To give me courage that morning of the first day back, Mama told me about Ruby Bridges, a little girl from my hometown in New Orleans. How brave she was as a first grader going to school with guards because white folks didn’t want her integrating school. Mama talked to us about being brave, the same talk she gave Corinne last Wednesday when she left for school. Mama had me imagine how hard that must’ve been. That anything I was going through would pale in comparison. Then she dug around and found a Ruby Tuesday pin from the restaurant, so I’d think about her when I was at school.

I hadn’t touched that pin in years, but on Wednesday I gave it to Corinne. Now with Monday rolling around, I wish I had it for myself. I dress baggy so I’m swallowed up by my oversize tank top and black yoga pants.

Mama doesn’t care I only have a few weeks left of school. She doesn’t trust Jamal’s teachers will be fair. He’ll go from As to Cs, since his missing assignments will turn to zeros, but she’s hoping it’ll at least be a passing average so he can graduate. I need to be there so they don’t forget that we’re real people—“good kids.”

In fifth grade, when I went back to school, I wore earbuds on the bus to drown out the chatter about Daddy. There were snickers, taunting, jokes, but never a crowd.

Today is different.

Media outlets are parked on school property, roaming the lawn. Lights hover over classmates being interviewed. Mama took Jamal’s car to work so I can drive her car and lay low at school. I fling on my backpack and baseball cap. With the media outside, it’s chaotic enough that I think I’ll go unnoticed, as long as I put my head down and skirt to the front doors of the school.

Justin Draper doesn’t let that happen, though. He stops the camera operator from NBS and points to me with his booming voice. “That’s Jamal Beaumont’s sister.”

My mouth opens; I look to my left and right, unsure of the best escape route, the camera moving closer to me as other media outlets pick up on who I am. Each one angling to get their exclusive. If this wasn’t about Jamal, I’d embrace it, use it as an opportunity to talk about Daddy.

They get closer, and I feel the blood rushing from my face.

I’m frozen, until a hand swoops under my arm and steps in front of me, blocking the cameras.

Quincy.

“We’re going to the west gate out by the track. Ready?” Quincy says with a rushed, heavy breath.