Jameer walked toward his parents’ car without a goodbye.

Later, at FISHto’s, I had more to say about what happened in church, and Mya was my captive audience. “How often does that sort of thing happen?” I asked.

She passed a bulging, grease-spotted bag through the drive-thru window, gave the customary “Happy Sailing” goodbye, then called over her shoulder, “Couple of times a year. Depending.”

“On?”

“How badly people want to be on good terms with the church.”

“With Newsome, you mean.”

She spun on her stool, faced me. “What do you really want to say, Del? It’s just us here.”

“I’m here!” Stu yelled from the grill.

Nobody cared about Stu. Tyrell was another story. I scanned the perimeter before I spoke. “I think it’s bullshit. Don’t you think it’s bullshit?”

Mya got frowny. “You don’t have to curse. I don’t make the rules, Del.”

“If you did, though, if you had a church, would you make people do that?”

“Tavia went up there because she wanted to.”

“You couldn’t have been looking at the same person I was if you believe that.”

Mya fiddled with the bunches of drinking straws protruding from a cubby by her register. “Maybe she didn’t want to be in front of everyone, but she wanted to get right with God.”

“Newsome,” I corrected.

Her eyes became slits. “I didn’t like it, Del. Okay? It creeps me out every time someone does it. But I don’t like that you keep trying to get me to talk bad about Pastor.”

“I’m not.”

She gave me a full-on Mom look. The “you know better” expression. Which I didn’t understand because that wasn’t what I wanted. At all. She made it sound so manipulative.

Stu chimed in. “That pastor dude does sound like a dick, though.”

Mya threw her hands up. “I’m not doing this,” she yelled toward the kitchen, “with either of you!”

Door chimes sounded, a family coming to my register to order. Then the drive-thru picked up with the Sunday-afternoon rush, and I didn’t discuss church and the confessions of a Baby-Getter anymore. Not with Mya, my mom, or anyone else who’d witnessed that horror show. By Monday, the Green Creek gossip mill was grinding with fresh Baby-Getter fodder and I’d all but forgotten about Tavia. Thanks to my sister.

Qwan rode to school with Angie, and I never saw him before homeroom, otherwise I might’ve gotten a warning since he kept tabs on Cressie so hard. It took till second period before I sensed something was off. Too many glance-aways when I caught someone kind of staring in the hall. Too many whispers.

As I was making a locker stop, a sophomore girl, Autumn Chan, approached me for the first time in life to say, “Del Rainey, is there any way you can mention me to your sister? I have so many things I’d like to talk about.”

Her wide-eyed hopefulness was mad spooky. Her request seemed like nonsense. “My sister?”

“I want to go on her show. It’s about time someone started listening to us.” She pressed a folded slip of paper in my palm. “My IG, Snapchat, and cell number are there. Thanks for putting in a good word for me.”