I’m a total of two minutes late to my interview in room B252, a biology lab around the corner from the media center. In the hallway, I pass booths of local community colleges and other universities—random and faraway ones, like the University of Chicago, Florida State University, Cornell, and a bunch of others—each a part of the college fair. They’ve got flags and banners and balloons and little sign-up sheets.

I round the corner and walk into room B252, and suddenly I’m taking a step into what could be my future, what could be my way out of the cycle—a step that Tyler never got to take.

My heart pounds like it’s drumming the MIT fight song to get me ready. And I can taste the anxiety on my tongue as I stare into the face of a light-skinned man with grayish hair. I can already tell this is going to be messy.

“Oh, hello! I’m Dave Ross. Are you Mr. Marvin… uh… Johnson?” the man says, standing up and smiling hugely, like he’s shocked to see a black boy walking into the room.

We shake hands. “Yes, I am.” There’s a short pause before we sit simultaneously.

The man shuffles through a large stack of papers in front of him. “I can’t seem to find your application,” he says finally, organizing the stack again.

I flinch. “Oh, I’m sorry, sir. I meant to send the application in early, before the college fair, but I didn’t end up having a chance.”

“Young man, MIT is looking for students who are goal-oriented and want to be there and nowhere else. We expect to sit down with students who are truly committed to their futures.”

I nod, looking away from him, wanting to explain everything that’s been happening, but I don’t. And I can feel the sweat forming all over my body in hidden crevices.

“So, what makes you an MIT man?” he says, skepticism creeping into his voice.

“I don’t know, sir. It’s just been a dream of mine to get into MIT, change the world, show people what I can achieve. Sometimes it feels like people don’t think I can achieve anything, and I want to prove them wrong.”

He runs a hand through his scruffy hair, frowning. “If I had a dime for every time someone gave me that answer, I’d have a year’s salary.”

I pause, feeling my heart sink, the sting of defeat pinching me.

“Let’s rephrase the question. What do you want out of MIT?”

“A decent education.” My shoulders shrug.

“You can get that at a lot of schools.” He pauses, tilting his glasses down from his face a little. “So, why MIT?”

I blink, feeling beads of sweat on my forehead. My back sticks to the chair like a wet page.

“Sir, MIT is all I’ve ever wanted,” I say. “Since I was in the fourth grade, I knew that I wanted to be at this school. I knew I wanted to be someplace where I’d defy all the odds, where I’d grow and become a better person, where I’d get one of the finest educations this country has to offer.”

“Now, that’s more of an answer for us, Mr. Johnson.” He nods slowly, marking down notes. “What do your parents think of your dream of attending MIT?”

My tongue presses up against my cheek, and I look at the ceiling, thinking about Principal Dodson telling me not to embarrass him. I tell him the truth. “Dad is in jail for a crime he didn’t commit, because our justice system is corrupt, and sometimes it feels like I don’t even have a dad anymore because of that.”

I watch his eyebrows furrow and he gives me a side-smile, like he feels sorry for me.

“What about your mother?”

“Mama doesn’t know much about this interview,” I answer him. Really, she doesn’t know about it, period.

“Why?” He leans back, chewing on the cap of his pen. “Why doesn’t your mother know?”

“Her mind is somewhere else.” I sigh. And now I’m realizing that mine is also.

“Where, Mr. Johnson? Where is her mind? Is it drugs?”

I sort of roll my eyes, a bad taste in my mouth. “No. Sir.” My chest feels tight, my throat is numb, and it’s so fucking hard to breathe right now.

“Then what is it, Mr. Johnson?” He squints at me, a small frown that passes quickly. I close my eyes for a few seconds, inhaling and exhaling hard.

I see Tyler lying on that metal table. The video plays back in my head. Tyler’s voice swishes around the room like the blood in my veins, and I squeeze my eyes shut.

Pop!

Pop!

Pop!

I blink back the tears.

“Her mind is on my brother. He die—no—he was murdered,” I say.

“I’m so sorry to hear that, Mr. Johnson.” Silence takes over the room again.

I nod, trying so hard to ignore the sourness in my stomach.

“Your brother is dead, and you’re here?” He closes his files and points at me with his pen. “That says a lot about your character, Mr. Johnson. Very courageous of you.”

Fuck that. Fuck courage. Fuck it all. And now I feel so shitty because he’s right. I’m here in a fucking interview and my brother is fucking dead.

“Would you like to reschedule the interview? For an African-American male with your record—strong grades, glowing recommendations, and nearly perfect SAT scores—I’d love to give this a second chance. We need more students like you, Mr. Johnson.”

I try to ignore his you-are-smart-for-a-black-kid suggestion. “Maybe this isn’t a good idea after all.”

He leans back in his seat. “I see. How about this?” He drops his pen on the desk in front of him. “The first part of the application is due January first. How about you send your application in, and if everything is as impressive as we’ve been led to expect, I’ll be happy to recommend you. I wouldn’t normally tell a student that before seeing his formal application, but I think you’re potentially the right fit for MIT, and you’d help diversify our student body. How does that sound?”

I brush my face with the palms of my hands, feeling my eyes blink one, two, three times. “Yes, I’ll have it ready by then.” My heart thuds and my ears ring, but there’s a blanket of calmness that suddenly wraps around me.

“Very well, Mr. Johnson.” We shake hands again.

As I leave the room, my phone buzzes in my pocket.

I silently wish for it to be Mama, or maybe Ivy and G-mo asking how everything went down with my interview, but it’s just a Twitter notification that Faith is now following me.