It’s been over twenty-four hours since Tyler went missing, and the moon hangs from its neck in the darkened sky. My thoughts echo like shadows behind me as I mull over the very fact that I’m part of the blame for Tyler’s disappearance. If I’d just kept a closer watch on him, I wouldn’t have lost him. I know it.

When I arrive at Faith’s place, there’s a light on in the living room, and through the window I can see a shadow of her dancing, the music so loud I can hear it from the porch.

I walk up to the door and knock hard, looking around me, up and down the street.

The music clicks off, and I hear a latch being undone on the other side.

She opens the door a little bit, just enough for me to see her eyes.

“Hi. It’s me—Marvin Johnson,” I say, waving and offering a slight grin, as if I’m simultaneously trying to assure her that I come in peace, but also in so much damn panic.

She opens the door all the way so I can see her. She’s in sweatpants and a tank and with no makeup, not like how I remember her at the party, but she’s still fine as hell.

“What’re you doing here?” she says in a confused voice, scanning around outside, too. She grabs her elbows as a chilly gust of wind blows.

My heart thumps loudly. “Please. I need your help.”

She pauses, and I can tell something inside her is fighting the urge to slam the door in my face.

“Come in,” she finally says, eyes searching up and down the block. “No one’s home. My mom’s working and my stepdad is probably either passed out in an alley somewhere or at a casino.”

Her house smells like old grease and candle wax. Everything is brown and gold and beige and beautiful. She’s got a bunch of black celebrity paintings all over her house, like Tupac, Biggie, Beyoncé, and Rihanna, and even older ones, too, like Diana Ross, Gladys Knight, Janet and Michael Jackson, and Prince. Everything is clean and crisp, like it’s brand-new—even the sandy-brown carpet. I follow her to the couch like an amazed little kid at a museum. And I try to hold off from blinking because I don’t want to miss a single second of this moment.

And then she clears her throat and cuts on some music again. The first song that plays is “Keep Ya Head Up” by Tupac. She likes Pac, too. She lowers the volume before she sits next to me on a brown leather loveseat. It’s quiet for a moment, except for Tupac in the background: Look to my future ’cause my past is all behind me. Is it a crime to fight for what is mine?

“She taught herself,” Faith says, pouring two glasses of iced tea. “My mom painted all those celebrity paintings. That’s how she stayed out of the streets. Painting saved her, and it left her with a gift.” She pauses and smiles. “One day, I think I’ll be as talented as her. Even though she’s out driving one of the city buses now.”

Faith hands me a glass. And I take a huge gulp, cringing inside from the sweetness, but it quenches my thirst. “Those are dope!”

She smiles, but something about her seems stiff.

“So about Johntae and bail and finding my brother,” I say, brushing my hands on my pants.

Her smile fades. “I can’t help you.” She sighs, looking away. “As much as I want to, I can’t.”

“Why? He specifically told me to go to you for his bail money.”

“He still thinks I’m holding on to his savings. I used it to pay for my mother’s surgery. She had to have a device implanted because of her heart failure. I never told him because… well…” She stops and looks at her palms. “If I did, he would send somebody to hurt me.”

I stay quiet.

“There’s a special kind of pain that comes with being with him. And he has these mood swings and I never know how to keep up. And I’m trying to figure out how to detach myself from him. For years, I thought of myself as a collection of almosts and could bes, but I’ve realized so much about myself.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like I’m going to get out of here, out of this place, out of Sterling Point—finally get away from Johntae. I’m going to online school right now, but I’m trying to transfer to an art school in New York. I’ve realized that I’ve got so much potential to be somebody someday.” She takes a breath.

The music switches from Tupac to Alicia Keys.

“He holds you back, huh?”

“Johntae has these really high highs and these really low lows, and then one day, everything boils up and he comes crashing down. And more often than not, I’m the one he’s crashing down on. And once he finds out about his money… well, I just have to start sleeping with my pocketknife under my pillow again.”

