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Keisha Clark

Keisha Loraine Clark was a West Baltimore native, senior at Baltimore Polytechnic Institute, volunteer at the West Baltimore Recreation Center, and the girlfriend of Marcus Washington III. She represented the complicated middle ground between complicity and transformation — the person who recognized that something was wrong with the toxic culture Shanice had created but didn't have the courage or the ground beneath her feet to challenge it alone, in part because she was one of its primary targets. For two years, Shanice systematically diminished Keisha through psychological abuse, and the slow process of rebuilding from that damage — relearning how to want things, how to exist without apology, how to trust her own instincts about people — was the central arc of her narrative.

Keisha was a senior at Baltimore Polytechnic Institute applying to colleges, dating Marcus Washington III, and beginning to articulate something she couldn't have imagined six months earlier: a career goal. She wanted to go into counseling for teenage girls, with particular emphasis on peer dynamics and psychological abuse — the kind that happens between girls, the kind that doesn't leave bruises, the kind that gets dismissed as drama because it doesn't look like what people think abuse looks like. The aspiration didn't come from a textbook or a career aptitude test. It came from living through it. By late March 2015, Keisha had visited the University of Maryland's College of Education, connected with graduate student Tamara Davis and Dr. Patterson's relational aggression research track, and been present for Marcus's full-ride scholarship offer at the Washington family home visit.

Early Life and Background

Keisha grew up in West Baltimore with her mother, Mila Clark, and younger brother, Isaiah Michael Clark (born March 2002). Details of her father's presence or absence remained to be documented, but Mila raised Keisha with the kind of quiet perceptiveness that bordered on professional-grade observation. Mila was the sort of mother who registered her daughter leaving the house in clothes that fit and lip gloss on, drew her own conclusions about what that meant, and said nothing beyond "be home by three, we got church tonight" — because she understood that some things needed to unfold without parental commentary.

Keisha attended Baltimore Polytechnic Institute, one of Baltimore's magnet schools, and began volunteering at the West Baltimore Recreation Center at least two years before the Summer 2014 crisis. Her connection to the rec center was rooted in neighborhood familiarity — she knew West Baltimore and its community in ways that newer volunteers like Kelsey Morrison, who arrived from suburban Boston, did not.

Education

Keisha attended Baltimore Polytechnic Institute, a selective magnet school, indicating academic capability that the Shanice years buried under two years of diminished self-worth. The college application process forced her to confront a question that Shanice's abuse had made unanswerable: what do you want? Not what are you allowed to want. Not what won't make someone angry. What do you want?

The answer crystallized over the fall of 2014 and into early 2015. Keisha wanted to study school counseling at the University of Maryland's College of Education, specializing in Dr. Patterson's research track on relational aggression in adolescent girls. During a campus visit in January 2015, she toured the Benjamin Building with Tamara Davis, a second-year graduate student in the program, and discovered the academic infrastructure dedicated to the thing that had happened to her — peer-reviewed research, intervention models, school-based prevention programs, an entire field that took seriously what the world dismissed as teenage girls being mean to each other. Tamara shared her own story of surviving a three-year abusive friendship with a girl named Brianna, and the recognition between them — two women who'd lived the same blueprint of destruction with different names attached — was immediate and profound.

Keisha left the campus visit carrying Dr. Patterson's research summary, a head full of terminology she planned to look up that night, and the particular buzzing certainty of someone who had found the building where their future lived.

Personality

Keisha's personality was best understood in two phases: who she was under Shanice, and who she was becoming without her.

Under Shanice, Keisha presented as quiet, compliant, self-effacing — the kind of person who made herself smaller to avoid becoming a target, even though she already was one. She recognized that something was wrong with how things operated at the rec center but lacked the foundation to challenge it. When your sense of self had been systematically dismantled, standing up to the person doing the dismantling required resources you no longer had.

The deepest damage Shanice inflicted was not to Keisha's confidence or her wardrobe but to her ability to trust her own instincts about people — the cellular, unconscious process by which she used to assess new connections quickly and accurately had been weaponized against her when she liked Shanice immediately and walked through that liking into two years of abuse. The full scope of this damage and its lasting effects on Keisha's ability to form new relationships was documented in their adversarial relationship file.

