“Afterhekissed me last month.” Eli lowers his chin. “Then kicked me outta his house. And his life.”
I bite back a sigh. “You can’t keep lashing out. Fighting people. Running into traffic. Jumping off ledges into dumpsters. Sneaking into high school parties late at night.”
“Can you believe they let me in?” That smug grin resurfaces. “I just... I don’t know. What does it matter? You’ll be there if things get real bad.”
That’s my job, I want to say. Instead, I slump in the booth. Class-5 dedication with a Class-1 pout pushing at my lips. Eli’s rebellion isn’t new. But it’s intensified over the past few months. It wouldn’t be such a problem if it didn’t end in the same way every time: us at the diner, waiting on the only person Eli wants to be around after chaos happens.
The one person I can’t be around because heischaos, for me.
“Just... try to be more chill, okay?” I say calmly.
“For what?” Eli snaps. “None of it matters. The second I tell my parents who I am, my life is...” He doesn’t finish. But the word sits, heavy as iron, in my head.
Over.
He drags his knuckles over his jewel-shiny eyes. Lisa returns with his food and OJ but doesn’t say a word about the tears. This isn’t new for her either.
“Look,” I say as Eli wipes his face clean, “if you don’t want to talk to them about it, at least tell Zion.”
“Tell me what?”
There he is, standing over our booth. His name leaves my lips like a wish: “Zion.”
Zion’s eyes soften when he genuinely smiles. A physical reminder that Eli’s his little brother. It’s magnetic. His bronze skin shines under the lighting. He has the kind of height made for playing basketball or touching the clouds with his fingertips.
He leans down to scrub Eli’s baby curls, kissing his forehead. “I miss the hair, EJ.”
A year ago, Eli’s hair was like Zion’s: thick and full, braided into two French braids that ended at his shoulders. Then Zion left, and Eli became the new boyish face of Carl and Mayor Lashae Roberts’s political campaign.
“Y’all fighting again?” Zion slides into the booth, his knees banging against the table.
Like I said, tall.
I’m good with my own height. Not as tall as Zion, but close. And my dark curly hair, full cheeks, pinkish-brown lips, slender shoulders. My rich russet complexion.
I’m perfectly made.
(A quick glimpse at GuardianCheck informs me thatwholeshout-out for blessing me, Glorious Onehasn’t elevated my status but, ding, another Guardian, in Los Angeles of all places, got their wings.)
“We’rediscussingimportant things,” I reply, trying to keep my eyes off Zion’s face.
“Cool, cool.” Zion flips the one-sided laminated menu between his hands. I watch the way his eyebrows droop as he reads. He says, “Think I’m gonna have—”
“A slice of apple pie?” Eli says with too much enthusiasm. He winks at me. “Micah was just about to order that for you.”
My knuckles crack under the table. Physical violence against a charge leads to immediate demotion to Class 1 and a reassignment. Not worth it. This time, at least.
Zion asks, “You were?”
I smile at the butter melting a yellow glaze across the grits’ surface. Losing Eli means I’d lose Zion too.
Then again, protecting Eli means Ineedto lose Zion.
“Are you saying I’m predictable?” Zion whispers to me, nudging my shoulder. There’s so much fondness in his voice. “Maybe I’ll have to switch it up on you?”
He won’t. Something about him is constant, like the warmth climbing into my cheeks. Like Gabe’s voice in my head, strong and direct and maybe even a little mournful:I checkedThe Guide. Section 17.3.45. You two—well...
He sent an image of the text to me:
