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anyone hurt you, little brother,” David says. “I promise.”
    I believe him. I always believe him.
    We walk the rest of the way home, not talking. When we finally make the turn that marks the official line between Oakland and the charter city of Piedmont where we live, things immediately feel different. Better. Safer. But even though the coast is clear, I keep my hand squeezed tight around David’s. The flame of a tiny new terror ignites: I don’t know how I’ll ever be ready to let go.

here.
    WHEN I GET HOME, I WANT NOTHING MORE THAN TO GRAB some food from the fridge and go to my room and listen to music, but Dad corners me in the kitchen. He’s home at a time normal people get home from work, which is not normal for him. He’s been doing this lately, being around. He actually ate lunch at the kitchen table on Saturday. He even knocked on my bedroom door a few nights ago to ask if I wanted to watch TV with him in the living room. I can’t remember the last time he was even on my side of the house. I can’t remember the last time someone even turned on the TV in the living room.
    â€œHow are you?” he says, with an unrecognizable smile. He’s in khakis and his old Yale sweatshirt, and the clothes look strange on him. For the last several years, he’s been someone who only looks right in a suit or his judge’s robes. The last time I saw him in this ensemble was probably when I was a little kid, when he was stillattempting to play the dad role. Before David started falling apart. Before Mom.
    â€œFine,” I say, not meeting his eyes.
    He puts his hand on my shoulder, and it makes me jump.
    â€œI mean it, Marcus,” he says. His face is softer than it should be. He’s looking me in the eyes, like maybe he actually does want to know how I am. “You’ve been moping around the last few days. Is something wrong? Is something going on with that girl you’ve been seeing?”
    â€œHow’d you know I was seeing anyone?” He’s never met Evie. He’s never come close to meeting Evie.
    â€œI notice things, Marcus.”
    I can’t help but laugh. Bullshit.
    â€œHave you thought about the internship at my office?”
    â€œI’ve kind of had other things on my mind.” That’s the understatement of the year.
    â€œI hope you’ll at least consider it. It starts in two weeks. There are several applicants who are waiting anxiously for our response.”
    â€œSo give it to one of them.” I shake his hand off my shoulder.
    â€œMarcus, it’s a great opportunity. Not everybody gets a chance to work at the Supreme Court. It’s quite a privilege. I hope you don’t take that for granted.”
    Yes, Dad, I know. It’s a privilege to have you as a father. Your expectations of me are a great fucking privilege.
    â€œThe internship will be impressive on your college applications. You are thinking about college, aren’t you?”
    â€œOf course I’m thinking about college,” I say, gritting my teeth. “But I’m still a junior. I don’t have to think about it too much yet.”
    â€œSome people would have already done some school visits and interviews by now. You’ve at least looked at some of those brochures, haven’t you?”
    He’s talking about the pile of glossy pamphlets that has been collecting dust on the hallway table for the past few months, invitations from every college in the country that have gotten my name off some list that tells them I go to Templeton, which makes them drool for my family’s money.
    â€œYeah, a little,” I lie.
    Dad sighs. Funny how he never worried about David.
    I step toward the fridge. When I open it, I’m shocked to see real food—vegetables and fruits and ingredients for cooking, not the usual prepared meals and condiments. “You went shopping,” I say.
    â€œMonica and I went shopping.