The Keisha emerging after the crisis was direct, warm, and practical. She communicated with honesty and a touch of humor. She checked in on friends, offered to defend them publicly when they were being attacked, and said what she meant without the protective layer of humor Marcus relied on. Her instinct was toward protection and support, toward making sure other people felt seen and safe — an instinct that came directly from knowing what it felt like when nobody provided that for you.

She was also still rebuilding. The recovery from two years of psychological abuse was not a clean trajectory from broken to whole. It was a process of relearning how to exist in conversation without apologizing, how to wear clothes that fit, how to voice opinions without checking the room first, how to want things. Keisha was doing this work in real time, in front of the people who were becoming her closest friends, and the vulnerability of that — the willingness to let people watch her figure herself out — was perhaps the bravest thing about her.

Keisha wanted to be the person she needed. The sentence was simple. The weight behind it was not. She wanted to sit across from a teenage girl whose best friend was systematically destroying her and say I know. I see you. This is real and it's not your fault and here's how we get you out. The career aspiration didn't come from a guidance counselor or a brochure. It came from two years of living inside a system designed to make her disappear and the slow, painful process of making herself visible again.

Her deepest fear was regression — that the reconstruction was temporary, that the colors and the opinions and the wanting were fragile enough to be dismantled again by the right person with the right tools. The threat-assessment mechanism she ran on every new person she met was the physiological evidence of this fear: the four-second scan for Shanice-like patterns before allowing connection. Tamara Davis passed it in twenty minutes at the Benjamin Building. The speed of that passage surprised Keisha badly enough that she almost missed Tamara's first sentence about the campus layout.

She also feared that wanting things was still dangerous — that ambition was something that could be punished, that saying I want to go to UMD or I want to study counseling or I want to be with Marcus opened her to the kind of vulnerability Shanice exploited. Every time she stated a want out loud, she was overriding two years of conditioning that told her wanting was pathetic.

Cultural Identity and Heritage

Keisha Clark was a Black woman from West Baltimore who carried the particular cultural inheritance of Black girls navigating systems that were not built for them. She attended Baltimore Polytechnic Institute—one of Baltimore's selective public schools, a fact that spoke to her academic ability and the aspirations of a family that invested in education as a pathway forward.

Her experience of Shanice's relational aggression sat within a specific cultural context: the dynamics of power and cruelty among Black girls in institutions where they were already marginalized, where the limited space available bred competition and the tools of social destruction were wielded with precision. Keisha's transformation from someone diminished by that experience into a doctoral researcher studying adolescent relational aggression was a particular kind of Black female alchemy—transmuting pain into expertise, using the wound as the basis for the work. Her decision to study the very thing that nearly destroyed her reflected a cultural tradition of Black women turning survival into service.

Speech and Communication Patterns

Keisha communicated directly but warmly. She used casual language appropriate to her age and social context, texting in lowercase with minimal punctuation. In the group chat with Devon, Kelsey, and Marcus, she participated actively, responding quickly and keeping conversation flowing. She was comfortable both in one-on-one exchanges and in group dynamics, though her ease in groups was still relatively new — a function of the post-Shanice reconstruction rather than something she'd always had.

When offering support, she was genuine rather than performative: "i'm so sorry. she's lying. everyone who was there knows she's lying." Simple, direct, true. She didn't sugarcoat, didn't attack, didn't perform empathy for an audience. She meant what she said, and what she said tended to be exactly enough — not too much, not too little.

In her relationship with Marcus, Keisha's directness served as a counterweight to his noise. Marcus filled space with volume and humor; Keisha cut through it with honesty. When Marcus deflected with a joke, Keisha said the thing he was avoiding. When he spiraled into guilt about the two years he didn't intervene, she pulled him back with precision: "Your face does a thing. Your jaw gets tight and your eyes go somewhere else and you stop talking, which is how I know it's serious, because you never stop talking." Their communication dynamic was the balance of someone who learned to be loud to keep grief at bay and someone who was learning, for the first time in two years, that her voice was worth hearing.

Health and Disabilities

No physical, neurological, or psychological conditions were formally documented for Keisha. She carried the physiological residue of two years of psychological abuse: a flinch response when voices were raised, a threat-assessment mechanism that ran automatically when she met new people (scanning for Shanice-like patterns before allowing connection), and residual difficulty trusting her own instincts about whether someone was safe. These were trauma responses rather than clinical diagnoses, though the distinction between the two was thinner than most people acknowledged.

