There was a Tupac song playing and me and Neeka stopped dead in our tracks when the announcer came on and said the name of the song and told us Tupac had been shot five times the night before. “They shot him?” Neeka whispered. “News is saying somebody robbed him at some recording studio. Took forty thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry from him and shot him up like that. I don’t know what this world is coming to.” Mama put her hand over her mouth and shook her head real slow. I sat down at the table, my body feeling heavy and old. Mama had made some bacon and eggs for us and the bacon was draining on a brown paper bag. I stared at the bacon—at the way the grease made dark stains on the paper—and felt some part of me get numb and still. Neeka looked at me and her face didn’t look familiar—it looked like it was falling all over itself to understand. “They shot Pac?” she whispered again. “Shhhh,” I said because the newscaster was speaking again. He said it was serious.
