My jaw drops. If I knew, I wouldn’t have come today. Maybe that’s what had Quincy ready to bounce; he was too loyal to want to hear slander about Jamal. He faced the same with his dad.

“I’m sure you can skip out. The office is open, and counselors are making themselves available.”

“All right.” I shut my locker. Tasha looks at her watch and I wave her off. She’s been struggling in science, and late attendance will knock her grade more.

I look around the school as I walk through the hallway, deciding between going to class and lining up for assembly or hiding out in a classroom.

Hard stares meet me as I walk. Inside, I’m regretting I didn’t push back with Mama more.

There’s a fissure in the school, and you can feel the divide. I’m clearly on one side, so I know I have my answer about the assembly. I drop into the newspaper room to escape.

It’s only been a few days since I’ve been here; usually there’s a buzz of energy that the room always gives me. But the last time I was here was with Angela. Sadness takes up the space. I’m expecting her to be working away at the student assistant desk next to Mr. Kaine’s. I’ve barely had time to mourn for her, to feel the shock and pain of losing someone so suddenly. Being here, I can’t hide from that. Angela is gone forever. I know the paper will memorialize her, so I want to take a look at what they’ve done. Sad I couldn’t be a part of helping tell how much she meant to our team, but also knowing there’s no way I could be included in that discussion. Not with my brother as the number one suspect.

I weave my way to where we last spoke. Usually Monday mornings I come in early, get a sneak peek at the layout, and see how “Tracy’s Corner” looks in print.

The front page has one large photo of Angela, her name, birth and death years below the picture. I flip through the print layout, page after page, looking for her write-up. Then I note that “Tracy’s Corner” is missing. The heading was supposed to be “Social Justice’s New Generation.” I spent hours on interviews and turned it in early.

“Tracy.” Mr. Kaine steps into the classroom. He’s always been one of the cooler white teachers at school. He makes the newsroom come alive. Walls plastered with blown-up photos of banned books and iconic images like the Tiananmen Square protester facing off tanks and the 1968 Black Power salute at the Olympics.

“What are you doing in here? The assembly is about to begin.”