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bottle was shoved into her face. She wasn’t much of a drinker, although many of the white girls she went to school with thought it was cool to lift a bottle of something or other from their daddy’s liquor cabinets for them to drink on and giggle after a game. So, after a few sips from the boy’s bottle, her head was spinning just a little. Her mind drifted into a blur, occasionally focusing on Finest’s exchanges with his friends in the backseat.
    Friends . . . Sinclair missed her school friends, the laughter and fun times hanging out at school. Even though much of it was fake on her part, it made her feel good to be accepted.
    Sinclair could walk the walk and talk the talk, which was the only thing that mattered. She was book-smart and got good grades, so nobody questioned anything. Even her clothes were considered “shabby chic,” even though they were Target “specials.” It wasn’t as if Sinclair didn’t have her game tight. Her life was a perfect façade during school hours, and she felt like she had the whole pretense down pat. It wasn’t as if they hung out after school or during the summer, so none of her preppy friends realized she was from the ghetto. Only one of her white friends, Felicia Armstrong, knew, but she never told anyone in their little circle of friends. Maybe Felicia had her own secrets. Who knew? But she treated Sinclair’s address like a big secret.
    Although, Sinclair had never asked herself if she was ashamed of the Palemos, she was glad that none of her school friends had come there to hang out. All of them seemed content to see her at school or at games. Living the lie she had been living until now, she’d never really thought about where she lived as being an issue. No, not until this very moment. The neighborhood she was forced to now call home was clearly the hood.
    Looking around however, she realized they were no longer in the poor side of the world. She wondered where she was.
    Finest brought the big vehicle to a stop, the locks opened with a click, and he and Floyd stepped out.
    â€œWhat about him?” Sinclair pointed over her shoulder at the young boy falling over in the seat after Floyd moved from next to him. He didn’t look much older than her.
    â€œFuck ’im. Be right back, baby. Don’t get out.” Finest slid his dark glasses on, and he and Floyd walked away from the car and disappeared around the corner.
    Glancing at the boy passed out in the seat, a strange sensation came over her. What if he’s dead ? “So-an’-so?” she called softly.
    The boy didn’t move.
    â€œI wonder where we are?” she asked softly, hoping he could hear. “Oh, and don’t get sick in this car, okay.” She turned back around, pushing the seat back and closing her eyes, giving into the contact high and the alcohol that filled her system. Maybe if she went to sleep she’d wake up from this dream. It wasn’t quite a nightmare yet, but if So-an’-so was dead, this could all change real quick. She thought, Touch him to see if he’s dead. Please, who you think I am?
    It took forever for Finest and Floyd to return. Sinclair was awakened by them climbing into the van. The looks on their faces read devilment , but it wasn’t for her to ask any questions. And neither Finest nor Floyd said a word the entire ride back to the P , to Malcolm’s house.
    Actually Sinclair wanted to go home, but passing the rubble that was once her house, the lot surrounded by yellow caution strips, reminded her that home no longer existed. She quickly turned her head as they drove past.
    Finest didn’t seem to care that she was devastated by the sight, and Floyd, well, he was just riding as if deaf and dumb. And dumber.
    Sinclair was still worried about So-an’-so, who’d not yet awaken after all this time. When they pulled up to Malcolm’s house and she stepped out of the big SUV, she was