Which, come to think of it, I still like that better.

Bye, Q.

Day 2

Approx. 22–26 Q Days Left

46

I don’t get much sleep.

Because the prospect of burying our emotional hatchet? It’s exciting.

Like, I feel genuinely enthused.

And I can’t help but wish I’d only reached out sooner.

I slip my phone in and out of my pillowcase, checking my messages, even though tone and vibration are both on, so I’d hear and feel if he messaged back.

But I check anyway.

Maybe that’s part of my penance too, you know?

Not knowing what’s happening.

Which, full circle.

Because that’s what I did to Q.

Left him without answers.

Without closure.

Never knowing why.

And then, ten minutes before my alarm sounds, a chime.

45

Q: Lose my number forever.

44

And okay, I won’t lie to you. It stings more than a little.

43

And I consider skipping school altogether.

Because who needs it?

I don’t even want to risk seeing that dude.

But Mrs. Sweat pops into my brain and she’s all, don’t be swallowed up, Jamal.

And Whit’s like, yeah, think about your future.

And Autumn squeezes in, wearing a Whittier U sweatshirt, OUR future, babe.

And I’ve never won an argument against them individually; there’s no way I can ward off a whole We Care about You trinity.

So I moan, I groan, then roll out of bed.

I’m not gonna pretend my insides aren’t knotty as hell.

For most of the day, my stomach hangs out exclusively in my throat.

But after Autumn listens to my audio message, she tells me she’s proud I finally did the right thing, reminds me that even still, Q doesn’t owe me forgiveness.

And the entire day, even when her class is a million miles away, Autumn’s popping up outa nowhere, like a ninja, but with hugs and kisses.

Even still, the closer seventh period creeps, the more nervous I feel.

But then I realize something cool.

The reason I wanna avoid Q isn’t because I’m angry.

Because I’m nursing a grudge.

Yep, I’ve officially stopped grinding my two-year-old Q-sucks ax.

No, I don’t want to see Q because I’m sad.

Because I wish our ending could’ve been happier.

Which, in a weird way, is progress.

“I think I’m getting sick,” I announce, rubbing my stomach between fifth and sixth period. “Yeah, like maybe the flu. Or . . .”

“It’s not flu season, Jamal.”

“Yeah, okay, I didn’t claim to be a doctor. I’m just saying I don’t feel—”

“You’re not skipping seventh. No more skipping, remember?”

I sigh. “Yeah, but I wish I didn’t.”

But of course, in the end, all that angst is for naught.

This time, for the entirety of seventh period English, Q’s empty chair stays empty.