Her eyes soften. “All right, but be careful.”

The entrance to our housing addition serves as the dividing line of the entire neighborhood. The subdivision mirrors itself along the main street. It cuts through the houses like a giant smile, all the courts and lanes branching from it. What was worse was that only the main street had a sidewalk running alongside it—even then, just on one side. Moms is pretty good about giving me space to do my thing. Though she gave her permission, once or twice along the way, I swear I spot her cutting through people’s yards to keep a watchful eye on me. I keep waiting for Ahrion to leap out of a stand of trees and yell “Here I am!”

I want to be more independent and all, but I hate coming over to Nehemiah’s. It isn’t because I have crossed some invisible dividing line and suddenly find myself in a bad area of town. That’s how so many people react whenever the idea of coming here pops. Actually, it’s because whenever I spend time there, I’m struck with an overwhelming sadness. Nehemiah’s house is a brick-trimmed, cream-paneled, two-level home. Our housing addition only had two floor plans to choose from: our ranch style and this one. Weeds grow too high along the building’s side. I ring the doorbell twice and step back on the porch. The curtain covering the door pane flutters. A lone, careful eye checks me out before the curtain falls back in place. Finally the door opens.

“Hi, Mrs. Johnson. Is Nehemiah here?”

“You know he is. Where else he going to be?” Mrs. Johnson is a dragon, but also Nehemiah’s grandmother. She wears misery for makeup and chugs bitterness for vitamins. Nothing is ever done right or satisfies her. She tugs her gray sweater tighter around her like she suspects I might attempt to mug her. “Who are you?”

“Thelonius Mitchell, ma’am.” I hate the way she never bothers to remember my name, as if I’m beneath her notice.

“Don’t ‘ma’am’ me. Showing up on my doorstep, looking all raggedy. You the one that got Nehemiah into all that trouble, right? I saw you down at the school hiding behind that teacher like he was your momma’s skirt.” She dangles her hand out like she’s clutching an invisible cigarette.

“Can I talk to him?” I lower my head and kick at the loose rocks along the doorframe.

“Now you trying to ignore me like I ain’t even here? I’m talking to you. I’m the one whose day got interrupted to come see about Nehemiah.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am.”

“Yeah, you are.” Mrs. Johnson slams the door so hard that the knocker clatters against it and the frame shudders.

I jump at the sound and remain on the porch, not certain what to do next while the thud echoes. My mouth twists up. I nearly swallow my lower lip while I debate on whether to knock on the door again. Voices rise on the other side of the door.