“I’m not threatening you. I’m telling you that if my son gets hurt one more time at this school, I’m going to the district. I’m going to the news. I’m going to make sure everyone knows that Eastside Middle School doesn’t protect its students.”
I turnedand walked out before he could respond, my hands shaking, my chest heaving.
Yusef was waiting in the hallway, his eyes wide. The nurse had given him an ice pack, which he held against his face.
“Let’s go,” I said quietly.
“I’m sorry,” Yusef said finally, his voice small.
“Don’t apologize. This isn’t your fault.”
“I lost the money?—”
“I don’t care about the money.” I turned to look at him. “I care about you. You’re what matters. Not the camp, not the money. You.”
He nodded, but I could see the shame in his face. The embarrassment. The defeat.
We rode home in silence. When we got back to the apartment, Yusef went straight to his room and locked the door.I stood in the hallway, listening to the sound of nothing. No crying. No music. Just silence.
I knocked softly. “Yu? You want something to eat?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Baby—”
“I just want to be alone. Please.”
I pressed my forehead against the door, my chest aching. “Okay. I’m here if you need me.”
No response.
I went to my room and closed the door. Sat on the edge of my bed. And finally let myself cry.
All the fear, all the frustration, all the rage I’d been holding back came pouring out. I cried for Yusef. For the life we were living. For the constant running, the constant fear, the constant feeling like we were one step away from everything falling apart.
I cried until I couldn’t cry anymore. Until my eyes were swollen and my throat was raw.
Then I pulled out my phone and opened my messages and texted my sister.
He got beat up again. I’m at the end of my rope. I don’t know what to do anymore.
I sat there wishing someone would tell me what to do.
Wishing I wasn’t so tired of being strong.
Wishing things could be different.
But wishing didn’t change anything.
It never did.
15
PRIME
The electric guitar hummed under my fingers, distortion bleeding through the amp in my living room. I’d been playing for the past hour, letting muscle memory take over while my mind wandered places it shouldn’t.
Zahara.
