It was on one of those nights that Rashid discovered the Chelsea School. He found the brochure among some old things of Kofi’s. “No way am I going to an all-boys school,” he said at the time, laughing and throwing the brochure aside. “Got to have some honeys around.” Laughing boys, serious boys, studious boys, only boys adorned the textured cover of the booklet. Rashid opened it, not thinking. “Here is a place that can shape a young man’s life,” he read. “At the Chelsea School, the only criterion is excellence. We expect it. We demand it. We create it. And our boys grow into men who will change the world.” He flipped the pages a bit more intently, feeling the heavy, nubbly paper stock underneath his fingers. Change the world. Change the world. He could hear tinny laughter from the television set, the shouts of boys outside on the street. There was a sudden high buzzing in his head as he carefully copied down the address of the school into the back of one of his notebooks. Maybe if he left. Maybe if he went someplace pure and single-minded. No girls to distract him. Nobody who knew about Kofi, about how alone he was now. Someplace where he had no history, just the day in front of him. Maybe then his mind would clear. Maybe then he could breathe again.

That night, he went hesitantly out into the living room before going to bed. His parents sat in their usual chairs, in their usual positions. The room had a faint, unpleasant smell of recent cooking and sweat. Their plates sat in front of them, grease congealing with brown gravy. Urgent dialogue stuttered out of the television, but their faces were sorrowful and blank. “Mama, Dad, I … I decided something tonight.”

They didn’t even look up at first. Finally Rashid spoke again. “I decided to apply to private school. A boys’ school in Connecticut. This one called Chelsea.” Until he spoke, he hadn’t felt convinced. But as he gazed at his parents’ faces, he had never felt more sure of anything in his life.

They turned to him as if under water. After a long pause, his father spoke. “Private school. Well, if you can get in and get the money, you go ’head on. Might as well have one of you try to do something with your life. Now that Kofi’s gone. You the last chance we got.”

His mother’s eyes filled with tears again. Since Kofi’s death, they’d rarely been clear. More than once, Rashid had found her moving swiftly about the kitchen, cooking as she always did, her face wet with tears she made no attempt to wipe off. “You do what you need to do, Rashid. Your father’s right. You got to be a man about this now.” She turned away, closing her eyes as she did so.