“Tired?” I said. “I feel great.” I jumped up and down a couple of times to prove how not-tired I was.

They rolled their eyes. “Not tired from your blowup last night?” Their face held both teasing and warmth, and though the thought of the bout sent my stomach plunging, I knew I needed to talk about it. And that Fee was a good person to do that with.

I folded my arms on top of the chest of drawers and rested my chin against them. “That was a mess.”

“What happened, you think?”

“I let that chick get to me. But I was already geared up to throw down with someone.”

Fee raised themselves off the chest and reached backward to stretch their arms. “Why’s that?”

I worked my jaw back and forth a bit. “It’s a bit of a story. How long till those rotlis are ready?”

Fee’s response to each piece of my story—from boxing to the accident to roller derby to Shanti (I wasn’t ready to share with them about the bruising)—was another hug and more hard labor. No advice about how to fix anything—just a promise: “You know I got you, punk.”

Once we’d moved what Dotty had wanted us to move, we sat down at her kitchen table, which was laden with dahl, saag paneer, chutney, and of course, the celebrated rotlis. Nothing was more satisfying to me than unleavened bread products made by brown people, and I tore into the meal like I hadn’t eaten in days. Then I remembered I hadn’t actually eaten since before the bout yesterday—I’d been too distraught to consume anything beyond the tea I’d shared with Priam and Vicki.

“You’ve got a good appetite, like this one.” Dotty gestured to Fee and her eyes glimmered.

I smiled through my mouthful of dahl and nodded.

Fee added, “No one can resist your food, Ma. And it helps to move thousand-pound furniture around first.” They leaned over and kissed Dotty on the cheek. She made that universal brown mama lip-smacking sound and playfully pushed Fee away.

As I watched them, my heart ached a little, but seeing Dotty so clearly accept everything about Fee—everything they were and weren’t—made me realize I had people like that in my life too. Fee, for one. Priam and Vicki. Shanti. I hadn’t seen it because I didn’t want to. It had felt easier not to have to depend on anyone else. Losing something—or someone—that you don’t depend on doesn’t matter so much. Doesn’t hurt.

The thought of losing Shanti hurt. I needed to do something about that.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

I rolled down the side streets around my house, swerving my skateboard back and forth—toward the curb, away, toward, away. The curving motion calmed my nerves as I waited for my phone to ding.