Mom turns off the TV before the reporter can finish. We all know what happened, especially me—I read every report and article I could get my hands on. Because it happened less than thirty minutes from where I’m standing right now…and because Jerome looked like me. Dark skin, strong features, slightly-above-average height. But most of all, he was Black. And that, in America, seems to be a death sentence sometimes.

“So, you’re really doing this,” Mom says.

“I’m going to be safe,” I promise her. Like I’ve promised her the past three days. “I’m also not going alone. Damien is going with me.”

That seems to help. The tightness in her shoulders relaxes a notch. Damien’s white, and life is always easier when you have a white guy by your side.

Maybe that’s part of the reason I’m interested in dating him? Damien isn’t at all my type, let me be clear. He doesn’t care about politics or social justice like I do. He doesn’t see beyond what the news—or anyone, for that matter—tells him. He doesn’t seek out information so he can make his own decisions. But he’s handsome, he’s smart, and he’s kind.

Plus, as every Black person knows, proximity to whiteness helps us succeed in life, whether we like it or not. At least Damien gives me that.

“And you’ll have your phone with you?”

“Yes.”

“Charger?”

“Yes, Mom,” I lie. It wouldn’t fit in my bag. Candy is more important, anyway. Got to keep my energy up.

“Water?”

“Yes.”

“Contact list of—”

“You, Grandma, and two friends.” Also a pro bono legal group I found online that is giving free legal help to anyone arrested at the protests, but she doesn’t need to know that. “I also have my camera. I’ll show you the photos when I get back, if you want?”

That’s why I’m doing this in the first place. It’s not just to protest injustice, though of course that’s a big part. But this is also to better myself—to better us. If I can get awesome pictures at the protest, it’ll bolster my Columbia photojournalism application. My guidance counselor said I’m close to being competitive for a full ride scholarship. I just need a little something extra.

If I can capture these protests, the anger and hurt, the rift between people and the police? That’s the kind of something she means. I just know it.

“Do you have a mask? I’m sure there’s going to be tear gas.”

I pause. That’s something I don’t have—and didn’t even think about. Shit.

My mom glances over, my own dark brown eyes looking back at me. “You didn’t pack a mask.”

Again, not a question—a statement.

“I forgot.”