They had a pretrial for Shiketa today— but Momma wasn’t there. Just the lawyers and the judge. They wanted to look over Momma’s medical records and see what witnesses they might want to call later. Shiketa’s lawyer don’t want her doing time in jail with grown-up criminals. He wants her to stay in juvey and try to make things right by doing community service. So they’re supposed to talk about that too. I hope Shiketa gets ten years for what she done to Momma.

It’s been one month and one week since Shiketa hurt Momma, and I think they shoulda had the real trial by now. Momma says to be patient. That she wants to make sure Shiketa gets some help and don’t hurt nobody else. But that ain’t the whole truth. I know. I seen the letters she wrote to Shiketa. Six of ’em, half-finished and balled up in the trash.

Dear Shiketa, one of ’em said.

You could have killed me and made it so my daughter wouldn’t have a mother. Then who would take care of her? Nobody. I hope they . . .

All six letters ended just the same. I hope they . . . Last night, I filled in the missing words myself. I hope they put you in jail till you ninety. I hope they make you wash dishes all day long until your fingers shrivel up and fall off like dead leaves. I hope they do to you what you did to Momma.

I didn’t write the words down like Momma. I said them in my mind—not out loud where Momma might hear ’em. She wouldn’t like it, even if she might be thinking it herself.

“Hey, Momma,” I say, walking up to our apartment building right after school.

Momma’s sitting on the top step with a newspaper under her butt, trying to keep her tan pants clean. She’s got a tray with a pitcher of lemonade on it, and two tall, skinny glasses with ice cubes almost melted down to nothing.

“Sorry I’m late,” I say, digging out the ice and putting a piece in my mouth.

She rubs her neck with her dirty hands. She takes off the new purple scarf she’s got on and straightens up the wig she’s wearing till her hair grows back in. “That’s all right. I—I’ve been busy.”

Momma don’t have to tell me what she’s been up to. Our pavement is soaking wet. And there’s four big bags of dirt and all kinds of flowers sitting out.

“They need to lock Shiketa up for good and throw away the key,” I say, spooning sugar onto a piece of lemon and sucking it.

Momma touches the spot Shiketa hit. “Maybe not for good. Just till she learns right from wrong.”

My face twists up from the sour lemon. “She knows right from wrong,” I say, spitting lemon rind into my hand. “She just don’t mind doing wrong.”

Momma ain’t listening. She’s down on the pavement emptying a giant bag of dirt into a big blue flowerpot. “See those plants over there? The yellow snapdragons?” she says pointing to the tall puffy flowers in a pot close to the house. “The woman across the street liked ’em so much, I took her to the store to get some. We spent half the day digging up her yard and planting ’em.”

I’m looking at Momma. Wondering why she ain’t learned her lesson the first time with Shiketa. Now here she is getting in folks’ business again. Next thing you know that old lady gonna be complaining that the flowers died. Then she gonna come screaming and hollering at us.

Momma comes over to me and gives me a hug. Dirt crumbs roll off her fingers and down the front of my shirt. She tells me she got two new jobs. She lost her other part-time jobs ’cause she couldn’t go back to work right after she got hit. She kept saying her head hurt. I think it was something else.

“Where you gonna be working now?” I ask.

“I got a job at the university where I take classes. Six months from now I won’t have to pay hardly nothing—anything—to go to school.”

Momma’s gonna work in the dorms. Buzzing students in and out.

“Crazy hours though,” she says, scooping dirt out the bag and putting it in the pot. “Weekends, late nights, daylight.”

I bend over and look at Shiketa’s place. The girl with the burgundy weave is sitting out front. The other day she told Momma Shiketa might come home on house arrest. I freaked out when I heard that. So Momma called her lawyer, to see what she could do to make that not happen. So far, so good.

Momma walks up the front steps. “I start working in two weeks. Gonna use the money everyone collected to buy a nice used car.”

“Don’t use it all,” I say, downing my lemonade. “We ain’t got that much, you know.”

Momma looks at me. Shakes her head. “You have to spend it sometimes, Miss Cheapskate.”

When Momma goes in the house to rest awhile, I kick off my sneakers and socks. Then I close my eyes and think about Sato. But that don’t last long.

“You got a problem?” I hear someone say.

I know that voice. It’s the girl with the burgundy weave. But I keep my eyes shut, even when a handful of dirt smacks me in the chest.

“I asked you a question.”

When I open my eyes, Weave Girl is standing right over me with her fist pulled back. “My sister Shiketa coulda been home by now if it wasn’t for your mother.”

I scoot back on my hands and feet. She walks down the steps and rips Momma’s flowers out the pot. Ten daffodils come flying my way.

“My mother planted those!”

Weave Girl comes up to me and pokes her finger in my cheek. Her long nail feels like it’s a knife. “Your mother need to mind her own business.”

Weave Girl ain’t as old as Shiketa. She’s, like, fifteen. Them two call each other sister, even though they ain’t. She’s hardcore, with big muscles in her arms and legs like maybe she runs track or plays baseball. But I don’t care. I’m tired of people treating me and Momma anyway they want. “Leave me alone,” I shout.

She pushes me. I get up and give her what she gave me. Then I swallow hard and get ready to get my butt kicked.

Both her fists go up. “You think you bad, huh?” she says, moving ’em back and forth like she’s trying to figure out where to hit me first.

“Raspberry?” Momma says, sticking her head out the window. “Get in here!”

Weave Girl steps back.

“And you. What’s your name?” Momma asks, coming to the front door.

“Miracle,” she says. “Shiketa’s sister.”

Momma bends down and starts picking up flowers. She tells Miracle that she owes her three dollars. Miracle smacks her lips like Momma can forget ever seeing that money.

Momma puts her arms around me and tells Miracle that she better leave now.

Miracle takes her foot and smashes the daffodils like bugs. “Or what? You gonna call the police on me?”

Sweat sneaks out from under Momma’s wig and rolls down her neck. “Please leave,” she says. “Right now!”

“Shiketa better not do no time.” Miracle smiles, fingers her weave, and walks down the steps.

I tell Momma she needs to call up the judge and tell him to give Shiketa life. She says we can’t make Shiketa pay for what Miracle’s just done.

“Why? Miracle’s gonna make me and you pay for what the judge does to Shiketa. And she ain’t gonna care nothing ’bout what’s fair, and what’s not.”