“I’m sorry.” I want to offer my protection, tell her that I won’t let anything happen to her—but I know Faith is capable of saving herself. She’s been doing it since before I met her. And besides, I couldn’t even protect my own twin brother.

“No,” she says. “I’m sorry that I can’t do much to help you.”

“It’s okay,” I say, lying to her and to myself. Nothing is okay right now, but I have to pretend that it is for my mental health. I have to pretend that I’m going to come up with the bail money and I’m going to pretend that I’m 100 percent confident I’ll find Tyler.

“Why do you think getting Johntae out will help?” Faith asks, running a hand through her hair.

“Tyler was hanging around Johntae’s crew. Johntae has to care about Tyler in some way, right?” I say, trying to ignore the nagging feeling in my gut that I’m lying to myself. “He’ll help. Besides, he’d know Tyler’s whereabouts. Johntae has people everywhere.”

“I know Johntae like the back of my hand. I don’t think he’ll help you, Marvin.”

“I thought I knew Tyler like the back of mine, too, but…” I stop and look into her eyes, which are deep and brown. “Finding him means everything—everything—to me, and bailing out Johntae to help is the only next step I have.”

Faith stares up at the ceiling fan. “Sometimes missing people leave clues behind. Have you found anything?”

I sigh and then shake my head.

“The clues don’t have to be physical,” she says. “Everything you need to know about where Tyler’s gone could be in Tyler himself.”

“Yeah,” I say, puffing out air.

“Yeah, what?” she asks.

“Tyler—he’s been really different recently. He’s been distant. He’s been breaking all the rules.”

“Rules.” She laughs slightly, like the word tickles her tongue. “Maybe he’s not missing. Maybe he ran away. Maybe he was sick of the rules. Maybe all the pieces inside him fell apart.” She’s the second person to tell me this, after Ivy, and it still doesn’t make me feel any better.

I think for a second. “That’s not something he’d do.”

“People have their ways of surprising us.” Her eyes are the only stars I see now, and I cling to them like they’re the only sources of light that’ll be given to me in this dark tunnel. “Everything will be all right.”

I don’t think everything’s going to be all right. But it’s still nice to hear it.

The next day, Sunday, it’s almost physically painful to stay in my house; it’s so tense and quiet. I sit in my room in silence for a while, a tender soreness in my stomach and arms. I pull up Tyler’s Twitter page and scroll through his photos in a selfish attempt to scrape up some happiness. And it almost works until I come across this one photo I haven’t seen in years. The photo is of us wearing Transformers costumes to our fourth-grade Halloween party—he was Bumblebee and I was Optimus Prime—and suddenly there’s a weight on my shoulders and an emptiness inside me that I just want to fucking go away.

Down the hall, in the kitchen, Mama tells me that the police said they’ve been searching and interrogating people, and they may or may not have a lead.

Mama’s face is like a thesis, and I know every sentence. The lines on her face are telling me she feels exactly how I do.

Monday comes around, and I’m running through all the clothes in my closet to find the perfect thing that matches how I feel on the inside. I end up going with some black joggers and a John Cena hoodie Tyler got me from a donation center as a joke one year because he knows how much I hate WWE.

Mama says a prayer before I head to school, asking for the Lord to give wisdom and knowledge to the police looking for Tyler, and before the two of us can say Amen in unison, we’re both a hot-ass mess of tears and sobs. We hug it out for the longest, and man, I wouldn’t mind if this would last longer.

“It’s gon’ be a’ight. They gon’ find him and everything’s gon’ be a’ight,” Mama says to me, and it’s only a little bit reassuring to both of us.

I grab my backpack and slip into some sandals, and then I’m out the door. When I get to school, I’ve got about thirty seconds before the first bell rings for class. G-mo and Ivy are waiting for me at my locker, phones in their hands.

