Shawn lets out a groan. I roll my eyes and elbow Dell in the midsection.

“What? It was very traumatic for us, okay? My dad put a lot of work in me, and I throw it away for elevator music,” Dell says in disgust.

“We really do need to stop hanging out with you,” Shawn says.

Nai shakes her head and looks down at her tray. “Where’s the rest of my sandwich?” she asks.

We all turn to Dell. “Oh, you went to the bathroom, and, ah . . . I thought you were done.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Nai barks. Her tone is so sharp and harsh that a few students turn toward us to see what the drama is about.

“Yo, chill,” Dell says, taken aback by her reaction.

She bolts up out of her chair. “Why you so greedy?”

“Why you dressed like a gray crayon?” Dell counters.

“Okay, you two, relax,” Shawn says.

“Nai, you can have my lunch,” I offer.

“No! I want what was on my tray,” she demands. Now everyone is looking over at us.

Dell stands up and tries to reason with her. “You being real extra right now, Naija. It’s just a sandwich.”

“It wasn’t just a sandwich. It was my sandwich!” She hurls the tray across the table at Dell; it falls over the edge.

“Yo, these kicks are new!” Dell says. He quickly jumps back to avoid the falling debris. It’s too late; greasy fries and ketchup land on his sneakers and roll off what used to be his impeccably white kicks.

Naija wags her finger at Dell. “Put your fingers on my food again, I’ll break them!” she says, just before storming off.

I find her in the stairwell near the gym. Her knees are hiked up to her chest and her arms are wrapped around them. She buries her head in her knees. Naija is dramatic, but never like this. I sit next to her.

“What’s going on, Nai? Talk to me.”

She pokes her head out, and her eyes are swollen from crying. “Cramps. That’s all,” she says.

I know it’s not true because she’s not inhaling Sour Patch Kids by the handful or launching into her “Why do girls get cramps and boys get nothing?” tirade.

“Talk to me, Nai. Tell me who we gotta beat down,” I say.

She rolls her eyes, knowing very well I’m not the violent type.

“What? I’m serious. You give me a name and I’ll take care of it,” I insist. “I know people with no morals and no fingerprints.”

She looks at me doubtfully.

“You say’n I won’t?” I reply, pretending to be offended.

She gives me a small smile. That’s a win, so I take it. I place my hand on her shoulders and look into her eyes.

“I want to help, but you have to tell me what it is.”