Personal Style and Presentation

Keisha was slim and long-limbed—taller than people expected, with the kind of lean frame that baggy clothes swallowed whole for two years and fitted clothes were now revealing to the world. She had visible bone structure everywhere: the collarbones that Marcus had Opinions about (he was keeping the Opinions to himself because his grandmother raised him right), the wrists, the angular jawline, the cheekbones. Her body was built on lines rather than curves—long arms, long legs, a frame that took up space vertically the way Marcus's took up space broadly. The kind of body that was made for the fitted jeans and actual necklines she was choosing now, and that was wasted on two years of beige and baggy, two years of folding all that length into something small enough to avoid notice.

Her skin was light-medium brown—the lighter end of the brown spectrum, warm-toned, the kind of complexion where the colors she was reclaiming popped like deliberate choices rather than accidents. Red against that skin was a statement. Burgundy was a declaration. The dark red nails—almost black, neat and short and deliberate—were punctuation marks. Under Shanice, she dressed in beige and gray that made her skin look washed out, that turned the warm brown into something faded and invisible. The colors she was choosing now—red, gold, deep green, burgundy—were in conversation with her skin the way they always should have been. The light-medium brown woke up when it had something vivid to play against.

Her face was angular and striking—high cheekbones, defined jaw, the kind of bone structure that was wasted on two years of looking at the floor. There was an architecture to her face that matched her communication style: nothing extra, nothing soft, everything precisely where it should be. The cheekbones were the feature, the thing that caught light, that the braids framed when they fell alongside her face. The jaw was defined enough to be a presence—a jaw that tightened when she was angry and softened when Marcus made her laugh, a jaw that spent two years clenched and was learning to relax. When she smiled now—the full, real smile, not the careful one she wore under Shanice—the angular face transformed. The architecture was still there but the warmth moved through it, and you could see the girl she was before Shanice and the woman she was becoming at the same time.

Her eyes were brown with golden-amber warmth—perceptive, constant, the most active feature on a face that had only recently started doing what it was built for. These were eyes that noticed everything because they had to. They read Marcus's jaw tension from across a room because they spent two years reading Shanice's mood through a phone screen. The threat-assessment mechanism ran behind them in the first four seconds of every new person she met, scanning for patterns, checking for danger, making decisions about safety before the conscious mind had time to catch up. But the warmth was what people felt when those eyes landed on them. The amber. The golden undertone that made the assessment feel like welcome rather than interrogation. When Keisha looked at you and saw you—really saw you, the way she saw Marcus's guilt before he voiced it, the way she saw Devon's effort before anyone else acknowledged it—it felt like being found rather than examined.

Her hair was in braids—box braids with beads that clicked when she moved her head. The beads were part of her sound, the audible evidence of a girl who took up space again. They were fresh from Thursday for her first brunch with Marcus—maintained, deliberate, the kind of style that took hours and said I cared enough about today to sit in a chair for this. Under Shanice, the hair was probably simpler—functional, invisible, don't-notice-me hair. The braids with beads were the opposite of invisible. They announced. They clicked. You could hear Keisha turn her head from across a room, and the sound was a small reclamation every time.

Her hands were long-fingered, matching her long-limbed frame—the hands of a girl who typed precisely, who painted her nails deliberately (dark red, almost black, neat and short), who held her phone the way she held her opinions: with certainty. Under Shanice, these hands were probably hidden—tucked in pockets, folded in laps, making themselves small. Now they gestured when she talked (not as much as Denise, but more than she used to), reached across the diner table for the check Marcus kept trying to pay, gripped his arm when she was proud of him and didn't have the words yet. The dark red nails were another recovery milestone Marcus noticed and catalogued and didn't mention, because mentioning it would mean explaining why it mattered, and explaining why it mattered would mean talking about the two years when her nails were bare and her clothes were armor and her body was something to hide rather than inhabit.

Keisha's voice was low and soft—a lower register than you'd expect from someone her age, with a steadiness that had been earned rather than inherited. Under Shanice, this voice shook. It was barely audible if she spoke at all—the voice of a girl who'd been taught that speaking was dangerous, that opinions were ammunition, that the safest thing her mouth could do was stay closed. Now the voice had found its ground. Still soft, still low, but steady where it used to tremble. The softness wasn't weakness anymore—it was precision. Every word was chosen, placed, delivered with the economy of someone who spent two years learning what it cost to say the wrong thing and had decided that from now on, she would only say exactly what she meant. When Keisha said "your face does a thing" in that low, soft voice, it landed harder than shouting. Marcus's loudness made her quietness louder by contrast.

