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unraveling. “Of course,” I mumbled, although it wasn’t true.
    Ms. Evette sighed. “I hate leaving you when there’s just been a shooting and you’ve had a fall. I’d rather talk to your mother first.”
    â€œShe’s sleeping,” I said. “But don’t worry. I’ll wake Ma up as soon as I get in.”
    â€œTia,” Keisha said, “why don’t you run inside and ask your mama if you can sleep over tonight? If she’s asleep, why would you want to—”
    I put my key in the lock and thrust the door open.
    â€œI can’t,” I said. “Not tonight.”
    Ms. Evette’s frown deepened. “You’re
certain
your mother is inside? Asleep?”
    â€œOf course,” I said. “Why would I lie about that?”
    â€œWell . . .” Ms. Evette said, and I knew she couldn’t figure out the answer to that question. “All right. It’s getting late and I need to get Jerome home to bed. Tia, you lock this door the second you get inside, and you wake that mother of yours up immediately. Do you hear me? Tell her everything. Understand?”
    I nodded. “Yes, ma’am,” I said, stepping inside my dark, empty house. I shut the door behind me and doubled-locked it, leaving the chain off for Ma to come in later.
    Then I slid down the back of the door and closed my eyes.
    What had happened tonight? Something awful. But why hadn’t the adults told us what it was? Was it so horrible they thought we shouldn’t know? Maybe that was okay for the nine- and ten-year-olds, but most of us were older now. We even had a few fourteen-year-old guys in the bass section.
    A flash of anger surged through me, and for just a moment I hated those adults for keeping secrets—Ms. Marion, Ms. Evette, Mary-Kate’s mom, the pastor—but then I tamped the feeling down because none of this was their fault.
    They didn’t shoot anyone.
    But someone had.

CHAPTER 7
    T HE NEX T MORNING, I woke with my sheets twisted around my ankles and my forehead drenched with sweat. I’d had nightmares, tossing and turning all night, waking to the sound of imaginary gunshots, only to fall asleep again and dream about Ma driving the car with the bullet hole in the back window and my father standing in the road with his fingers shaped into a gun. In the dream I screamed until I was hoarse.
    It was a relief to finally see daylight, but the feeling was short-lived. I’d never dreamed about my father before. Not that I could remember. It’d been a long time since I’d last asked Ma about him. I’d been six, maybe seven? Old enough to wonder if Daddy was ever coming home, but not old enough to understand the answer. I shivered, remembering the coldness in Ma’s eyes, as if she’d been angry at me for asking.
    I’ll answer your qu
estions this once, b
ut after this youn
eed to understand: Y
our father is dead t
o us, and there’s no
thing new to say abo
ut a dead man.
    I tried to remember my mother’s exact words about what he’d done, but the facts were scattered in my brain—just out of reach. I wanted to force them to the surface, but I was exhausted. My stomach churned, creating a sour taste in my mouth, and I swallowed hard before stumbling into the bathroom and splashing cold water onto my face. I didn’t even bother to warm up my vocal cords. For the first time I could remember, I didn’t want to sing.
    When I finally made it to the kitchen, I was surprised to see Ma still up, sitting at the worn table we used for meals. Ma rarely stayed up after she worked a night shift, and she looked tired. She also looked hard as iron.
    â€œThere was a shooting last night,” she said, without even saying good morning. “Near your church.”
    It wasn’t a question, but I nodded. “How did you hear?”
    â€œMorning edition got delivered to the store just before I