“Doesn’t mean anything’s wrong with you, though? If you’re having them?”

MJ shook his head. “Quite the opposite, really. It’s the mind and body doing what ensures there will always be new humans.”

“Got it. Thanks.” I about dived for the door.

“Del.”

Facing him, I expected an interrogation. Why was I asking him? Was there anyone at home I could talk to about this stuff?

Instead, he said, “Hey, keep this chat between us. I’m not totally sure this is a topic the school board would be happy about me discussing in this context, particularly outside the Healthy Living classroom. Okay?”

This context? What context? Asking would’ve meant more conversation about . . . this, though. I wanted to be gone. “Uh, okay.”

“See you later this afternoon.”

I thought I’d feel better once I was out of the room, job done. Too much had happened today, and I had questions that lingered through lunch, my afternoon classes, another Healthy Living class focusing on the dangers of diseases of sex.

It wasn’t better once I got home. I wanted the night to be dinner, and Xbox, and maybe . . . Lindy Blue?

Aside from dinner, I never got around to the rest of it. Homework—math, history, and English—was a beast. Whenever I switched gears between subjects, MJ’s weird comment came back to me. He was the guy responsible for teaching Healthy Living. I asked a Healthy Living–type question. Why would the school board be mad at him for doing his job?

Thought about it all night. Even in my dreams.

I got to First Missionary a few minutes early the following afternoon, found Jameer waiting alone on the church steps. He met me at my car, read my “nocturnal emissions” notes like he was going to give me a grade. Nearby, somebody was burning leaves. He held the paper in two hands; the torn spiral edges fluttered on the oaky brimstone breeze.

I said, “You happy now?”

Because he didn’t look happy. He’d been staring at the page for a while. I didn’t write that much. “Jameer?”

“Your handwriting is terrible. But, yes. Thank you for this.”

“You’re welcome. We had a deal. Kiera. Now what should I do?”

Creasing the sheet, he slipped it into his back pocket, said, “You need to win Purity Pledge.”

“Win it? Like the Hunger Games?”

“Kiera’s betting you’re an opportunistic lowlife who’ll quit if you get too uncomfortable. We have to make her think different. We need to turn you into a wholesome boy. The kind her parents want to invite to dinner, and who will never ever cheat on her. You have to become the best Purity Pledger.”

Gravel crunched under the tires of a polished, scab-colored minivan turning into the church lot. The Burton Brothers hopped from the sliding side doors, gave us an enthusiastic wave, and jogged inside. Right behind them, Shanice and Helena in Helena’s mom’s car. They snuck glances toward me and Jameer, giggled their way to the church steps, where they sat and chatted.