Qwan, from over my shoulder, said, “Back up, Mason.”

“Get your boy, Qwan.”

Qwan tried for my shoulder again. I shook him off again, jabbed a finger toward Mason’s nose, a half inch from poking him. “Tell the truth. Tell them Kiera’s not what you’re saying.”

Mason’s shoulders slumped as if he’d grown suddenly exhausted. He stepped even closer to me, clamped a hand on my arm, almost comforting. “I can see this is bothering you, and I don’t know what to say other than she was so, so good.”

He stretched out the last word like a singer would, glancing back at his boys for clownish approval before facing me again.

I hit him.

It wasn’t a great punch, or even a good one. As I clipped his chin, he rolled his neck in the same direction as my swing, so my knuckles only glanced off him.

He leapt backward, looking down his own body as if I’d vomited on him instead of attempted to kick his ass. “The fuck, bro?”

He leapt forward, his punches quicker and harder than mine. Body blows, a left-right-left combination, had me folding at the hip, gasping. Mason caught me mid-collapse and flung me into the locker. My body generated a percussive blast like warped cymbals.

Qwan wedged himself between us, shoving Mason back so no more punches landed. His crew was gathered around, in case this became a group brawl—one where the odds weren’t in me and Qwan’s favor.

“Chill,” Qwan told Mason.

“He’s the one you need to be talking to.” Mason glared at me.

“If Coach Scott even suspects y’all were fighting, we might all get suspended. Nobody says anything. Okay?”

Leaning, the lockers propping me up as I remembered how to breathe and various parts of my body throbbed, I watched Qwan show restraint, negotiating peace where he might’ve been throwing punches before, and had the strangest thought: Angie’s really good for him.

Mason backed away, looking more frustrated at himself than mad at me. He pointed at the others. “Y’all ain’t see nothing. I can’t afford to get suspended over Del’s punk ass.” Then, to me, “Touch me again and you’re getting worse.”

They all poured from the locker room, snickering at my quick and effortless defeat.

Qwan said, “D, what was that?”

I didn’t know. I only shook my head, pulled myself together, and left the locker room. Out there, Mason didn’t acknowledge me. Coach Scott didn’t drag me. Kiera spared me a single, concerned glance.

I went to her.

It’ll be okay, I thought with force, hoping she’d sense my reassurance from across the gym. It will.

No way Mason wouldn’t notice me and her talking, but we were all invested in no scenes on the open floor.

Kiera said, “What’s going on?”

“Do me a favor. Let me drive you home after school? It’s important.”

“Important how?”

“Trust me. First Missionary Crew, right?”

A slow, skeptical nod. “Okay. I’ll meet you at your car.”

We got through gym without incident, though I could barely concentrate on any of the drills or the lackluster volleyball game Coach Scott insisted on. In the locker room, I got dressed fast, Qwan standing guard in case something jumped off, but Mason and his boys never even came back in. On my way to the exit, I spotted him and his crew in conversation with the sergeant that oversaw the JROTC. Though he flicked glances my way, he couldn’t stop me without going AWOL or whatever.