Keisha smelled like layers—the baseline and the choice. The baseline was practical: cocoa butter lotion, the oil and product that kept the braids fresh, the faint traces of whatever her mama's house smelled like—Mila's cooking, the fabric softener, the domestic scent of a home that was holding someone together. On top: something she chose. A scented lotion, a body spray—drugstore practical, nothing expensive, but deliberate. Under Shanice, she probably wore nothing extra. No scent. No declaration. The fact that Keisha now smelled like a choice rather than just existence was itself a recovery milestone. The chosen layer sat on top of the inherited layer the way her recovery sat on top of her roots—new growth on the foundation that had always been there.

Keisha's wardrobe was one of the most visible markers of her recovery arc. Under Shanice, she dressed in beige, gray, and baggy—clothes designed to make her invisible, to take up as little space as possible, to avoid giving Shanice ammunition about her body or her choices. By late 2014, she had begun wearing color again. Actual color. Red and gold and deep green, burgundy sweaters with necklines that did things to her collarbones. Her wardrobe now announced itself, took up space, said I'm here and I'm not apologizing for it.

Marcus noticed every new color. Catalogued them. Said nothing.

Tastes and Preferences

Keisha's tastes were inseparable from her recovery arc—every preference she expressed was also a statement about who she was becoming after Shanice. French toast at the diner on Charles Street every Saturday with Marcus was her most established food preference, a ritual so reliable that his text—"you up?"—received a reply within two minutes. These tastes were not frivolous; they were the architecture of a self being rebuilt, each chosen color and Saturday morning and deliberate scent a brick in the wall between who she was under Shanice and who she was becoming without her.

Habits, Routines, and Daily Life

Saturday mornings meant brunch with Marcus—separate checks because she refused to let him pay, his truck in her driveway by ten-thirty.

Keisha prepared for things the way other people breathed — automatically, thoroughly, with an intensity that suggested the alternative was suffocation. She arrived at the UMD home visit carrying a folder of color-coded notes about the kinesiology program organized "for Marcus" but really for herself. She cited the BS/DPT dual-degree pathway from memory during the coaches' presentation. The preparation was partly temperament and partly armor — the legacy of two years when being unprepared meant being vulnerable, when not knowing the right answer meant giving Shanice ammunition.

Her braids got refreshed regularly — they were fresh from Thursday for her first brunch with Marcus. The beads clicked when she moved her head. The sound was part of her presence now, the audible evidence of a girl who took up space again.

Family and Core Relationships

Mila Clark

Keisha's mother was a perceptive and deliberate parent who communicated love through strategic restraint. When Keisha left for her first brunch with Marcus wearing a red v-neck, fitted jeans, and lip gloss — the first time she'd dressed with visible intention since before the Shanice years — Mila registered the departure with precision and said nothing beyond "be home by three, we got church tonight." She understood that her daughter putting on mascara and wearing clothes that fit was a recovery milestone, and that the worst thing she could do was draw attention to it.

Mila assessed Marcus with the precision of a therapist evaluating a variable that had entered her daughter's recovery ecosystem. Her assessment was thorough and ultimately favorable — she recognized Marcus's guilt as genuine rather than performed, his protectiveness as responsive rather than controlling, and his willingness to let Keisha lead her own recovery rather than positioning himself as her rescuer. The conclusion was evident in the way she began treating Marcus as a fixture rather than a guest: setting a plate for him without asking, calling him by his first name, trusting him with her daughter's fragile, rebuilding self. Further details about Mila — her profession, her own history, her relationship with her daughter's healing — remained to be documented.

Isaiah Michael Clark

Keisha's younger brother was born in March 2002, making him nearly thirteen during the events of December 2014. The five-year age gap meant Isaiah experienced the Shanice years from the periphery — old enough to sense that something was wrong with his sister, too young to articulate what it was or intervene. He watched Keisha go quiet, watched her stop wearing colors, watched the version of his sister who had opinions and took up space get replaced by someone who checked rooms before speaking. What that did to a kid between the ages of eight and ten remained to be fully explored.

