“Jauncy?”

“Yeah, Jamal plus Quincy. Jauncy.”

“I guess I don’t hate it. I mean, that first part, Ja, sounds great, so.”

Q pretended to pinch my cheek. “Awww, look at you! Already got jokes!”

I always imagined that one day, when Q was famous and, like, hosting the Academy Awards, he’d tell that story in an interview. The interviewer would say, hey, so look what we have here, we’ve gotten our hands on THE original Q comedy shows Jauncy.

And then they’d play a couple of our most famous skits.

A few seconds of our funniest moments.

And I’m not a toot-your-own-horn-often kinda guy, but we made a great team.

We had a great run.

The same way I was the basketball expert, helping us perfect our pick and rolls and our pick and pops, Q was our comedy guru.

I’d assumed we’d just film ourselves being crazy, but nope, Q took it all seriously.

“There are no rules in comedy,” he said. “But rule number one is this, everything’s always funnier when it’s true. Even stuff that might not be funny funny is still funny when it’s something people relate to. Yeah?”

It made sense.

“Rule number two, just go with it. Commit to the joke, especially when you’re in a group situation, like improv, or in our case, a comedy duo.”

“A dynamic duo,” I sang, pointing upward, as if to suggest we could fly. “So, how many rules are there?”

Q smiled. “Only one more. Rule number three, have fun.”

54

Mrs. Sweat tents her hands. “Whitney, Jamal’s truancy is not our only concern. We’re equally . . .” She stops, slides a manila folder across her desk. “Here. See for yourself.”

Whit flips it open.

“Those are Jamal’s grades for the quarter. He’s failing or nearly failing four of his six courses.”

“Jamal,” Whit says, her voice like a gasp. A sound that says how could you not tell me? How could I not know? She tries to meet my eyes, but I look away. She turns back to Mrs. Sweat. “Isn’t your job to . . . aren’t you also failing him? Last semester, we got him tutoring and an individualized learning plan and . . .”

Mrs. Sweat motions to the papers in Whit’s hand. “On average, he’s missing a day every week. And that’s not counting the classes he’s skipping.”

“I’ve been sick,” I say. “I have doctor’s notes.”

Whit rubs her nose with her sleeve. A few tears drop onto her jeans. Whit says my name again, softer, quieter. “He’s had a hard time. We’ve had a . . .”