MJ brought up a video player on the smartboard. “We’re going to watch a short introductory film, guys.”

Someone on the other side of the room yelled, “Is Lindy Blue in it?”

Cheers and claps. Lindy Blue was a porn star. I knew because, you know, I’d heard it around.

When the applause ceased, Terrier issued more detention slips.

MJ dimmed the lights, and a dull movie-guy voice began talking over stats about diseases, and pregnancies, and lifetime income of teen parents versus people who don’t have babies until after college. At some point Terrier slipped from the room—probably as bored as we were—and by the time the lights went up and class was dismissed, I debated whether running laps with the kids who didn’t have permission slips would’ve been a better use of my time.

In the hall, Qwan revved up, crumpling the detention slip in his fist. “Terrier, bro. I’m gonna be late for conditioning over this. Coach is gonna make me run hella laps. Yo, you listening?”

Kinda. But Jameer from church leaned on the bleachers by the half-court line, grilling me with his stare. Kiera, coming from the general direction of the girls’ locker room, smoothed wrinkles in her blouse, a moment that felt worthy of slow-motion and love songs in my opinion, and joined him. She didn’t see me, or even look in me and Qwan’s general direction. Too busy being chased.

Colossus skulked behind her. The Green Creek G on his letter jacket stretched across his broad back, ready to tear if he flexed any harder. I couldn’t hear what he was saying this far away, but I didn’t need to. He was expressive, emphasizing each word with his open, stubby paws. “Please, baby, please” in bootleg sign language.

Kiera shook her head, not having any of it. He reached for one of her hands, which she snatched away. Jameer pushed off his bleacher perch like he might intervene, and I took a stupid step forward thinking, What if I . . .

Someone on the basketball court yelled, “Qwan, no look!”

There was time to register Qwan swiveling at the hip, dodging, right before a spinning orb eclipsed my vision and smashed my nose. A bright white starburst exploded my world, and the pain followed quickly.

Bystanders emitted a collective “oohhhhh.” I went from upright to sprawled on the floor like a kindergartener at naptime.

“D?” Qwan said. “D, you good?”

I was, definitely, not good.

The blinding white from the collision faded to gray then to a fuzzy, pulsing view of beams and ventilation shafts overhead. I touched my fingers to my nose; they came away wet and red. With each thumping heartbeat, an invisible hatchet chopped me between the eyes.

Don’t. Cry.

The weapon, a basketball that might actually be made of iron, lazy-rolled away from me.

Qwan said, “D, my bad, man. I should’ve caught it.”

The dumbass who threw it said, “Yeah, you should’ve!”

I rolled to my side, then to my knees, red drops leaking between my fingers to the floor. I sniffled, bit back a whimper. Do not cry.