We stomp harder until the whole room shakes. Luckily, we are on the first floor so no one is beneath us, but I’m sure our neighbors must be wondering what’s going on.

“Do you think he’s dead now?” she asks, out of breath.

“I hope so.”

“We should stomp more to make sure.”

Manda Panda continues pounding the ground with her feet while screaming, “Die! Die! Die!”

Her screams come from deep within her belly. They are guttural, visceral, like a mother giving birth. I know she is trying to erase him from her psyche, but I’ve learned the only way to extract the pain is to heal it out. I don’t stop her, though. She is taking her revenge for being punished by a crime she did not commit.

“What about now?” she asks in exhaustion with no more breath to spare.

“Yea. I think we did it that time.”

When we finally finish our catharsis, all I can hear is our beating hearts. Hearts that know how to survive. Hearts that know how to persevere. We do need our hearts, I say silently to Tina. We always needed them, even though I’ve spent a lifetime trying to shut mine down. I decide as long as mine is beating, I can try. I can keep going. Every beat is an invitation to stand again, wipe the sweat from brows, the tears from eyes, and ask, “What next?” I don’t want to be a warrior, but being a woman in a world full of men is to learn to take up arms constantly. Women’s hearts are vast, unlimited, ever expanding to absorb the runoff. All the pain that the men refuse to feel is passed on to us. We make magic out of it.

I kiss Manda Panda on the forehead as she is falling asleep. “Night, sweet girl,” I whisper. When she is snoring, I take one more shot and pass out until dawn arrives.

We meet at Denny’s on our last day before heading home for winter break. We are celebrating our academic victories. Four Black kids from Nowhere, urban America, made out like bandits with GPAs ranging from 3.45 to 3.73 despite rocky midterms. Gabby’s was the highest. She thanks the ancestors for “ordering her steps and guiding her path to success.”

“Nigga, it wasn’t the ancestors,” Keli scolds. “It was hours of studying, tutoring, and praying.”

“No, actually, I have to agree with Gabby on this one. They were definitely watching out for us.” Earnell winks at me.

“Finally, some validation. Thank you, Brother Jackson. At least one of us can see the light.” Gabby sticks out her tongue at Keli in playful scorn.