A Not-So-Happy Thanksgiving comes and goes—Mama and I having to fill the emptiness at the table with stories about Tyler, like how he’d eat all the dinner rolls up every year and about how he’d remind us how thankful he was for his family. Two weeks later, in early December, the preliminary hearing finally comes around. The grief comes in calmer waves now, though it still wreaks total havoc on my life. I’m numb and broken and it gets physically hard to breathe at times, but I still manage to get dressed in the morning. I put on an old suit and tie—the one and only suit and tie that I’ve ever owned, one that I got when my grandfather passed away. It’s a bit too tight around the cuffs, and the legs are a lot thinner than I am. I squeeze into it and just stare at myself in the mirror.

“Ready?” Mama kisses me on the forehead, squeezing my arm.

“As ready as I can be,” I say, my voice quivering.

Mama and I meet Faith and stand in line on the sidewalk outside the courthouse, a trail of people in front of us waiting for the doors to open. I asked Faith to come because she’s been through this. She knows what to expect. Ivy’s mom brings Ivy and G-mo up to the courthouse, and they take turns hugging me for the longest, and then we wait in silence for what feels like eternity even after the doors open, the line inching forward every few minutes.

The sky is a mixture of sapphire and sandstone, blazing down on us, and there’s a slow, steady breeze. Once we’re let in, an officer guides us down marble hallways and up a flight of stairs and into a cramped courtroom with white walls and seats made of old mahogany. The first thing I notice is that the room is mostly packed with people. Some spectators shuffle in and whisper, eyes fixed on Mama and me like we’re the causes of every tragedy in the world. Others have looks of sympathy on their faces. And Mama just looks at the floor, fidgeting with a dirty Kleenex.

I see familiar faces that I recognize from school.

I see strange faces.

I see police officers, and this in particular is what gets me to start worrying.

The bailiff shows me and Mama to the front, where we’ve got designated seats behind the assistant district attorney, a white lady, who turns around to shake Mama’s hand, and then it gets so painfully silent I can hear Mama’s heart beating.

Mama nudges me in the side, a deep gasp slipping from her mouth. She points to a door. A line of police officers file in, strangely detached looks on their faces, like this is all too familiar for them, like they know that they’ve got nothing to worry about.

And then I see him. The officer. The one who took my brother away from me. I know his face from the news reports. From at night, when I close my eyes. A swelling rage washes over me, and I have to stop myself from getting to my feet, screaming shit at him, screaming that he took my brother away from me and Mama.

It’s almost as if he makes an effort not to look our way. He was arrested shortly after the video leaked, but of course he immediately posted bail. He was given the kind of benefit of the doubt that they’d never give to Tyler. Or me. From his seat at the table across the aisle, the cop nods to the other officers.

I can’t believe how they’re treating him. This man killed my brother, and he got escorted in like he was the victim. This man killed my brother, and his family has the same number of seats in the courtroom as us. This man killed my brother, and we have to go through all this torture just to get justice. All I know is if Tyler were a white kid and the killer were black, things would be going a very different way. I just know it. They always do.

I draw in a deep breath and turn around and see Faith and Ivy and G-mo sitting, all looking a mix of the nerves and anger and sadness that I’m feeling.

The bailiff shouts, “All rise for the Honorable Judge Richard Watts!”

And everyone stands.

The room stills.

My heart feels like it’s literally trying to beat, beat, beat its way out of me.

Mama reaches for my hand, and for a split second I consider pulling away. I don’t want her to know how much I’m shaking right now. But then, as I grab her hand, I’m reminded that I’m not alone in this. That this feeling ripping me apart on the inside is something we share.

The bailiff continues, spewing words that don’t quite make sense to me, and he stays still—so still, his voice so monotonous. “… the presence of the flag of our nation and the emblem of our Constitution in department forty-seven, we are now in session. Please be seated.”

The judge clears his throat into the microphone in front of his face. He leans forward, his white, bald head reflecting the square, pale light above him. His glasses rest at the end of his nose as he scans the crowd.

I think to myself, Here’s the beginning of everything.