Q’s face twists in confusion, but he says nothing.

“Yeah, I did. You called that morning to tell my parents happy anniversary. I don’t know if you remember.”

And I can’t be sure, but I think Q’s head dips in the smallest nod.

“And maybe you don’t remember, but I know you remember how terrible Dad was with technology,” I say. And now I feel my eyes beginning to water. And I want to stop this whole thing in its tracks. Because I can’t fall apart here, in front of a school that’s wiping its hands of me, in front of kids who still whisper about why I’m so messed up. I should just leave. Do what I do best. Turn and sprint to safety, but—

I’m here.

And I want to be here.

I wipe my eyes. “Anyway, just as we . . . just as we pulled out . . . you called, and Dad’s phone was connected to the Bluetooth and . . . and . . .”

I look down and away.

I take a deep breath and a step back, ducking out of the window.

Just say it, Jamal. Say the words and let them go.

I look back up and now Q’s standing in front of the window.

And I force a smile, because I appreciate what he’s doing.

That he gets it.

What I’m trying to do.

And he’s meeting me halfway.

He’s meeting me where I stand.

I nod. “Thank y—”

But I don’t get the you out before Q sticks his arm out through the open window.

And this is unexpected—he wants to bump fists with me. Or possibly pull me into a bro-hug. Which is even better. Means even more.

I smile, and this time, it just happens.

“Hey, Q, I really am happy you—”

Except Q isn’t reaching out for a hug.

Or to hear my apology more clearly.

Or to prepare to deliver his own apology in return.

No. I watch, Ms. Haddish watches, her entire after-school club watches, as Q’s fingers wrap around the window handle and pull the window closed, all while maintaining perfect eye contact with me.

And for the briefest moment I think he’s joking as he fumbles with the window, rattling the glass pane.

That it’s stuck but he’s about to push it back open.

That this is his way of sticking it to me a bit.

That he can’t just let me off easy.

But I couldn’t have been more wrong.

The latch was stuck, but he wasn’t trying to reopen the window, Q’s locking the window in place.

And when the lock finally clasps, he’s still looking right at me.

The whole episode, he barely even blinks.

And well, reader, I wish I could tell you that’s how things ended.

That I chose the emotional high ground.

But, uhhhh—