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into his blank, helpless face, and he was always looking right back. There’s no way of erasing a connection like that.
    When I get upset about not being a real Panther, Emmalee likes to remind me about the time I testified. When Raheem asked me to do it, I thought finally I was doing something that mattered. It did matter, I guess, because I showed them I was brave, but Sam’s the one whose testimony actually made a difference. He’s the one who people had heard of, because of his famous father. He’s the one they believed.
    In the midst of the Bucky reception, Patrice sidles up to me. “Can we go now?”
    â€œOkay,” I say. She helps me finish sorting the buttons, then we grab Emmalee and skedaddle.
    We never spend all day there, especially now that summer is winding down. After we do our part for the day we escape. For Emmalee and Patrice, it’s escaping the office work. For me, it’s escaping the feeling that I’ll never get to do anything important.

CHAPTER 18
    T HE HEAT OF THE STREETS ON A late-summer afternoon. We walk slow, trying not to work ourselves up to dripping. We stare at the sidewalk, step by step, looking for lost coins among the sidewalk cracks, in the gutter. We scope the bus stops especially hard, ’cause we know what happens when people get in a hurry.
    â€œAnother dime,” Emmalee says, leaning down to scoop it up. Her long fingernails pinch it like a claw.
    â€œHow much is that?”
    Emmalee shakes her little cloth pouch. Peers into it. “One twenty.”
    â€œDamn,” says Patrice. “This is taking all day. We shoulda gone downtown.”
    â€œNah, too much hassle,” I say. “We’re not trying to make rent.” All we wanted was enough for a couple of ice cream cones. A buck fifty’d pull us each a cone at Charlie’s. The afternoon soda jerk, Jimmy, is sweet on Emmalee.
    It takes another half hour before we find enough. My neck is sweat slick under my hair. If my mouth wasn’t so dry it’d be watering over the very idea of ice cream.
    We pour the coins into Emmalee’s hand and double-check the count. One fifty-five. We track back toward Charlie’s.
    The fan’s whirring pretty good inside. Its breeze feels fresh and cool.
    Behind the counter, Jimmy nods when he sees us. “Hi, Maxie. Patrice.” He smiles. “Hi, Emmalee.”
    Emmalee’s light skin purples. “Hi, Jimmy.”
    He rubs his hands on his white uniform apron. “What can I get for you ladies? Ice cream?”
    Emmalee spills the coins onto the counter. “Three single scoops, please,” she says. She smiles and there’s this pause while he stares at her like a little puppy.
    Patrice and I hang back, let her do her thing. So far, so good. Sometimes she’s too shy and we have to swoop in and help out.
    â€œSure, sure,” Jimmy says after a minute, fumbling for the scooper. “What flavor?”
    â€œMint,” I call.
    â€œVanilla,” says Patrice.
    â€œStrawberry. Can you put mine in a sugar cone?” Emmalee says.
    Patrice nudges me, but I’m already grinning. Really, really good.
    Jimmy takes a sugar cone and leans into the freezer. “A sweet cone for a sweet girl” is what I think he says, though I’m not sure he meant us to hear it.
    I bite my tongue, elbow Patrice.
    Jimmy scoops the strawberry first. He gives her a big double scoop, despite the fact that we only paid for singles. Like usual.
    â€œYou look pretty today, Emmalee.”
    â€œReally?” she says. Her fingers touch the edges of the freezer glass.
    â€œYeah. Real pretty.”
    â€œThanks, Jimmy.” She reaches out for the cone. It’s a slow exchange, fingers brush. Her cheeks are flushed. You can’t tell on him, but I’m betting it’s the same.
    He lets go, finally, and scoops the mint and the vanilla into regular cones for us. Double scoops. Not as big, but we