I don’t want to go to Zora’s house tonight. I want to sleep in my own bed. That’s what I tell her dad when he comes to check on Momma, and to take me and Zora back to their place for the night. But he ain’t having it. So I kiss Momma good night. Get in the backseat of their car and slam the door shut.

When Dr. Mitchell’s Lexus pulls outta the lot, I look out the back window. Check out the bums sitting on the curb and digging through trash bins in the alley across the street. Then I close my eyes, hoping I don’t see Daddy.

It’s hot out. But inside, I feel like the cold, crusty stuff you scrape off ice cream that’s been in the freezer too long. I wanna cry, but I ain’t got no more tears left.

“Want some air?” Dr. Mitchell asks, leaning over the seat and staring down at me.

“No,” I say.

“Yeah. It’s hot,” Zora says, fanning herself.

The windows go up and the air comes on. “We’ll compromise,” her dad says, “and put the air on low.”

I lie across the backseat. Put Dr. Mitchell’s hospital jacket over my face and pretend I’m asleep, so nobody will try to talk to me.

“You all right, Raspberry?” he asks.

I keep my mouth closed.

“Raspberry?” he says again. “You all right back there?”

The words fly out my mouth. “Would you be all right,” I say, with his jacket still covering my head, “if your mother got hit in the head with a pipe and your father was high as a kite?”

Dr. Mitchell takes his time answering.

“No. I guess I wouldn’t,” he says, stepping on the gas. “I’d be mad, sad, too. Just like you, sweetie.”

I stick my fingers in my ears and tell myself not to listen to nothing Dr. Mitchell’s saying, ’cause people like him ain’t got no worries. They got big bucks and big houses. Nice rides and tight jobs. And then there’s me and Momma. Bad luck and hard times is all we know.

“You want pizza?” Zora says, reaching back and pulling her father’s jacket off my face.

I cover myself back up. “No.”

She pulls the jacket off again. “I didn’t eat all day. Just M&M’s.”

Dr. Mitchell says there’s nothing cooked at their place. So we need to eat before we go home. “What about going through the drive-thru and picking up some chicken?”

I don’t want chicken. I don’t want pizza. I want my mother. But I keep that to myself, ’cause I don’t want them thinking I’m being a baby. “Pizza,” I say, covering myself up again. Wishing I could just go home.

Zora tells her dad to stop at the ATM machine too, ’cause tomorrow’s the last day to pay on the class trip to Canada.

I dig in my pockets and pull out a ten-dollar bill and four quarters. Take my fingernails and run ’em all the way down the back of Dr. Mitchell’s lemon yellow seats. I was gonna go on the trip too, I say to myself, but I guess that ain’t gonna happen.

I don’t say nothing to Zora and her dad when we get to the pizza shop. I don’t even look at ’em. I stare down at the floor. Listen to the reporter on TV talk about what happened to Momma and ignore Dr. Mitchell when he says that it’s a shame somebody as nice as her got hurt for trying to make the community better.

Shut up! I want to say. ’Cause he ain’t in the community. He’s in a really nice neighborhood where people like me and Momma ain’t wanted. Where he don’t have to worry ’bout people trying to knock his head off for doing the right thing.

“Say something,” Zora says, blowing the wrapper off her straw right into my plate.

I look at her. Ball up the paper and flick it back. Don’t talk to me, I say in my head. Don’t be so happy when I’m so sad inside.

Soon as the pizza comes, Zora takes a sip of soda and excuses herself so she can go to the bathroom. “Watch my purse,” she says.

Dr. Mitchell moves closer to me. Covers my hand with his and says his life wasn’t much different from mine when he was growing up in the projects. “A neighbor went after my mother, too—with a knife. She had to get twenty-one stitches. But she made it through. Your mom will, too. I promise,” he says, patting my cheek, then wolfing down his pizza.

I don’t mind Dr. Mitchell telling me how things were when he was young, ’cause I wanna be like him when I grow up. A doctor—or somebody that makes a whole lot of money.

The waitress refills the glasses. She smiles and asks Dr. Mitchell real nice if we want anything else. I wanna tell her to get up outta his face, ’cause that’s my mother’s man. When she’s gone, I look at him myself. He’s nice-looking. Tall and thin with thick curly black hair and my color skin—pretty brown with a lot of red to it. He ain’t got no mustache or sideburns, and he always wears the same color pants—tan. Momma likes him a whole lot. Me too, most times.

“Excuse me, sweetie. I need to use the bathroom,” he says, knocking Zora’s purse on the floor when he gets up to go.

I throw the purse back in the seat. Pick gray sausage balls off my pizza and flick ’em onto Zora’s plate and chair. The waitress walks by and asks if everything is okay with my food. Her eyes roll when she sees the mess I made. I give her a fake smile and reach for Zora’s purse. I wipe the grease off and keep it in my lap while the waitress heads for another table.

The door to the men’s room opens right when I pull back the thick, gold zipper on Zora’s red purse. I swallow hard. Tell myself to put the purse back where I got it. I don’t. I feel around inside for cash when I see Dr. Mitchell ain’t the one coming out. I take the money—a lot of it. Smell it. Put it away quick when the girls’ room door opens. It’s Zora. She’s smiling at me from way across the room. My fingers shake. I almost drop the purse. By the time she and her dad get to the table, it’s like nothing ever happened.

“Here,” Dr. Mitchell says, putting eighty dollars down in front of me. Eighty more in front of Zora.

I look at him like he’s crazy.

“For the class trip,” he says. “You’re going, right? The money’s due tomorrow.”

My feet itch from the money I put in my sock. And my heart hurts. But I ain’t sure if it’s from the greasy sausage pizza, or ’cause I know how sad Momma would be if she saw what I just did.

“Take it,” Zora says, handing me half the money, and putting the rest in her purse.

I take the money. Crumple it up like used tissue and stuff it deep, down in my pocket. I don’t look at them the rest of the time we sit there. I pick the meat off the pizza. Smash the little balls with my thumb, and wonder what Zora’s gonna think when she figures out what I done.