What could he want from me? He’s never said hi to me before. Oh my God, does he want me? Does Devonte Evens want me?

“Yo, you good? You hyperventilating,” he says as he gets closer.

I nod but can’t talk just yet.

Devonte Evens wants me. Life is beautiful. I can see it now—the two of us, going to school basketball games, eating lunch together, and sneaking out of class to make out in the stairwell. Oh hell yeah, I’m down with that!

“For real, are you good?” he asks again.

I nod.

Words. I have lots of words. Where did I put them?

“Cake,” I say.

What?

Don’t use random words; use words that have to do with what’s going on, idiot!

“I mean . . . hey.”

Phew, there we go. Words.

“Can I holla for a minute?” he asks.

“Certainly.”

“Certainly” is not a cool word. You’re not a librarian, and he didn’t just ask you to show him the way to the reference books!

“I mean, yeah, what’s up?” I ask, trying to sound easy and casual.

“You live by that mural on Lenox Ave., right?” he says.

“Yeah . . .”

How does he know that? Maybe he’s been checking for me— Oh. My. God.

I have to call Naija. She will freak out.

“I was around there yesterday. I was looking for you.”

Okay, what should we name our kids? Something we can easily find on a mug.

“You good if I walk with you?” he asks.

Seriously, what the hell is happening?

“Sure, okay.”

I’m popular now. It’s taken fourteen years, but I’m popular now and it has nothing to do with who my mom is. I know they say it doesn’t matter what other people think of you, but they are wrong. It matters. And it feels so good!

“I also tried to find you before class but I couldn’t,” he says.

“I came in early, to sign up to work in the library.”

Damn, that sounds wack, right?

“Nah, that’s not wack,” he says.

Oh, so that last part was out loud? My bad.

Before I lose my nerve, I ask, “Why were you looking for me?”

Well, Ayo, I have been in love with you since the first grade and I was just too afraid to tell you. But now I don’t care. I want to be with you. And run my fingers through your Afro, but in a loving, appreciative way, nothing like the CVS lady.

“I know we don’t hang out like that, but . . .”

“We don’t hang out at all,” I reply.

Way to go, Ayo. Why would you point that out?

“That’s true, you right.” He nods and thinks to himself for a beat. I focus on staying silent and helping my lungs remember to take in air. “Yeah, so, maybe we could change that. And kick it sometimes.”