Apology lights up RaShawn’s eyes. He clearly regrets involving his big sister. That’s not good for his look.

On his end, Nehemiah casually spits into the grass.

“Who? RaShawn? I heard about that. I handled it,” Moms says.

“Handled it how? You ain’t his momma,” RaShawn’s sister yells to everyone watching.

“I’m better than his momma. I’m actually here.” Moms lets that line sit in everyone’s ear for a minute, like she wants it to travel the neighborhood, before she continues. “And RaShawn, with his little wannabe hood self, gave as good as he got. He started the fight last week. Nehemiah and his angry excuse for a behind started it this week. I saw it, I stopped it. It got dealt with.”

“Well, I’m here to see it gets dealt with better,” RaShawn’s sister blusters, but her voice falters a little bit, not quite convinced of her own words.

“And who. Are. You?” There it is. That vessel in my mother’s neck throbs like it’s keeping beat to that old jazz music she loves so much. She’s on final countdown, soon to launch. “In fact, why am I out here explaining myself to a child? Someone who needs her own momma to do a better job of checking her hoochie outfits before she steps out of the house. You want things done better? Why don’t you start by keeping your little hoodlum at home in the first place?”

“He over here ’cause everyone hangs out here.” That’s the second time RaShawn’s sister checks herself. Her voice lightens up as if she is no longer sure of where to step.

“Not everyone. Not no more. He too through.” Moms crosses her arms, a judge delivering her verdict. She stares down every kid present, daring them to say otherwise.

Sensing a change in the direction the wind is blowing, RaShawn’s sister knows she’s losing her audience. “That’s fine. I’ll just get my other brother and unleash him.”

Uh-oh, I think. All a person has to do to jump-start the fury in Moms is just hint at a threat to one of her children. The sky might as well turn faint green with the sound of a rumbling train in the distance signaling the imminent touchdown of a tornado.

Moms’s brow knits. Her lips quiver. The large veins in her neck tighten like thick cords. Her lips curl. Her body quakes. Moms’s head ticks to the side. She starts reaching for her earrings, even though she doesn’t actually wear any. Her eyes focus like a missile lock signaling “target: acquired” as she switches into a walking nuclear warhead scanning for a head to drop onto.

“Why wait? I’m right here.” Moms slams her fist onto the hood of her car, buckling the old, paint-faded metal. Moments like this scare me. Not because I fear for my safety, but because in this state Moms is liable to do just about anything. As far as Moms is concerned, anyone can be a threat, so if the person is at least her height and in her face, they are danger enough for her to defend herself.