That hung between us awhile. His next words: “Seems kind of extreme. You could go fold clothes at the Goodwill, right?”

He didn’t mean extreme. That was his “son, this is weird” voice. That tone I’d heard too many times in my life. When I joined the band as a freshman instead of the JV basketball team (like that was my choice; not even Qwan would choose me in a pickup game). Or when he caught me trying to move the TV remote with the Force. Or when he thought I was too slow getting into girls.

Dad didn’t ever say what really bothered him, but I’d learned to complete his half judgments on my own.

He pushed. “Aren’t there other volunteer opportunities at the church, or around town?”

“Like what, Dad?”

“You tell me. I’m not the one trying to get into college.” That was his version of “I don’t know.” Like when I used to ask him what a word meant, he’d say, “Look it up, I can’t do everything for you,” meaning he didn’t know either, but he wanted to seem wise.

Leaning closer, he checked our perimeter. Grinned. “Are you really trying to tell me a Rainey Man doesn’t want to get some?”

God. I blurted, “Kiera Westing’s doing it.”

A slow blink then. He’d caught me eyeing her at a parent/teacher night a bunch of years ago, knew about my thing for her. He pressed back in his chair, his posture was proud, his bathrobe draped his seat like a hero’s cape, and that warmed something inside me. “Oh,” he said. “Ohhhhhhh. I see now.”

With a fist pump, I said, “Rainey Man.”

“Damn straight.” Though he still seemed troubled. It came off him in waves.

“Is there something else, Dad?”

“One thing, and don’t tell your mother I asked this.”

Uh-oh.

He said, “How much does this Purity Pledge cost?”

“Ummmm. Nothing. I think.”

His widest grin yet. “Exactly what I wanted to hear.”

“I gotta go, Dad. Qwan.”

“Of course.” He stood before I did, like he needed to show me the door. “You two. I remember those days. Best time of your life, son. Enjoy it.”

Enjoy what exactly? Dad was hard to read, never ever said precisely what he meant, and the whole conversation was mad weird. On my way out, I almost asked for clarification. But, when I faced him, he winked.

And I didn’t want to ruin that.

“Ninja,” Qwan said, reclined to near horizontal in my passenger seat, his phone held so close to his face I wondered if he needed glasses, “shit’s getting crazy on Snapchat.”

Despite Kiera’s cheerful social media show, the rest of Green Creek High was treating her breakup like the small scandal it was. Qwan viewed and reported while I made the slow drive to school. He had to be my eyes and ears because my driving privileges were also dependent on me never doing any of the following things:

Texting while driving.