I nod at them, not really able to return their stares. I know I’ve been ignoring their calls and text messages. “Hey.” I shove my backpack into my locker and pull out my textbooks.

“What’s going on?” Ivy asks.

“What do you mean?”

“Where’ve you been?”

I just shrug, and they exchange looks.

“We’re worried, Marv,” G-mo says, placing a hand on my shoulder and offering a small smile. We haven’t been this serious around each other in years. Not since G-mo’s dad got deported.

“Thanks,” I say, trying to ignore the thick ache in my chest.

The bell rings, and we’re late to English, but Ms. Tanner doesn’t even care. She knows what’s going on—everyone does at this point. And she lets the three of us slide in without making a big deal about it like she normally would.

The entire class is whispering during Ms. Tanner’s lesson on vocabulary words. And I know they aren’t talking about how cool the words are. I know they’re talking about me and about Tyler.

Ms. Tanner rolls out an old-school TV and VHS player to make us watch Antigone by Sophocles, telling us that we have to actually pay attention because this will be part of our final exam. If the play were actually hopeful, it wouldn’t be so bad to watch. I just fucking need some sort of hope right now.

But no.

Spoiler alert: EVERYBODY DIES.

And that’s what really gets me. That’s all I’m thinking about: death.

And I feel sick to my stomach, like at any moment I’m going to hurl.

Before the end credits start to roll, I get up from my chair and sneak out the classroom toward the restroom. The bathroom’s oddly empty, one white dude pissing a river behind me. I stare at myself in the mirror, splashing handfuls of cold water on my face. I look—and feel—like a slobby, sloppy mess.

“Be strong, bro,” the guy says to me once he stops peeing and washes his hands.

I nod, unable to speak without the pain pouring out.

“Sometimes it’s hard to hear people tell us to stay strong. But you never know how strong you really are or can be until it’s the only choice you have,” he adds, straightening his Sojo High jacket.

The guy grabs a handful of paper towels and walks out of the bathroom, leaving me all alone in this place that smells like shit, leaning over a sink full of murky water.

I’m exchanging books at my locker when I hear a voice behind me.

“Mr. Johnson,” Principal Dodson says. “May I have a word?” And he raises his eyebrow hard, like he’s demanding and not asking.

I follow Dodson to his office. I stare at his chest ’cause today’s tie is mustard or egg-yolk yellow, and today his office smells like eggs, too.

And on his walls are pictures of white students who have graduated and gone on to some of the best colleges in the nation.

“Take a seat, Mr. Johnson.”

I sit in my usual place.

He sits on the edge of his desk, looking down on me like he’s about to give me a whack or something, but he just breathes his egg-salad-sandwich breath all over me.

“What’s going on?” I bunch up all the muscles in my face, bracing myself to hear some spiel about how Tyler deserves to be missing or something shitty like that.

“Are you aware that Ms. Tanner signed you up for an interview with MIT at the college fair on Thursday?”

I forget to breathe for a moment. “No, sir?”

“No, sir, what, boy?” he shouts, and I flinch a bit.

“No, I was not aware.”

“I’ve tried calling the MIT admissions office, and they won’t allow me to cancel your appointment with their admissions representative. You know what that means, boy?”

A confused pause. My mind trips on the thought of even having an interview with MIT. And in my head, I stumble on the idea of not being emotionally ready. And so I just sit and stare and breathe and wonder and forget that I have to answer.

“I know you hear me talking to you,” he says with a sneer, clutching a coffee mug, his face wearing irritation. “I said, do you know what that means?”

“No, sir.” I flinch and suck in my lower lip.

“That means you have to do it anyway. That means you have to get your act together.” His voice gets louder and heavier, ricocheting around in my ears. “That means you have to put on the face that everything is all right. No missing brother sympathy cards in your hand. You go in there and do whatever it is they tell you to and answer whatever it is they ask and act right so they won’t think I run a complete shit show of a school.”

