robb echoes. He tosses himself down on one of the couches. Great. Now I’ll have to endure his popcorn thoughts.

“Look, I gotta study.”

“Sure, sure.” Robb scrolls through his phone, occasionally clucking in disgust. He never seems to study. I don’t know if he gets good grades like magic, or if he just doesn’t care if he does well. A job in his dad’s company is already waiting for him.

There are earbuds in my backpack, somewhere. Here they are. Whew. I pop them in, even though I was enjoying studying in silence. I really don’t feel like music right now.

My thumb stops on an album of thunderstorm sounds. Yup. That feels fitting.

WILL/EMZEE

When the bell rings at 11:40, I don’t go to the cafeteria. I pack up my books, take my coat from my locker, and bounce. No one stops me or asks questions. Easy as that. Skipping is a no-brainer, it turns out.

All I know is, I can’t sit still anymore.

I’ve been prepping for college. Steve’s big on academic achievement, and I’ve got the goods, you know? I can put pencil to paper and come up with some solid thesis statements or whatever.

Today, I don’t know. Four more years feels like a long time to be cooped up in a classroom, waiting for real life to kick in. Real life’s alive and kicking all over Underhill, right this very minute.

Or else it’s got a bullet in it. And it’ll all be over before it begins.

The apartment is quiet in the middle of the day. Too quiet.

The pile of textbooks stares silently back at me from the middle of the dining room table. This homework feels like nothing now. No meaning to it.

On the other hand, my backpack, my hoodie, a half-dozen cans of paint—they scream to me.

What went down with Tariq Johnson, well, you could chalk that up to bad luck. A freak thing. Call it gang banging, put it in a box with things that don’t make sense, and padlock it away.

But this girl now? Shae?