Miss Sammie continued, “You might not believe this, but Jamal and I about up and quit here for there.” She settled in, remembering. “This was back in the day, well before your family came to town. He and I had finished Borger High, and Jamal didn’t see many prospects hereabouts, or even down to Amarillo. Atlanta had the Black mayors, and Hank Aaron had done his thing and Dominique was doing his, and Jamal said we ought to give it a shot. So I thought, Why not?”

“What happened?”

“Jerrald!” she said, laughing toward Jean’s mama, who’d returned and was perched on the arm of the sofa. “I got pregnant and Jamal got onto a crew out at the refinery and, well, that was that.”

She leaned in closer. “I always hoped that you and Jerrald might find your way to each other.”

Jerrald was a few years older, a high-school senior when Jean was a sophomore, and he and Jean had never become friends, much less the sweethearts that the Jamesons had so clearly wished for.

Jean’s mama jumped in. “Jean was always set on college, and you know good and well that Jerrald wasn’t ever interested in all that!”

“The boy would’ve gone,” Miss Sammie protested.

Jean’s mama sucked her teeth.

They were like twins separated at birth who’d found each other as adults—her mama, a Sweet Mu Pi from Spelman, like Jean herself was now, and Miss Sammie, who cleaned offices around town after hours. So different, yet so alike.

“Besides,” her mama said, “you told me Jerrald enjoyed working alongside his daddy.”

“He would so have gone,” Miss Sammie said, “had that coach come through with the scholarship he promised.” Then, to Jean, “You’ve done well for yourself, though, baby girl. More than well.”

Jean followed her gaze out the window, to where Wole was bantering with Jean’s brother Sylvester and Jerrald and some of Jerrald’s cousins who’d been staying with them since Katrina, the summer before.

“I spent my entire life working, and look where we are now—on the brink of extinction.”

Cartoon by Sarah Kempa

Miss Sammie asked, “Do Atlanta Juneteenths be like we do around here, with the collards and the mac ’n’ cheese and the rest? You know, putting your foot in it.”

“Truth be told, I don’t remember Juneteenths from when I was a girl,” her mama said. “Jubilee Day at the New Year, but no Juneteenth.”

“Maybe they’ll make it a national holiday one day,” Miss Sammie said, “and everybody all over will celebrate it.”

“You’re dreaming for real now,” Jean’s mama shot back. “Juneteenth?”

They both laughed.

“You right, you right,” Miss Sammie said, rising and moving toward the door.

To Jean, she said, “Come on back outside. Everybody wants to hear about your new life.”

Jean nodded. “I’ll be right out.”

The clock beside Michael Jackson-Jesus read three-forty. An hour had passed since their arrival. Jean slipped outside into the still swelling party, the yard filled shoulder to shoulder now, some folks dancing. As she came upon Wole, his New York accent sounded thicker than usual: “Three-on-three toouh-nuh-ments? No way! The city leagues are where the best ball is at.”

Jean gently tugged his shirt. “We need to get going. I still have that errand to run before the store closes.”

For Jane Carter hair cream. She didn’t really need any, but the errand provided a good excuse to leave.

Wole looked nonplussed but said goodbye to those around him.

Jean’s mama saw through the ruse but misread it. When Sylvester said, “I’ma come, too,” she told him, “Boy, leave those two be for five minutes.”

“It’s all right, Mama,” Jean said, waving for Sylvester to join them.

She handed Wole the keys to her mama’s Mitsubishi wagon, his preference being to drive, and went around to the passenger side. Sylvester climbed in back, buds in his ears, iPod in hand, his head bobbing to some beat. She directed Wole to Cedar Street.

“Where we headed?” Sylvester asked, leaning up between the bucket seats.

“Nowhere,” Jean said. “Just riding.”

“How about Amarillo, then?”

Wole asked, “Back where I flew into?”

It was an hour away, but there was more going on there than in Borger and Jean needed the time to go by.

“It’s where we’d go in high school,” she explained to Wole. “They have a mall and more restaurants—”

“And Wonderland Park!” Sylvester jumped in, like he was eight rather than eighteen. She couldn’t tell if he was being serious or facetious.

Both he and Wole peered at Jean, Wole glancing back and forth toward the road.

“O.K.,” she said. “Why not?”

She pointed to where he should turn, onto State Highway 136, past Bulldog Stadium and out of town.

Wole, eying Sylvester in the rearview, asked about his plans for college, about the high-school basketball team. Their mama corrected Sylvester when he spoke like his crowd and, at home, mostly he didn’t. But here he was, all hand gestures and loud, carrying on. “Them fools cain’t ball! For real, bruh—they booger.”

Turning toward Jean, Wole patted his breast pocket. “Why don’t we fire one up.”

She laughed as though he’d told a joke. “Quit playing,” she said.

But he persisted, pulling out what remained of the spliff she’d rolled earlier, and Jean snapped, firm and definitive, “No!”

Wole faced fixedly forward, both fists clenching the steering wheel.

“Dang, Negro,” Sylvester said from the back. “Please don’t tell me you think I don’t smoke.”