I had a brother. His name was Kofi DuBois Bryson. He was 15 years old. On a night in July, a hot night, he went out to get a Coke and somebody shot him. The next time I saw him, he was dead at the funeral parlor, his face the color of a plum, wearing a suit he always hated. My mother cried so much that she broke a blood vessel in her eye. My father had to hold her up. She looked like a sack of potatoes. After that, they stopped loving me. I think it is too dangerous. What if I get shot too? When I stood in front of the coffin, all I could think was that I wanted to lift up the edge of that jacket he was wearing and see the hole and stick my hand into it until it was covered with his blood. Maybe then I would understand. But I didn’t. So I don’t understand. I never will.

I sat in the teachers lounge holding the essay, my hands shaking slightly. I hadn’t had a cigarette in ten years, but I’d have killed for one in that moment. His brother had been gunned down in the street? How could no one have told me? I thought of the postcard I got from Jason and the despair that had made me unable to answer. How he must have felt when I never replied. I couldn’t fail again. But what was I going to say? What did he want me to say? I sat there for a long time, imagining the calming taste of smoke in my lungs. Finally I thought, Maybe I should talk to Jerome about this. Perhaps Rashid had spoken to him about it, too. I felt a little funny deciding this, because their both being black was no reason to assume they were buddies. On the other hand, Jerome spent a lot of time with the boy between cross-country and Latin, and he clearly had some feelings about him. I needed to talk to somebody. I didn’t know what else to do. I gulped. Once. Stood up and left the faculty lounge to go to Jerome’s office. My heart was loud in my ears.

As I arrived at the door to the office, I could see Jerome sitting neatly erect in the pristine, small room, one quiz paper right-angled on the desk before him. I knocked and then entered when he gestured for me to come in.

“Jana. How nice to see you. What brings you by?”

I was rattled, but not so much that I missed the warmth in his voice. But I pressed on with what I’d come for. “I just received something rather troubling from Rashid Bryson. I wanted to talk it over with you. I thought perhaps he’d confided in you.”