“White people think they’re better than us,” she says.

“Not all white people,” I answer, stroking her hair. It’s what you’re supposed to say, right? Sometimes I’m not so sure.

“I’m going,” I tell her. “I’ll see your brother there.” My heart flutters at the thought of Brick. My memory rings with the sensation of his muscles against me. His breath on my cheek. The quick, hard rhythm as we rise together. The way his arms wrap me tight as we lay together. His sweet whispers. He is so much more than meets the eye. We both are.

I imagine him waking, wonder if his first thoughts were of me. Like mine were of him. Wonder if he will take my hand when we meet. Or kiss me in front of his friends. Wonder if instead, he will want to keep me a secret of his own. For now.

I shake my head to clear away the doubt. He likes me. More than likes me. I could see it in his eyes, hear it in his words. He could have any woman he wants, and he chose me. I was chosen.

My body flushes at the very thought. Not appropriate thoughts for work, with his baby sister under my arm. I am tempted to tell her, we might be sisters soon. But it was one night. It is too soon, and she is too fragile.

“Everything is always breaking,” Sheila says.

It jars me, the way she can somehow read my mind. “What? No, nothing is breaking.” We are fine. Even when it doesn’t seem it. We are fine.

“The news,” she says. “It is always breaking.”

Oh. “I suppose so,” I answer. “Sad and difficult things are happening all around us.”

“And to us,” she says. “We are breaking.”

I hold her close. “We are strong,” I tell her. “All the bad things in the world cannot break us.”

KIMBERLY

“We need to get a response chant going.” Zeke tries to hand me the megaphone.

“Me?” No, no, no. Not me.

“Sure,” he says. “You’re good with words.”

“Uh…”

Zeke kisses my cheek, whispers, “And I know you’ve got rhythm.”

A totally inappropriate giggle sneaks out of me. I smack his chest. “You’re so bad. We’re at a protest, for crying out loud.”

He’s grinning and he’s just so, so cute. The megaphone is still in his hands, pushing toward me. “Take it,” he says. “There’s no one better.”

No, no, no. Not me. I’ve never wanted to be the one standing at the front of the crowd. The one with the megaphone, leading the people in chants. I’m a crowd-dweller, a stagehand. Never the leader, never the star. I wouldn’t know what to do with all these eyes on me. Step up, K, those looks say. Start talking.

“Maybe later,” I suggest.