John leaves, and I lean back in my desk chair. Pivot to the window. Insulated glass.

I prop my feet on the corner of the desk, a well-worn spot. Peer at the tiny vehicles, crawling far below like ants. The people, even smaller.

Thinking about where the money ever comes from. Thinking about complicity.

EVA

Eddie Johnson draws eyes and ears and a snout on my folders with a permanent marker. Everyone laughs.

“Pig!” they whisper when the teacher is on the other side of the room.

There is no one I can tell, so I don’t. The teachers are not better anyway. They whisper, too.

That’s the daughter.

Apple, tree.

I’m supposed to know what to say. I do know what to say. Nothing.

Eddie Johnson says, “I bet he beats your mom. All cops are beaters.”

There is only so much a girl can take. My brain snaps, taking my mouth along with it. “He’s a good person. A good cop.” My fists clench. No, no, no. I broke the rule. Say nothing.

Eddie Johnson shakes his head. “Good at beating people up, all right.” He pounds his knuckles into the other palm.

The smack of skin on skin. Beer bottle against the wall. The boxing bag hanging from the garage ceiling.

This time it’s not so hard to keep my silence. I don’t have to say anything at all.

I know how to throw a good punch.

ZEKE

I smooth my blazer, second-guessing my shirt choices. Ha. And I thought I was nervous about dressing for my first date with Kimberly. This is some other level.

I hover near the front door of the community center. Can’t stop myself from eagerly peering out the window every few moments.

The Reverend Alabaster Sloan is a living legend. He’s been organizing since the seventies, when he was a teenager. He marched for civil rights as a child before that.

“He should be here any minute,” I tell Kimberly.

“I know,” she says. She’s bustling around doing our actual work, while I stand here like a fool, vaguely practicing the moment when he walks in and I extend my hand in greeting. Wow, I’m such a dork.

I turn back to our task, which is inventorying the materials we’ve packed to take to the protest. “Is that everything?”

“Think so,” Kimberly says, examining her clipboard. She waves over two teen volunteers. “Let’s load it up, guys.”