“What’s going on down there?” Our neighbor Mrs. Washington, a few yards up toward our houses, stands on her front porch, hands on hips, wearing an apron with her frown.

“Let’s get outta here,” Paul hisses, grabbing Robert’s arm and taking off.

Michael walks backward, keeping his eyes trained on me, and points one long finger. “This isn’t over, Fraction! Stay away from Hannah.”

He turns and sprints after the other two boys, rounding the corner and disappearing.

“Y’all all right?” Mrs. Washington yells.

“Yes, ma’am.” I make my mouth smile and, letting Kimba go, I wave. From her expression, I can tell Mrs. Washington doesn’t believe me, but with one last piercing look, she goes inside.

“Dammit,” I say, trying out one of the curse words I use when my mother’s nowhere around. “She’s gonna tell my parents.”

“I’m gonna tell them,” Kimba says, her expression squished into a frown.

“Oh, that’s just great. Yeah, tell them I got beaten up by some white guys from synagogue. As if my mom’s not already just looking for an excuse to pack us up and move whether Dad has a new job or not. She’d send me to live with Bubbe in New York. Is that what you want?”

Kimba blinks at me, tears gathering to a shimmer over her dark eyes. “Y-y-you…”

She closes her eyes and presses her lips together, the frustration of not getting the words out clear on her face like I’ve seen it a hundred times before.

Take your time, Tru.

“You think she’d do that?” she asks more slowly after a moment, a tear streaking down one smooth brown cheek. “Take you away?”

I can’t stand to see her cry.

“Don’t… Don’t cry. Nah. I’m just…no. Probably not. Let’s just not tell her. Everyone’s not like them. It’s not a big deal, okay?”

“It is a big deal.” She balls her small hands into fists at her side. “They punched you in the stomach.”

She steps close, lifting my T-shirt. “Are you hurt? Did they—”

“Stop.” I catch her hand, pushing it away from me, pushing her away. “I’m fine.”

We’re not babies anymore. Not little kids on the swings. Our parents sat us down last year and explained we’re too old for sleepovers, and when Kimba tries to lift my shirt to make sure I’m okay, I know we’re getting too old for a lot of things.

“They hurt you,” she whispers, letting her hand drop. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

She saw them hitting me. Saw me slumped like a wimp, short and small, while those bigger boys punched me. Shame curdles in my belly. Blood heats my cheeks. I’m white enough to blush, but too black to blend.