Isaiah challenged Marcus to driveway basketball the morning after Marcus first fell asleep at the Clark house — the twelve-year-old's version of Mila's assessment, evaluating the new variable through the medium he understood best. Marcus recognized the dynamic immediately and played the game with the seriousness and respect Isaiah deserved.

Romantic / Significant Relationships

Marcus Washington III

Main article: Marcus Washington III and Keisha Clark - Relationship

Keisha and Marcus volunteered together at the rec center for two years before their relationship shifted from friendship to romance in the aftermath of the Summer 2014 crisis. Marcus was the loud one — constantly talking, filling space — and Keisha had been made progressively smaller by Shanice's abuse. After a brunch at the diner on Charles Street, sitting in his truck in the parking lot, Marcus refused to let Keisha minimize what Shanice had done to her, and Keisha broke down and told him the full truth. Their first kiss happened in that truck — terrible timing, blocked nose, snot on his hoodie, gearshift in her hip, and the most authentic thing to happen to either of them in years.

By December 2014, Keisha attended Marcus's basketball games and had been welcomed by his grandparents. At the scout game, she unknowingly sat in the seat that belonged to Marcus's late mother, Diana Rochelle Washington, for thirteen years — third row, center court — wearing a purple coat in Diana's signature color. By early 2015, she told Marcus about her counseling ambition at their diner, drove his truck home from the campus visit when his hands were shaking too hard, and was present for his scholarship offer carrying her own folder of research and citing the BS/DPT dual-degree pathway from memory.

The Shanice Years

For approximately two years before the Summer 2014 crisis, Keisha existed within a social dynamic at the rec center that was, in practice, a prolonged campaign of psychological abuse orchestrated by Shanice. The specifics of Shanice's tactics remained to be fully documented, but the effects were comprehensive and visible to anyone willing to look: Keisha stopped wearing colors. Stopped voicing opinions. Stopped taking up space. She checked rooms before speaking, monitored Shanice's moods through her phone, apologized for existing in conversations, and dressed in baggy clothes that seemed designed to make her invisible. Shanice had convinced her that trying was stupid, that her face was wrong, that wanting things was pathetic.

The abuse operated through the mechanics of social control rather than overt violence. Shanice said things to Keisha. Made her quiet. Made her stop trying. The slow erasure was so thorough that by the time it ended, Keisha had difficulty identifying who she'd been before it started.

Marcus Washington III, who volunteered alongside both of them for the full two years, noticed without intervening. He saw Shanice say things to Keisha. Saw Keisha get quiet afterward. Saw the shrinking. He told himself it was normal rec center drama, because calling it what it actually was — systematic psychological destruction — would have required him to do something about it. The guilt he carried for those two years of inaction would later become one of the defining dynamics of their relationship.

The Summer 2014 Crisis

Keisha was present at the West Baltimore Recreation Center during the Summer 2014 MJ Assault Crisis. She witnessed the aftermath of Shanice's assault on Marcus "MJ" Henderson and aligned herself with Kelsey Morrison's challenge to the toxic system rather than defending Shanice or maintaining the status quo.

The night of the assault, Keisha lay in her bedroom unable to sleep. The events of the day kept replaying — MJ's bruised shoulder, his confused sobbing, the way he'd apologized over and over for being attacked. And underneath the horror of what had happened to MJ was the creeping, nauseating realization of her own complicity. She hadn't shaken MJ. She hadn't hurt him directly. But she'd watched the system that hurt him operate for months and said nothing. She'd noticed when MJ was left alone in the lounge day after day and hadn't pushed back. She'd seen Shanice dismiss him, heard volunteers talk about him like he wasn't there, and gone along with it because going along was easier than becoming a target — and because she was already a target, and adding another front to the war she was losing didn't feel survivable.

The shame was physical, heavy in her chest. She thought about all the times she could have said something, could have asked MJ if he needed anything, could have treated him like a person instead of furniture to walk past. She picked up her phone and blocked Shanice on Facebook. It wasn't enough. It wasn't close to enough. But it was a start. When Devon Morgan showed up the next morning having broken up with Shanice, Keisha was shocked. She hadn't expected him to choose accountability over comfort, to end his relationship rather than make excuses for his girlfriend's violence. That choice earned her respect and shifted something in Keisha's understanding of what had been possible — that people could look at a broken system they'd been part of and decide to be different.

