My thoughts once again occupied by the posters in the hallway. My face. Chiamaka’s face. It’s hard to ignore the lack of white faces on the posters. It’s hard to ignore the obvious thing tying Chiamaka and me together now: our Black skin. There’s so much cramming my mind. I don’t feel safe at school, or anywhere, really—like I’m constantly having to look over my shoulder. I learned when I was younger to keep how I really felt buried, deal with feelings later, on my own. I’m good at burying things in deep boxes in my mind. I’m good at being okay most of the time. Until I’m not, and the boxes
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