After school, I walk alone to Herron Media, avoiding eye contact with everyone I pass. Still, I can’t help but notice an older white lady pull her purse closer as I walk by her on the sidewalk. Her action sends my mind spiraling on high alert to the people around me. Every time there’s a whisper in the ear, a stare in my direction, a flinch from someone passing me. A million subtleties that let me know my place. Branded as an outsider more than seven years ago, like each member of my family. We don’t belong. The Davidsons’ office was in this same business complex, and although Mama and Jamal kept ties, I’ve never felt we were accepted back in the community. Each visit is a reminder that life changed for us.

I snake through the crowd of passersby, turning my head, hoping their focus will be on my big black natural curls that take up their own space, rather than on my face. I used to love having Daddy’s uncharacteristically slender nose, full lips, bright white teeth, and wide smile that used to draw people in, always catching attention. But now when people see me, they perceive something different. Something appalling. Layered with their unforgiving small-town judgment about the family of someone on death row.

If Daddy were here, he’d say, Chin up. Nothing to be ashamed of. His words fill my head like music as I enter the administrative building for Herron Media and wave to Valerie at the reception desk before heading to the staircase.

I make my way upstairs to the third door on the right, the production room. It’s always mesmerizing stepping into the audio room where the commercials and voice-overs are made. The buttons and displays blink like flashing lights in the sky. When the door swings open, my mouth drops.

Jamal freezes, stopping his rubbing all up on Angela, who’s sitting on top of the audio table. Her blond waves are all mussed up, the audio control’s surface out of place, tucked to the side. Although Mr. Herron’s cool for white folk in Texas, he ain’t that cool.

“Tracy.” Angela pushes away from Jamal, fixing her skirt and wiping her lips.

This has to be Jamal’s greatest flaw: a girlfriend for every day of the week and of every race. He doesn’t think twice about who he’s talking to. Society’s double standard. Jamal knows he’d give me a hard time if things were turned around.

“Hmm.” I scowl and raise an eyebrow. “How long’s this been going on?”

Jamal doesn’t answer, so I turn to Angela. “And shouldn’t you be at work?”