“You gotta stand up for yourself, otherwise this is how it’s always gonna be, Q. You wanna spend your life a human punching bag?”

But he’d push out a silly smile—I couldn’t tell if he was oblivious or really that good inside. “I’d rather spread love, you know? Imagine if that’s how everyone responded? With love? You’d rather live in that world, right?”

“But we don’t,” I’d answer, impatience boiling.

“Gotta start somewhere, right?”

To be honest, that’s one of the things that irritated me most—how he’d add right at the end of something you wanted to disagree with.

I debate whether I should go say something.

Hey, man, some party, huh?

Hey, man, how ’bout those nachos?

Hey, man, how’s life these last two years?

But when I look back, Q’s gone.

And then Autumn’s all—“Oh snap, my soooong!”—as she drags me to the epicenter of the human ocean.

I finally spy him leaning against the far wall, a human kickstand.

I push through the crowd, but I’m too late, kid’s already Houdini’d.

Autumn sets her drink down, guides her Mighty Moat T-shirt up and off. Unbuttons her shorts, nudges them down her hips.

And, well—

I try not to stare, but her canary-yellow two-piece is accentuating all of her accentuations, complementing her dark-brown skin like it was commissioned for her.

“You’re getting in the water, J. Even if I have to harpoon your ass.”

But I’m steady shaking my head. “Don’t think I’m swimming tonight.”

She points to my legs. “You’re wearing trunks under your jeans, J.”

“Yeah. Just like to be prepared for . . . different . . . scenarios.”

“Like swimming?”

“I suppose swimming’s a scenario, yeah.”

She leads me poolward. She dives in, swims ten yards beneath the water, a black-and-yellow blur, before breaking surface, her body seesawing in the slanting-sloping waves.

“It feels great,” she promises.

“Hold up. Something’s happening,” I say.

Everyone’s rushing to the far end of the pool. Autumn’s long strokes get her there ahead of me.

Most of the kids outside have formed a huddle.

Someone asks, What’s your name?

“Quincy,” he answers. “You can just call me Q.”

I stand on tiptoes. Q’s front and center, beaming.

Which is odd. Dude avoided attention like you avoid skunks—wide berth.

Everyone’s chanting: “Q! Q! Q!” And Q gulps three cups back-to-back-to-back, each empty falling at his feet. Everyone’s clapping, high-fiving, egging him on. He downs another with ease, swipes the foam from his mouth, and tosses his head back in a laughing howl.

“Q’s a beast,” somebody shouts.

A new chant starts: “In the pool! In the pool! In the pool!”

Q takes a tentative step forward, his posture wobbly.

“In the pool! In the pool! In the pool!”