CALL ME PARANOID if you want, but I scrub that bright-red chip residue from my fingers at a filthy gas station restroom before I even get home. You never know with G-ma.

When I get there, she’s all fired up about something else, though. She’s got her gospel music playing from an old radio sitting on top of the fridge. Her favorite group’s some old guys called the Mighty Clouds of Joy. She’s tappety-tapping away at her laptop, seated at the kitchen table. There’s a bunch of papers stacked in front of her, with lists of names and I don’t know what else. She even tells me to get my own snack.

“What’s going on, G-ma?” I say.

“We’re starting an action,” she says. “Myself, Dr. Yetty, and some folks from the neighborhood.”

“What’s that mean?” I ask her. “What kind of action?”

“An organized, peaceful—but forceful—march for better schools, for all the children in our city. Not just the lucky ones. Or the rich ones. Or the ones who live west of the river.”

“So, G-ma—why do this now? Why do we have to march and make signs and all that stuff? And why is Dr. Yetty getting mixed up with this?” I wonder aloud.

My G-ma could inspire a herd of gazelles to organize and rise up against a pride of lions.

“The truth is, I haven’t seen her kind of passion, especially from a woman so young, since I marched in Selma, way back when,” she tells me.

“What I mean is, isn’t she a part of what you—I mean we—are marching against? The people in charge?” It just seems weird to me to have her down with us. As far as we know, she’s going to be in and out like the rest of those bammas.

“No, baby. Not at all. I love what she stands for, and so does almost every other parent. But there’ve been a handful of parents claiming that she pays too much attention to the male students. Can you believe that? Some people don’t like the all-boy mentoring program she started in her first week on the job. God knows that’s what you boys need, but who am I?” She shrugs and then closes her laptop.

I guess G-ma has a point about Dr. Yetty. I mean, she did bring three new staff people along with her. First there’s Mr. Anthony, her right-hand man. He’s like a real serious administration-type dude. Then there’s Mr. Yarborough, the new head of security, who’s actually pretty cool. He’s one of those ex–Navy SEALs, but you couldn’t tell by looking at him. And there’s a man who grew up right around the corner from our house, Mr. Griddine. He’s what’s called a Director of Strategic Plans or something. I don’t know what any of those guys really do. I don’t. But you know what’s cool? They look like me. They look like Ray-Ray. They look like us and they’re in charge of stuff. They wear suits and tell people what to do. That’s something I’ve never seen at my school.

The way G-ma’s going, I can tell we’re going to be talking about this for a while. Which is fine with me. Anything right now is better than How was your day? or any of those other “essay questions” she usually asks. I can just see how that would go.

So I get busy making a peanut butter and banana sandwich while G-ma keeps on talking.

“We’re going to march up Martin Luther King Avenue,” she says, “and have a big rally right in front of your school.”

“Cool,” I say.

“I’m hoping for a thousand people, maybe more. Parents, teachers, and most of all, students—”

“Uh-huh,” I say.

“Which is why I want you to be one of our speakers. I think you’d make an excellent student ambassador, Kenneth.”

This time, I don’t say anything at all, because that peanut butter just got stuck in my throat like a ball of cement.

“I know it’s a little scary,” G-ma tells me. “But it’s no different than what I asked you to do at the neighborhood meeting.”

“You just said it was going to be a thousand people!” I say.

“That’s just more ears,” she says.

“Well…uh…I don’t think I’d make a very good ambassador, either,” I say.

“Nonsense!” she says. “If we see something wrong in the world, it’s up to us—not someone else—to stand up and be heard.”

That’s another one of G-ma’s greatest hits, if you hadn’t noticed. She always says you’re supposed to speak up if you see something wrong.

You know—like if someone steals stuff from a corner store.

Or gets detention and lies about it.

Or has to teach chess for all the wrong reasons.

Stuff like that.

And guess what else I realize? Ray-Ray Powell isn’t the big faker around here anymore.

I am.