Recovery and Identity

The months following the Summer 2014 crisis marked the beginning of Keisha's reconstruction. The process was not dramatic — there was no single moment of transformation, no cinematic montage of healing. It was granular and slow: wearing a red v-neck to brunch instead of a baggy t-shirt. Having an opinion about coffee. Laughing without checking the room first. Existing in conversation without apologizing for taking up space.

Marcus noticed the recovery the way you notice a building being rebuilt — slowly, structurally, one beam at a time. He watched Keisha start wearing colors again. Watched her laugh. Watched her participate in the group chat without the hesitation that had characterized her communication under Shanice. The Keisha who emerged was not the Keisha from before the abuse — that person was gone, or at least fundamentally altered. The Keisha who emerged was someone new, built on the foundation of what she'd survived, carrying the knowledge of what it cost.

By fall 2014, Keisha was applying to colleges as a senior at Baltimore Polytechnic Institute. For the first time, she was confronting a question that Shanice's abuse had made unanswerable for two years: what do you want? The answer, when it came, surprised no one who knew her story. Keisha wanted to go into counseling for teenage girls, with particular emphasis on peer dynamics and psychological abuse. She wanted to be the person sitting across from a sixteen-year-old whose best friend was systematically destroying her, the person who could say I know exactly what that feels like and mean it. She wanted to be the intervention that had never come for her.

She told Marcus about the ambition at their diner on Charles Street during a Saturday brunch. She told him the Shanice years were hers now — not with bravado, not with performed recovery, just fact. "I own it now." She'd claimed them. Taken ownership of the damage and decided what to build on top of it.

Friendships

Kelsey Morrison

Keisha and Kelsey formed a quick friendship despite Kelsey being new to Baltimore. Their bond was built on shared values around protecting the kids at the rec center and a mutual respect that crossed significant differences in their backgrounds. Kelsey, as an outsider from suburban Boston, needed someone who understood the local context. Keisha provided that context while also being willing to acknowledge that the toxic patterns Kelsey identified were real and needed to change.

Devon Morgan

Keisha's relationship with Devon shifted significantly during Summer 2014. Before the crisis, Devon had been Shanice's boyfriend — the checked-out rich kid from Roland Park. After Devon broke up with Shanice and showed up genuinely trying, Keisha began to see him differently. She witnessed him engage with the kids for the first time. When Shanice's Facebook slander went up, Keisha reached out to Devon directly — offering support, offering to defend him publicly. Devon's willingness to put himself out there for the rec center kids earned her respect and shifted her understanding of what people were capable of.

The New Team

By the end of Summer 2014, Keisha had become part of the core group of volunteers committed to genuine engagement with the kids at the rec center. The group — Keisha, Kelsey, Devon, and Marcus — formed through crisis and shared accountability. The group chat Keisha started on Friday night became the infrastructure of their friendship: a space for checking in, coordinating, processing, and the kind of casual interaction that transformed crisis-born alliances into real relationships.

Legacy and Memory

To be established. How Keisha's experience of peer abuse shaped her professional identity, how many girls she eventually reached through her counseling work, and whether the reconstruction that began in a diner on Charles Street proved durable across the decades — all remained open threads.

Memorable Quotes

"literally anything that doesn't taste like the sludge from that ancient machine" — Response when Devon asked what kind of coffee everyone liked

"i'm so sorry. she's lying. everyone who was there knows she's lying." — Text to Devon after Shanice's Facebook post

"that's not fair. you don't deserve this." — To Devon, validating his hurt over the slander

"I'm so proud of you. I'm just — I'm so fucking proud of you, Marcus." — At the UMD scout game, December 2014

"You can be terrified and ready. Those aren't opposites." — To Marcus in the truck on the way to the January 2015 campus visit

"I own it now." — About the Shanice years, at the brunch revelation

"Your face does a thing. Your jaw gets tight and your eyes go somewhere else and you stop talking, which is how I know it's serious, because you never stop talking." — To Marcus, pulling him out of a guilt spiral

"I have sudden-onset allergies triggered by watching my boyfriend get full ride to University of Maryland, which is a recognized medical condition." — After the home visit, denying that she was crying

Characters Main Characters Living Characters Clark Family West Baltimore Recreation Center Faultlines Series