Mama and I practically have to be wheeled out of the room by bailiffs and security guards. And when their hands are on me, I flinch and cringe, a loud pang of disgust and anger inside. It takes a herculean effort for me to breathe, to remember that this is standard procedure, to remember that they mean me no harm.

As we exit the courthouse, there are reporters on the sidewalk asking Mama for a comment. She slides me behind her and starts talking into their microphones, telling the world about the boy she raised. How he was a good kid. Never in trouble with the law. How he deserved better than to be shot and taken away from us. She tells everybody some of her fondest memories of Tyler as a child, some memories that I don’t even remember myself.

“The entire city of Sterling Point is divided because of this man. Because of this broken system. Because of the hate Officer Meredith’s brought onto us all. There are bad people in the world. That means there are bad cops. But there’s also so much good. I just lost a son. My son just lost his brother. We’ve been living with the pain of his absence for what already feels like years. That man took something from me that I can never have back. All I’m asking is for some justice, and for help getting this officer off the street, because so many other kids are in danger. That’s all.”

I don’t care what these reporters say or what the judge says or what anyone else thinks. I know that Tyler didn’t deserve to die, no matter what. I’m going to do whatever I have to do to make sure that there’s justice for Tyler.

The very moment we pull into the driveway, rain starts falling from clouds in the sky—the clouds that kind of resemble the hurt in my heart—and when we get out, Mama stumbles into the house.

I stand in the rain. Mama believes that when it rains, family members who have crossed over to the other side use the drops to tell us things, and I’m left thinking maybe Tyler’s in heaven, whispering things to the drops of rain as they trip on their tiny tails and splatter onto the earth, and I imagine that they know how it is to be black in America, to have a destiny of falling, to have a fate of dying on impact.

It’s in this moment that I’m reminded of something Auntie Nicola told me—that life’s not about waiting for the storm to pass, because sometimes it never does—and all of a sudden, I feel waves of emotion engulfing me. Life is about wading in the rain, in all the storm’s fury, holding on to hope, and also becoming one and the same with the storm—getting angry, getting heated, and being the change you want.

I change into a pair of joggers and a T-shirt, and then I text G-mo and Ivy, inviting them over, and within minutes, like the world’s best friends, they come climbing through my window like they used to, all wet and alert, unsettled looks on their faces.

“’Sup, Marv?” Ivy says, climbing through first, clenching her skateboard under her arm.

“Yo, hey, Marv.” G-mo pats my shoulder. “Everything all right?”

And I just plop down on the edge of my bed, not answering, looking at his Slytherin tank top.

And then Ivy diverts things, saying, “Can you believe someone just tried to steal my skateboard and G’s bike? In the pouring goddamn rain. Like, what the fuck, bro?!”

I look up, feeling hollowed out, and I mumble, slightly shaken, “What happened?”

“We scared ’em away,” G-mo answers. “Straight up, yo, fists up ready to bump and everything.”

Ivy rolls her eyes, a smirk easing onto her face. “Something like that. More like we just pedaled and skated faster down the block.” She pauses and then walks over and sits down beside me.

“Whoa” is all that comes out. I sigh.

“How’re you feeling, Marv?” Ivy asks.

“I have this horrible, horrible feeling in my gut, like I’m trapped in some goddamn fucked-up movie,” I say, brushing my clammy hands against my pants. “My brother’s a fucking hashtag. Everybody thinks he was a thug.”

I want to fuck something up. Punch someone. Blow up something.

G-mo sits next to me now and wraps his arm around the back of my neck, like old times. “Yo. I’m down to go fuck some shit up,” G-mo says. “I fucking hate white people, and man, fuck the police!”

“Nigga, that’s racist!”

“You can’t be racist if you’re a minority,” G-mo argues. “Prejudiced? Yes. But not racist. We ain’t got the power in this society to be racist. And they want war!”

“Fool, the war started a long time ago,” Ivy says. “It ain’t even black against white, bro,” she continues calmly, using her hands to punctuate her words. “It’s about racists against everyone else, and they’re clownin’ out.”

G-mo sighs and falls back on the bed.

“It’s like Tupac said: Everybody’s at war,” Ivy adds as she jumps up and stands straight. “Why you think he had a whole album about that shit?”

“Yo. You right, you right,” G-mo goes.

Mama’s in the kitchen, pots and pans rattling together in a cacophonous symphony. I sit still, thinking Ivy’s right. It’s about the hate some people have within them. Hate is too ugly of a devil for some people to acknowledge, but the thing about hate is you can’t throw it on someone else without getting a little bit on yourself. And I wonder if people will ever fucking understand that.