“What, you don’t wanna hear me say how you killed my parents, Q? What’s the matter? You still too much of a punk to admit what you did? You killed my parents, Q! You, man! You did that! Not the dude driving the other car! It was you and only you! And you wanna know what the stupidest thing is?” I pause to laugh and rub my belly the way you do when something’s epically hilarious. “Like, this is the real zinger, bro. You’re gonna love it. Haha. Listen. Ms. Haddish, you guys can hear me in there, right? Everyone, check this out. It wasn’t even their anniversary. You get it? He called to wish my parents a happy anniversary, and not only was he wrong, he was soooo wrong. If his wrong was a grenade, it would still be so far from the truth, it would inflict zero damage. Because, get this. This kid, my former best friend, wait for it . . . he had the wrong fucking month! He called them on June seventh, but their anniversary was July seventh.” I squeeze my face together, like I’m so mortally embarrassed for him. “So, wow, egg on his face, right? How freaking embarrassing for Q, huh, guys? He killed my parents for absolutely no reason. So, yeah, fun.”

And then Whit’s materializing at my side, and she’s tugging my arm, and I’m resisting at first, not in an I’m doubling down on my assholery way, but because for a moment everything in the world has fallen away, like I’m the last living thing on earth, and it doesn’t feel good, and it’s terrifying, but she’s saying over and over again that’s far enough, Jamal, Jamal, that’s enough, and she’s right, she’s so right, it is too much, I am too far gone, it’s enough, it’s enough.

All of it, everything, more than enough.

And then we’re finishing what we started—we’re out.

Out the school grass.

Out the parking lot.

Out the premises.

We’re out.

All the way out.

53

Our drive home quieter than death.

52

I lock my door, fall onto my bed.

Wake my phone, tap Videos.

Scroll to the hidden folder.

I promised Whit I wouldn’t watch it anymore.

Swore I’d deleted it.

Dr. Ocean warned me to be careful. Your obsession with this video isn’t healthy, Jamal. There are better ways to address your feelings.

But I’m not looking for better.

I slip in my earbuds.

I tap Play.

51

I zoom in on Mom’s face and she blocks her eyes with her hands. Behind her, about twenty yards from the road, the electronic Elytown Greenhouse Emporium sign spells out WELCOME in white pixelated animation.