Mason said, “Ain’t no girl going to hurt me, MJ.”

As serious as I’ve ever seen him, MJ said, “I don’t mean dangerous for you. A lot of women have been hurt and will be hurt because we—men—are mostly still operating on a caveman’s script.”

The room was quiet. I didn’t know what to make of his words. I’m not sure anyone else knew either. The bell rang.

I said, “Real quick, MJ. How’d you fix it with your lady?”

“Next time, guys. Remind me. This topic bears much further discussion.”

The frustration in the room was thick. A mix of no resolution and misunderstanding. The promise of a continuation eased us a bit, though it wouldn’t come.

That was the last Healthy Living session we’d have with MJ.

The school lot was well on its way to empty when I stepped outside and got blasted in the face with a cold gust of wind, surprising me enough so I lost my grip on my keys. They fell in a jingling pile, and when I stooped to retrieve them, I caught sight of a girl in a bright red jacket to the left of the school’s exit. She mopped that hand across her face, smearing tears.

“Shianne?”

Her chin ticked up, and she swiped more furiously at her wet eyes. “Hey, Del.”

“You okay?” I asked, getting closer and making her attempts to disguise her obvious crying more futile.

She threw up her hands, defeated. “Do I look okay?”

I said, “Yeah. Fantastic.”

Shianne huffed a dry laugh. “Oh my God, your face. How did we keep that lie of ours going so long?”

My eyes cut to the school doors, checking for any classmates close enough to hear. I changed the subject. “How’s your daughter?”

“Fussy. Gassy.” She held up her cell. “Mom’s sent me plenty of texts to let me know.”

“Is that why you’re crying? Because you had to leave her?” I’d seen something like that on TV.

“No. I cry when I get mad.”

Once, when we still hung out like that, I’d crushed her in Scrabble and she’d gotten teary-eyed before flipping the board. I wasn’t convinced anger was all there was to it this time.

“Do you know how much work I need to make up to stay on course for graduation?”

We were about eight weeks into the school year, so probably a lot. “They didn’t let you do any while you were, er, home?”

She shrugged. “It’s not the same as being here.” She coughed up another sob. “I can’t mess this up, Del. My parents . . . I can’t mess up anymore.”

This felt like a hugging situation. I would’ve had her in my arms automatically a year ago. But then some cheerleaders burst through the school doors, laughing until they saw us. When their chirpy glee turned to conspiracy whispers, I took a step backward that I hoped Shianne wouldn’t notice.

She fixed on the girls strolling across the lot. They piled into a minivan, carefree. The way she used to be.