Once we pull up in front of our apartment building, Mama buries her face in her hands and cries.
“Are . . . are you okay?” I ask.
“I feel like I’m failing you, Babygirl. I work twelvehour shifts, five days a week. You should have somebody around who you can talk to.”
“I’m fine. I know you only work so much because you have to.”
Mama shakes her head. “I don’t want you to have to struggle like I do. That scholarship to Jefferson Academy was your ticket to a good college—to a better life. Lord knows I can’t afford to send you to a place like that on my own. I don’t know what we’re supposed to do now.”
“I’m sorry, but I never fit in at that place.” I cross my arms and turn to look out the window. Just because my brother made it look so easy doesn’t mean I can too. “I’m not Quinton.”
“I’m not asking you to be your brother,” says Mama. “I’m just asking that you try. That school was an opportunity for you to see that there’s a big, wide world outside this neighborhood. A chance to broaden your horizons.” She sighs. “I know it’s unfair, but the truth is that when you’re a poor Black girl from the ’Wood, certain people are gonna already have it in their minds what type of person you are. You can’t give them a reason to think they’re right.”
I don’t respond. She acts like this isn’t something she’s already told me a million times.
“If you’re not acting up in school,” says Mama, “then you’re sitting in front of that computer for hours. It’s not healthy, Amari.”
I mean, I know she’s right. But it’s hard to concentrate on schoolwork when you can hear other kids whispering about you. And posting photos of Quinton on as many websites as I can lets me feel like I’m helping with the search. I know it’s a long shot, but it gives me hope.
Mama continues, “When you get inside, I want you to slide that laptop under my door and leave it there.”
“But Mama.”
She waves her hand. “I don’t wanna hear it. Until you decide to take your future more seriously, that computer stays with me. We’ll talk more about this tomorrow. I’ve gotta get back to the hospital.”
I slam the car door after I get out. And I don’t look back once as I stomp toward our building. What am I supposed to do now?
Once I’m inside the apartment, I fall over onto the couch and bury my head in the pillows. This has been the worst day.
Finally, with a groan, I pull myself up to a sitting position and grab my old, beatup laptop from my book bag. Quinton won it after placing second at some international science fair forever ago. He gave it to me after he won a better one the next year.
I’m not even surprised when the screen stays black after I open it up.
I open and close it a few times, but it still won’t work. Since it’s clearly in one of its moods, I set it down and head to the kitchen to get myself some food.
Except, even after I’ve calmed my grumbling belly, the laptop still won’t turn on. I close my eyes and bring it up to my forehead. “Mama says I’ve got to give you up, and there’s no telling when she’ll give you back. Please work.”
This time it powers right up. Thank goodness.
The free neighborhood WiFi is super slow, but I’m still able to copy and paste Quinton’s missing persons poster onto a dozen websites.
Normally I’d check his email next (I figured out his password months ago—Amari-Amazing—my fake superhero name from way back), but my curiosity gets the best of me and I pull up Emily Grant’s Instagram page to see if she posted anything about today. And what do I find? A photo of me on her profile with the caption:
Summer Break! And guess what?
We finally took out the trash at Jefferson. Expelled!
The post has a ton of comments from other students. I only read a few before I slam the laptop shut. Never wanted her here . . . I heard she used to steal from the lockers . . . All it took was her dumb brother to drop dead . . .
I didn’t get expelled, and my brother isn’t dead. Jaw clenched, I open my laptop again to write a reply to shut them all up. A notification appears at the top of the screen, and my whole body goes stiff. It’s a new email for Quinton.
1 New Email: From Discreet Deliveries
Which may not sound like a lot, but Quinton never gets new emails. Ever. I’ve been checking since the day I figured out his password.
I open the email:
Package Delivered.
You shall receive a separate email once Amari
Peters has signed, as requested.
Thanks for using Discreet Delivery service,
where they get what’s coming to them, whether
they know it or not!
This email will self-destruct in 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . .
The email vanishes.
I jump in surprise. Did that email really just . . .
And what am I supposed to sign?
A knock sounds at the front door. “Delivery!”
2
I SPRINT TO THE FRONT DOOR AND YANK IT OPEN.
A man in tattered clothes stands hunched over in the doorway. I lean over him to look down the sidewalk in both directions. Where’s the delivery guy?
“Hello there,” he says without looking up. “Might I trouble you for a moment?”
I instantly feel guilty for overlooking him. “I don’t have any money. But there’s a Hot Pocket in the freezer you can have. Mama hasn’t gone shopping yet.”
“That’s very kind of you but I’ve actually just left a very fine restaurant.”
“Oh,” I say. “So you’re not homeless?”
“Homeless? Heavens, no.” The guy finally lifts his head—he’s older, with a neatly trimmed gray beard. The thing he’s been hunched over is a computer tablet. “Why would you think that?”
My eyes drop to his patchy clothes. “Um, no reason.”
The guy follows my eyes and his face goes bright red. “I’ll have you know that this is the height of fashion in—oh, never mind. Might your name be Amari Peters?”
Whoa! I take a couple steps backward. “How do you know my name?”
“It’s right here on the screen,” he says, pointing to his tablet. “I’ll just need you to sign for your delivery and I’ll be on my way.”
“You’re . . . the delivery guy?” I say warily. “And you’ve got a package for me?”
“Yep.” He flips the tablet around. “From a Q. Peters.”
I gasp. “You’re saying you’ve really brought me something from my brother?”
The guy nods. “I do if this Q. Peters fella is your brother. Says here he’s sent exactly one ‘Broaden Your Horizons’ kit.”
Broaden your horizons? Wasn’t that what Mama was just talking about? “Is this some kind of joke?”
“I should think not.” He frowns. “I only do deliveries parttime, but I take it seriously.”
“Well, whatever you’re supposed to be delivering, I’ll take it.” That’s when I notice he’s not carrying any envelopes or boxes. “Where is it?”