Page 97 of As You Walk On

“I’ve worked so damn hard to be a respectable parent in their eyes,” he hisses. “To make sure they never have a reason to think I’m not on their level.”

My chin drops. He’s right. Everyone loves Miles Wright. He makes sure of it.

“I was okay,” I say to my feet. “I’m fi—”

“SIT. DOWN,” Dad roars.

I flinch hard against the fridge, knocking a pizza delivery magnet off the door.

The only time I’ve ever seen Dad this enraged was when he found out about me stealing candy from the corner store. He raised his voice for about two minutes. Lectured and grounded me. But he’s never screamed. Never slammed his hand against a table like he does now.

After that incident, I’ve never given Dad a reason to lose his cool. I was the good son. But it’s like years of fury is finally unleashed from its cage.

“Anything could’ve happened to you!” yells Dad.

I ease into the chair across from him, heart racing.

“You’re a Black boy out late doing God knows what with no one to look out for you,” Dad continues, chest heaving. “No one’s gonna spare your life because you’re with Jay. Do you think proximity to his whiteness will save you?”

“No.” I sigh.

“They don’t care who your friends are. What kind of student you are. How nice you appear. You’realwaysa threat.”

It’s a speech I’ve heard from him or Granny at least three times a year since I could talk.

“Trayvon. Eric. Tamir. Sandra. Alton. Antwon.”

Dad’s voice cracks. He only says their first names. As if he’s known each one of them. As if instead of being a segment on the news or a memorial on a street corner, those were his children. But that’s how it feels each time a new T-shirt comes out with another name added to the list. With every new hashtag.

Like I’m losing more blood. Family. More faces that look like mine.

Dad’s eyes are glassy. He shivers before adding, “Breonna Taylor.”

I can’t help wincing. There are murals all over Louisville, even in the upscale neighborhoods where they probably wouldn’t have acknowledged her existence if she were still here.

“Daunte Wright.”

It’s not even half the names. But it’s enough.

“Yes, times have changed,” says Dad, exhaling shakily. “But this hasn’t.” He reaches across the table to jab a finger against the skin on the back of my hand. “This is what they see while you’re outlyingto have a good time.”

“I didn’t,” I say, barely managing to swallow the hot spit in my mouth. I don’t tell him what happened. Why last night was far from a good time. I insist, “I didn’t drink. Didn’t do drugs. I didn’t have sex or do anything risky. I was—”

Safe? With people who wouldn’t let anything happen to me?

It’s irrelevant information to Dad. He says, “You lied to me about where you were going.” A sadness coats his face. “How do I know you’re not lying now?”

I don’t have a counterargument. Picking at the broken skin around my thumbnail, I shrug.

Dad’s wrinkled T-shirt has a hot sauce stain near the collar. His jaw is unshaven. He probably hasn’t showered.

All because of me.

Behind him, I eye the whiteboard. The Plan glares judgingly back.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

Dad lets out another sigh. “How do you think our family looks to the Scotts?” he asks in a low voice.

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