1
I’M SITTING IN THE PRINCIPAL’S OFFICE. AGAIN. IN THE hallway, on the other side of the glass door, Principal Merritt is getting an earful from Emily Grant’s mom. With all those wild hand gestures, you’d think I did a lot more than give her stuckup Little Miss Princess daughter a tiny shove. Emily got up in my face, not the other way around. Wasn’t my fault she lost her balance and fell on her butt in front of everybody.
Emily stands behind her mom, surrounded by her squad. They cover their mouths and whisper, eyeing me through the door like they can’t wait to catch me alone. I lean back in my chair, out of view. You’ve really done it this time, Amari.
I glance up at the picture of the brownskinned boy on the wall behind Principal Merritt’s desk and frown. Quinton proudly holds up the trophy he won in the state math competition. You can’t see, but me and Mama are just offstage, cheering him on.
There’s not much to cheer about anymore.
The door swings open and Mrs. Grant stalks in, followed by Emily. Neither makes eye contact as they settle into the chairs farthest from me. Their dislike for me seems to fill up the whole office. I frown and cross my arms—the feeling is mutual.
Then comes Mama in her blue hospital scrubs—she got called away from work because of me again. I sit up in my chair to plead my case, but she shoots me a look that kills the words in my throat.
Principal Merritt takes his seat last, his weary eyes moving between us. “I know there’s history between the two girls. But seeing as it’s the last day of school—”
“I want that girl’s scholarship revoked!” Mrs. Grant explodes. “I don’t pay what I pay in tuition to have my daughter assaulted in the hallways!”
“Assaulted?” I start, but Mama raises a hand to cut me off.
“Amari knows better than to put her hands on other people,” says Mama, “but this has been a long time coming. Those girls have harassed my daughter since she first set foot on this campus. The messages they left on her social media pages were so ugly we considered deleting her accounts.”
“And we addressed that matter as soon as it was brought to our attention,” says Principal Merritt. “All four girls received written warnings.”
“How about the stuff they say to my face?” I lean forward in my chair, face burning. “They call me Charity Case and Free Lunch and remind me every chance they get that kids like me don’t belong here.”
“Because you don’t!” says Emily.
“Quiet!” Mrs. Grant snaps. Emily rolls her eyes.
Mrs. Grant stands, turning her attention to Mama. “I’ll have a talk with my daughter about her behavior, but your daughter got physical—I could press charges. Be thankful this is as far as I’m taking it.”
Mama bristles but bites her tongue. I wonder if it’s because Emily’s mom is right about pressing charges. Practically the whole school saw.
“Up,” says Mrs. Grant to her daughter, and they head for the door. Mrs. Grant stops short and looks back at us. “I expect to be notified the moment her scholarship is revoked. Or the Parents’ Association will have a lot to say at the next meeting.”
The door slams behind them.
I can barely sit still, I’m so mad. This is all so unfair. People like Emily and Mrs. Grant will never understand what it’s like to not have money. They can do whatever they want with no consequences while the rest of us have to watch our every step.
“Are you really taking away Amari’s scholarship?” Mama asks in a small voice.
Principal Merritt drops his eyes. “We have a zerotolerance policy when it comes to physical altercations. School rules dictate she be expelled. Taking her scholarship is the smallest punishment I can offer.”
“I see . . .” Mama sinks in her chair.
My anger melts into shame. Mama’s already sad because of Quinton. I shouldn’t be adding to her troubles just because I can’t handle a few bullies.
“I know that it’s been . . . difficult,” says Principal Merritt to me, “since Quinton’s disappearance. He was a great kid with a truly bright future. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to connect the dots between that incident and the start of your behavior problems, Amari. I can arrange for you to talk to a counselor, free of charge—”
“I don’t need a counselor,” I interrupt.
Principal Merritt frowns. “You should talk with someone about your anger.”
“You want to know why I shoved Emily? It’s because she thought it was funny to joke that my brother is dead. But he isn’t. I don’t care what anyone says. He’s out there somewhere. And when I find him, I’ll show you all!”
I’m shaking, tears streaming down my face. Principal Merritt doesn’t say anything. Mama stands up slowly and pulls me into her arms. “Go to the car, Babygirl. I’ll finish up here.”
We ride home in silence. It’s been almost six months since Quinton went missing, but it doesn’t feel that long. Seems like just the other day he was calling Mama’s phone to say he’d be home for Christmas. It was a big deal because Quinton was always gone once he got that fancy job after high school. The kind where you can’t tell anybody what you do.
I used to swear up and down that Quinton was some supersecret spy like James Bond. But he would just give me this little smirk and say, “You’re wrong, but you’re not totally wrong.” Whenever I tried to get more out of him he’d just laugh and promise to tell me when I got older.
See, Quinton is smart smart. He graduated valedictorian from Jefferson Academy and got full scholarship offers from two Ivy League schools. He turned them both down to work for whoever he was working for. When he went missing, I was sure his secret job had something to do with it. Or at least that somebody who worked with him might know what happened. But when we told the detectives about his job they looked at me and Mama like we were crazy.
They had the nerve to tell us that—as far as they could tell—Quinton was unemployed. That there were no tax records to indicate that he ever had a job of any kind. But that just didn’t make sense—he’d never lie about something like that. When Mama told them he used to send money home to help out with bills, the detectives suggested that Quinton might be involved in something he didn’t want us to know about. Something illegal. That’s always what people think when you come from “the ’Wood,” aka the Rosewood lowincome housing projects.
The car rattles as we pass over the railroad tracks, letting me know we’re in my neighborhood now. I’m not going to lie, it feels different coming back here after being on the other side of town. It’s like the world is brighter around Jefferson Academy and all those big, colorful houses that surround it. Where I’m from feels gray in comparison. We pass liquor stores and pawnshops, and I see DBoys leaning up against street signs, mean mugging like they own the whole world. Jayden, a boy I knew in elementary school, stands with a bunch of older boys, a big gold chain around his neck. He recognizes the car and shoots me a grin as we pass.
I try to smile back but I don’t know if it’s convincing. We haven’t spoken since Quinton went missing. Not since he started hanging with the guys he promised my brother he’d stay away from.