You can’t call that nothing but racist. Tragic. The cops are gunning for our annihilation, one innocent at a time. They say they ain’t, but they keep on shooting. What’s that?

I should do my calculus worksheet now … but why? Because, screw it, I could spend ten years getting a PhD or whatever and still get shot on the street like a dog. LIKE A DOG. Worse than a dog, actually. With a dog, they stun you or Tase you and throw you in a net. They don’t shoot to kill dogs. Say it’s inhumane. I’ll paint a dog, being killed. Watch the news cover it as a blight on the community. I’ll paint a black man being killed. No news. Cruelty to animals = sickness. We are less than animals now.

TINA

We Don’t Call It a Picnic

Ladies, ladies

loud ladies

big ladies

chewing ladies

sipping ladies

humming, Lord Jesus

humming, my baby

humming all the way to the cathedral sky

crying ladies

hugging ladies

stories and stories and stories

all sad

laughing anyway

checkered tablecloth

fried chicken and greens

biscuits and mac and cheese

vocabulary word: cliché

means

always delicious

princess tablecloth, like someone’s birthday

pies and cakes and cookies

yum

red tablecloth

iced tea and lemonade

and someone’s uncle, Arnold Palmer

vocabulary word: family

means

blood and beyond

plain black tablecloth, plastic

photos and notebooks and tears

because

they don’t make deathday tablecloth

TYRELL

“Hi, Tyrell.” The background hums with sounds of chatter.

“Tina? Where are you?” My brain zings upright. Is she lost? Is she in trouble?

“I memorized your number. I can call you from any phone.”

“That’s very smart. Whose phone are you using?”

“The one on the wall.”

“Which wall?”

“The church. It’s a funeral,” she says.

Oof. “You’re at Shae’s funeral right now?”

“There are too many people.”

“I bet. Does your mom know where you are?”

“She’s busy.”

“What is she doing?”

“Holding Shae’s mom’s hand. She’s crying a lot.”

“I bet.” I rub my forehead. I’m really not sure how to help Tina from here. “Don’t go outside, okay?” I’ve seen the news. The mess over there is hard to fathom.

“There are too many people outside, too.”

“Yeah, exactly.”

“Did you know there are six different ways to make macaroni and cheese?”

“I bet there’s more than that,” I say. “Why do you think there are only six?”

“There are six macaroni pans on the table downstairs. They all look different.”

“Which one did you like best?”

“The ones without any crunchy stuff on top.”

“Oh, but the crunchy stuff is my favorite.”

“You can have it.”

I laugh. “You’re all about the cheese, huh?”

“Tariq says cheese and noodles are the perfect food.”