“Well, yeah, but I think it would’ve been better if we’d just done it, rather than you breaking down each step,” Autumn says.

“Yeah, I agree,” Whit says. “I like this girl.”

“I third that,” Q says. “Organic huddles are the best huddles.”

“I think it’s fine if we still do it, Jamal. I don’t think you ruined anything,” Ms. Barrantes says with a wink.

“Hmph, thank you. At least someone gets me.”

“Wah wah,” Whit says, pretending to cry. “Is that whining coming from inside my stomach?”

I roll my eyes. Stick my hand out. “You guys in?”

“In,” everyone says, stacking their hands on top.

“Okay, Get Q on Stage on three,” I direct. “One . . . two . . . three . . .”

“Get Q on Stage,” we all shout with conviction, our hands lifting into the air.

Tickets scanned, we take our seats. The lights dim and the audience claps as if our lives depend on our enthusiasm. And out skips Kendrick. Each time he smiles, it’s like he’s yanking a sheet off a blanketed object and revealing something special. Each locced dread falling away from his face like the frozen trajectories of so many skipped stones. Black skin so smooth if you ran your fingers across his arm left and then right, it would change texture like velvet. Okay, maybe that’s not true, but what is true is Kendrick’s got mad gravitational pull. Before he said one word, you already wanted to like him.

Soon as he launches into his three-minute monologue, I give the team the signal and we work on removing our signs from their hiding places.

But there’s something we hadn’t anticipated.

How dark it is.

We wave the signs, even make them flutter, but if Kendrick (or anyone other than the people seated behind us) notices, no one says anything. Kendrick doesn’t bat an eye.

Eventually, everyone drops their signs to their laps. I keep trying though. Waiting for the lights to change. Waiting for our luck to change.

But nothing.

I stand up, and Whit tugs on my shirt. “What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to get his attention.”

“Sit down.”

“Yeah, sit down, kid,” a man behind us says. “You’re not supposed to have posters, anyway.”

“Excuse me, sir, but I don’t see how this is any of your business. I’m trying to do something important for my friend here and if you’d . . .”

“Sir, sir, we need you to come with us,” a man says, who has materialized at the end of our row. As he aims his flashlight at my face, I catch the word SECURITY embroidered on his shirt and hat.

“What did I do wrong?”

“You’re causing a disturbance. Other guests are complaining.”

“We’re all together. If he goes, we all go,” Autumn chimes.

But the security guard shrugs. Waves his flashlight at all of us. “Fine, let’s go, all of you.”