But Q shrugs it off. “Jamal, I’m dropping you off at your house, anyway, so if you’re worried she’s gonna give you a hard time, you’re in the clear, okay? I’ll tell her it was all me. We’ll be home in thirty. Just relax.”

I don’t even bother objecting over relax.

I just plug my phone into Q’s car charger, and we drive a few miles in silence.

Q looks over at me. “J?”

“What?”

“Bri is pretty awesome, right? Like, you think so too?”

I glance over. “She is, but it doesn’t matter what I think. As long as you think she is, and she thinks you are, that’s all the validation you need.”

Q nods. “I think she’s very awesome.”

Finally, enough juice to power on, my phone buzzes and lights up for like two minutes straight, a string of texts and voice mails popping up in my notifications.

“Damn, someone’s really tryna get ahold of you.”

I hold up the phone so he can see the screen, which basically alternates Whit and a 216 number I’m assuming is Ms. B.

“Yep, that’s my mom. She leave a message?”

“Several.” I press Play on one from the middle, hold it to my ear.

Ms. B: Jamal, I’m trusting that you’re gonna take care of my son. I didn’t want him to go so far, but . . . just make sure he stays safe. And remember, it’s our secret to keep.

“Put it on speakerphone. I wanna hear too.”

“In a minute.”

He reaches for my phone, but I move it away.

He winks. “What, you and my mom got something to hide?”

“Huh? Like what?”

“I didn’t forget all the stuff you used to say about her.”

“Q, I was ten.”

“Real feelings don’t die.”

“Okay, you got me. Me and your mom are having an affair and in this voice mail she’s just told me I may be your dad.”

“I hate you.”

“What a rude thing to say to your father, son. You were so much nicer when you were still inside me. You had so much potential.”

“That’s beyond disgusting.”

Q throws on his hazard lights and jerks the car onto the shoulder.

“What are you doing? What’s happening?”

The color drains from Q’s face.

“You gonna be sick?”

He shakes his head. “No. I don’t know. Maybe. Yes.”

38

Q’s barely put the car in park, when he leaps out. He runs ten yards, his sneakers crunching gravel, glass, who knows—toward the scraggly underbrush, the freshly cut highway grass, and he lets it all go:

The pepper jack fried cheese.

The bacon cheeseburger.

Ice cream dots.

Enough varieties of soda to start a fountain drink stand.

Chili cheese french fries.

Blue cotton candy.

And yes, even my beloved funnel cake.