Jordan Peele’s US meets MY SISTER THE SERIAL KILLER
Calla thinks it’s impossible to keep a black child safe. She’s right. Still, she does her best to raise her youngest brother, Jamie, with the fickle support of her middle brother. She’s finally getting used to parent-teacher conferences and teenage theatrics when Jamie’s Black Lives Matter activism starts with an explosion and ends with a very dead cop.
Her brothers think they can trust Calla to save them again when she takes them on the run to a remote cabin. They’re wrong. Calla is fed up with their secrets and her sacrifice.
It’s just so hard keeping black boys alive.
Calla was wearing the wrong bra for this sort of confrontation. The situation really called for her sports bra, the one with six no-nonsense hooks anchoring her down and all the sex appeal of old goulash. Instead, she was in her limpest bra, the one with the underwire missing under the right breast. Unfortunately, her right breast was the one that misbehaved, the one that was a fraction larger than the left, popping slightly over her bra like a gopher. She feared this was very noticeable in her chunky cable-knit sweater dress.
She drew the long, dark twists of her hair over one shoulder. She prayed it would keep anyone from noticing she currently had three breasts. If she’d known this morning she would end up at a disciplinary meeting at her little brother’s school, she would have dressed more authoritatively. Her boobs wouldn’t be giving her this much shit trapped in a blazer.
The heavyset man sitting across from her cleared his throat. “Ms. Williams, we’re glad you were able to make the time today. I’m afraid we found drugs in your son’s backpack.”