This Is My America(34)

I look around the school as I walk through the hallway, deciding between going to class and lining up for assembly or hiding out in a classroom.

Hard stares meet me as I walk. Inside, I’m regretting I didn’t push back with Mama more.

There’s a fissure in the school, and you can feel the divide. I’m clearly on one side, so I know I have my answer about the assembly. I drop into the newspaper room to escape.

It’s only been a few days since I’ve been here; usually there’s a buzz of energy that the room always gives me. But the last time I was here was with Angela. Sadness takes up the space. I’m expecting her to be working away at the student assistant desk next to Mr. Kaine’s. I’ve barely had time to mourn for her, to feel the shock and pain of losing someone so suddenly. Being here, I can’t hide from that. Angela is gone forever. I know the paper will memorialize her, so I want to take a look at what they’ve done. Sad I couldn’t be a part of helping tell how much she meant to our team, but also knowing there’s no way I could be included in that discussion. Not with my brother as the number one suspect.



I weave my way to where we last spoke. Usually Monday mornings I come in early, get a sneak peek at the layout, and see how “Tracy’s Corner” looks in print.

The front page has one large photo of Angela, her name, birth and death years below the picture. I flip through the print layout, page after page, looking for her write-up. Then I note that “Tracy’s Corner” is missing. The heading was supposed to be “Social Justice’s New Generation.” I spent hours on interviews and turned it in early.

“Tracy.” Mr. Kaine steps into the classroom. He’s always been one of the cooler white teachers at school. He makes the newsroom come alive. Walls plastered with blown-up photos of banned books and iconic images like the Tiananmen Square protester facing off tanks and the 1968 Black Power salute at the Olympics.

“What are you doing in here? The assembly is about to begin.”

I give him a blank stare, until he can put two and two together and realize what a ridiculous statement that is for the sister of Jamal Beaumont.



“My piece is gone. I met the deadline.” I touch the paper and lift it up. I don’t know how to say what I really want to ask. Was it intentional to place Angela’s story instead of mine as a way to shame me and my brother? It aches that anyone could think Jamal killed Angela. That they might have decided on the placement of the article because it would show what side they’re on.

“The editorial board decided to go with a different feature.”

I look closer at the article.


Tragic Loss of One of Our Own: Saying Goodbye to Angela

By Natalie Haynes

One of their own.

As strange as this might sound, I think Angela was probably the closest to understanding me. I should be allowed to mourn for her, too.

This was the one place that kept me surviving in school. A place I could use my voice. Maybe one that everyone didn’t agree with, but I had a space for it, and Angela always advocated for me. She had my back.

“The last paper of the year is designed by the new editor,” Mr. Kaine says. “There’s been a shift.”

I shake my head. New editor? The vote is supposed to be this coming Wednesday.

“When was the vote?”



“Friday.” Mr. Kaine looks down, avoiding my gaze. He could have stopped it if he thought things were unfair, but he didn’t.

“You allowed this? What about my vote?” This is unbelievable. I thought next year would be different. I could play a more prominent role. Now that hope is gone.

“If there had been a tie, I would have let you vote.”

“What was the vote?”

He doesn’t answer.

“What was the vote?” My heart beats fast.

“Unanimous. I’m sorry. You’ll have to pitch ‘Tracy’s Corner’ to Natalie and the executive board next year.”

In one breath, he confirms that Natalie will be editor and I didn’t even get enough votes to be on the executive board, after three years of putting in the work.

“We should go.” Mr. Kaine says. “I’m speaking about Angela.”

“I just need a moment.”

Mr. Kaine looks like he’s about to ask me to leave, but instead he closes the door behind him. I’m conflicted with thoughts. Loss is all I can form. Loss of Jamal. Loss of Angela. Loss of my dream to become editor. Each has a different impact, but they each mean so much to me.

My head is spinning. I loved my corner. The newsroom. And it’s gone. I take a seat, head down, crying.

Seconds later, the door opens. Mandy Peters enters with a backpack gripped in her hand. She jumps at the sight of me; she is Angela’s best friend, after all. My throat constricts. What can I say? I haven’t thought this through, hadn’t pushed Mama enough about all the reasons why I shouldn’t come back this week.



Mandy seems shell-shocked. Her face is pale white, eyes puffy, and brown hair tumbled into one large messy bun. She stands in the doorway, not speaking. She almost backs up, eyes skirting around the room.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I won’t be here long.”

Mandy steps into the classroom, hesitant. “Angela’s desk? Where she kept her things, do you know?”