My head nods. “Yes, sir.” There’s a warmth in my stomach, and my hands are a little clammy.

“That means on Thursday, you’re no longer Marvin Johnson. You’re just another black boy trying to get into MIT.”

And I have no words to say, not even the standard military-style Yes, sir and No, sir I always offer him. I’m all confusion, with the heaviest heart in the universe. I look away, feeling compelled to detach my gaze and stare at the white walls. Guilt is wearing me down because I’m here and Tyler’s out there, still missing. And then, almost without me noticing, my head nods for the final time.

I gather my stuff and shuffle out of his office, feeling like the ultimate cyborg of emotions. Like I’ve been split open in a dozen places and stuffed with darkness.

I run to my next class before the bell rings. The hallways are empty and narrowing and smell kind of sweaty, and yet they still remind me of the infinite sadness running in my blood—these walls closing in on me. I’m glad that I have the chance to interview with MIT, but I’m sad because my interviewing with MIT will do nothing to help Tyler.

After trigonometry with Mrs. Bradford, Ms. Tanner stops me in the hallway, and she has this look on her face like she knows she’s about to be nosy but also wants to just check in, kind of like she deserves to know everything about me ’cause she got me an interview… with MIT.

“Mr. Johnson,” she says, offering a warm and endearing smile. “A word, please?”

Just one is what I really wish I could say. “Sure.” As soon as it slips out, I know I’m being shitty. She’s just trying to help me, but I can’t help but be pissed. I can’t really see past all the pain and sadness of my brother being missing.

“I hope you’re feeling all right.” She exhales, walking closer to me, standing in the doorway of my trig class. “You were out of it in class today, and I just want you to know that I understand everything you’re going through. I’m here for you.”

“Thank you, Ms. Tanner,” I say, looking down at the toes of my shoes.

“And if there’s anything I can do to help, just say the word.” She puts a hand on my shoulder. “May I ask… How are you feeling, really?” Her face spills concern.

“Like I’m trapped in my mind, like my heart has been ripped out and handed to someone else, like…” I stop.

She rubs my shoulder, squeezing. And she frowns like she’s about to break into hysterical tears, but she just stays that way, rubbing my shoulder, then goes in for a hug, whispering, “I am sorry. So, so sorry.”

And all I’m wondering is whether she’s giving sympathy just because it’s her job or because she genuinely cares. Whatever the case may be, I hug her back.

“Also,” she sighs, breaking away and reaching into her yellow bag, “this is something I think you’d be interested in. I’m giving these away only to select students.” It’s a flyer to see a play, The Piano Lesson by August Wilson. “You’ll earn yourself extra credit, and it’ll be good for you. It’s not until later in the year, so you have time to think about it.”

I blink and turn around, looking over the flyer.

She calls after me. “And, Mr. Johnson. Good luck on Thursday.”

I turn back and she winks.

After school, I hurry past where Ivy and G-mo are waiting for me, trying to ignore the hurt on their faces and feeling like shit about it—but I know I can’t face them right now. Seeing them, talking with them, just forces me to face all the hurt I’m trying to keep down. I hop on my bike, which I notice has a flat tire, the metal rim scraping the ground. And I pedal faster, deeper into the hood.

My phone suddenly buzzes in my pocket. I screech my bike to a stop. A random number pops up. I hesitate to answer.

“Hello?” I say in a somewhat raspy voice.

“Hi, uh, it’s me,” a soft voice says.

“Faith?”

“Yeah,” she replies. “I just wanted to apologize for coming off really selfish the other night.”

“No, it’s cool,” I say. “I shouldn’t have put so much on you.”

There’s a quick beat of silence.

“Are you sure Johntae can help you find your brother?”

“He’s the last option I have,” I say.

“I hope you’re right.” She pauses. “Well, are you able to meet me in twenty minutes?”

My eyes widen. “Where? Your place?”

“Yeah.”

I turn the bike around and pedal hard.