“Purity Pledge?”

“Yeah, it’s when you agree not to—”

He sliced a hand through the air, cutting me off. “I know what it is. I saw a Netflix documentary on that creepy shit. Dads were taking their daughters to the prom.”

“I don’t know about all that.”

“It’s No-Bone Zone, though. Right? Voluntary celibacy.”

“If you’re going to be crass about it, I guess.”

He knocked the mop from my grasp, and the handle clattered loudly. “Worst. Plan. Ever. We already don’t agree about this one-true-love stuff you been on with Kiera since birth. But, fine. You haven’t necessarily let it hold you back. When’s the last time you got some, though?”

I glanced over my shoulder, concerned Mya, my new purity monitor, might hear. My voice low, I said, “What’s it to you?”

“Tanisha Thompson’s basement party. It almost doesn’t count because everybody smashed. And it was two years ago. It’s like you took a Purity Pledge right after.”

A name I hadn’t thought about lately bobbed to the surface of my thoughts, like those Magic 8 Ball answers floating up from black water. Shianne Griffiths. Me and her in Tanisha’s dark, private guest bathroom, a single candle burning on the marble sink.

“Get out the way!” I hit him with an NFL-caliber stiff arm and snatched my mop up. “One of us cares about not being fired.”

“And one of us cares about you using your little wee-wee before you die.”

“Stop thinking about my wee—my dick, Qwan.”

“Somebody got to.”

“Bro. I gets mine. All right? Just because I’m not telling you all my business . . .”

“That’s just sad, D. You told me when your mom found those limited-edition sparkle Pop-Tarts you like. You hit me at midnight about them shits. You’d definitely tell me if you were getting some booty.”

“Dude, I’m good.” I wasn’t.

We were back in front, and Mya was too busy with a drive-thru order to pick up on the context clues about that “reputation” she’d heard about not being all that.

Tyrell leaned over a clipboard, jotting down managerial stuff.

I said, “Hey, Tyrell, Qwan’s trying to convince me to steal a case of Flounder Patties. You should kick him out.”

Tyrell didn’t look up. “Get out, Qwan.”

“Fine. I got ladies to check on anyway. Hopefully the stench of this place hasn’t stuck to me, messing up my game so that it’s like yours, Del.”

My mop became a bat, the mold-smelling drenched end cocked over my shoulder and ready to fling gross water. “You should go.”

He flipped both middle fingers and backed into bright afternoon sunshine. “Later, Mister Clean.”

Though he was gone, Qwan’s evaluation remained. Purity Pledge. Worst. Plan. Ever.

That stung. But it also held weight because, statistically speaking, Qwan was mad successful with girls. Since he lost his virginity three years prior, he’d been obsessed with getting more, more, more. He treated Instagram like it was Amazon, always shopping, always sliding into some new girl’s DMs looking for nothing longer than two-day delivery. He swore he smashed as much as he did because he didn’t do emotion. Told me I shouldn’t do emotion, that girls liked it when you weren’t all soft and fuzzy.