One night, after the gym, I met up with Jamal.

He was working late at his family’s restaurant, wiping down tables when I walked in. The place had emptied out for the night, but the soft hum of the kitchen still lingered in the air.

When he looked up and saw me, his eyes widened. “Damn,” he said, setting down the rag. “What are they feeding you at that gym?”

“Protein,” I said with a wink. “And determination.”

He shook his head, laughing, and tossed me a piece of flatbread from behind the counter. “Eat.”

I caught it and didn’t argue. We sat in the back corner, the overhead kitchen lights humming behind us. It was quiet, the kind of quiet that made it easy to think too much.

“You ever gonna tell me what’s really going on?” he asked after a while, breaking the silence.

I tore off a piece of bread, rolling it between my fingers. “What’s there to tell?”

Jamal gave me a look—one of those that said he wasn’t buying my bullshit.

I sighed, leaning back against the chair, staring up at the ceiling. “I don’t know. Just…everything. Like I’m just—” I cut myself off, shaking my head.

“Like you’re what?” Jamal pressed.

“Like I’m stuck.” The words slipped out before I could stop them. “Like I’m always almost something, but never enough.”

Jamal was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “You know that’s bullshit, right? You’re the smartest person I know.”

“Yeah? Tell that to my bank account.”

“Money isn’t everything.”

“Try saying that to someone who’s never had it,” I said, breaking off another piece of bread.

He didn’t have a comeback for that one. He just exhaled and leaned back, his gaze following mine up to the ceiling.

“Beverly’s different now,” I muttered after a while.

“Yeah. You are too.”

I frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jamal shrugged. “Just… Don’t lose yourself trying to make up for something that wasn’t your fault.”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t know how to. A thousand thoughts swirled in my mind, but the right words eluded me.

Time moved forward, whether I was ready for it or not. School, work, gym, repeat.

Beverly had officially started high school.

She was a freshman, even though she was older than most of the others. She had repeated a grade back in middle school, something that used to weigh on her but now gave her a strange sort of advantage. She carried herself differently, with a kind of resilience that the others hadn’t earned yet.

She was getting better, becoming different. Finding new things to love, new people to love. And me? I was standing on the sidelines, watching her change, watching myself change.

What else was new?

14

BEVERLY, 1998

16 years old

High school was supposed to be different.

Spoiler alert: it wasn’t.