I’M NOT EVEN late by the time I get home. But I am in trouble.

Kind of.

When I open the door, there’s a whole apartmentful of people inside. I see Dele’s and Vashon’s moms, and a bunch of other parents from the school. Even Dr. Yetty’s here, looking at something with serious eyes glued to her Kindle Fire—the latest version, of course, in a fancy-looking red leather case. That’s Dr. Yetty.

“Kenny!” she says when she sees me. “How are the chess lessons coming along?”

“Uhh…fine?” I say. It seems like a complicated question, even though it’s not. Half my brain is still back there in Trayvon’s ride.

“When can I expect to play a game against Ray-Ray?” Dr. Yetty asks me.

“Soon, I hope,” I say. Because that’s no lie. Meanwhile, I’m wondering if I still have chili and onions on my breath, and if anyone saw me getting out of that Jeep.

All I want to do now is get to my bedroom and close the door, so I keep moving. I scoot around Dele’s mom, squeeze past some lady on a cell phone, and get about two more steps before—

“Look who it is!” G-ma says.

She’s sitting in the living room with a bunch of other people. Mrs. Clark is there, too, standing by a big pad on an easel, with a black marker in her hand. The pad says stuff like “Save Our Schools” and “Education First.”

So I guess this whole big action thing of G-ma’s really is happening. Which isn’t great news for me. Because I know what’s coming next.

“So, Kenny,” Mrs. Clark says, “your grandma tells us you might be willing to stand up and speak at our rally. Have you given it any more thought?”

Talk about a complicated question! I look over at the door to my room, and it might as well be on the other side of the galaxy by now.

So I open my mouth, and I give the one answer that’s going to get me there a little faster.

“Sure,” I say. “I’ll do it.”

I mean, what else am I going to say?

Everyone in the living room starts clapping for me then. The people in the kitchen lean over to see what’s going on, and G-ma says, “Ladies and gentlemen, meet our new student ambassador!” Now those people start clapping, too, and the whole apartment’s cheering for me like I’m some kind of perfect model student. Or even some kind of superhero.

What could I possibly say to change things at our school? Why would anyone listen to what’s on my mind? Maybe they’ll care. Maybe they won’t. I’m leaning more toward won’t. It’s not like I’m Marcus Garvey or Medgar Evers. If G-ma could hear my thoughts, she’d say, “No, you’re not Garvey or Evers. You’re Wright, and that’s all you need to be.”

But you know what? None of that matters. I’m still bugged out. And that’s when my head just about spins right off.

Actually—no. Not that. More like it splits in two.