My bike gears continued clicking as I walked, but I was suddenly alone. I turned, found a frozen Jameer a dozen or so feet behind me. Scowling. “They’re not perv questions.”

“What?”

He unfroze, stomped toward me. “Like you give a shit about anything in my life.”

That “shit” made me flinch. I’d never heard Jameer curse before. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re obsessed.”

I dropped my bike. “I’m honoring the deal you proposed.”

Jameer chewed his bottom lip.

“No comeback? I didn’t recruit you, Jameer. You came to me”—I mocked his prim voice—“‘Because Pastor won’t like it.’ What did that even mean?”

“It meant you were new, and interesting, and not brainwashed. That’s all the stuff Pastor hates.”

“Wrong. He thinks my collages are incredible.”

Jameer blinked. Blinked some more. “That was pretty funny.”

“I know, right.” Some of the tension sloughed away. Not all.

Jameer said, “I like you, Del. I want to tell you something very personal. Can I trust you?”

“You have so far.” He struggled with it. I felt it. “Go on.”

“The person driving the car last night is . . . my . . . boyfriend.” He turned his body sideways like boxers do when they want to become a smaller target, raised his hands halfheartedly, then went statue still. Waiting.

Was I surprised? Yes and no. I hadn’t thought much about Jameer’s life, let alone his love life. When did I have time? So any new information was surprising. Was I going to hurt him over this revelation? Hell no. For as long as I could remember, my parents have taught me and Cressie not to hate on people for who they liked or loved. Once there was something on the news about people in our state protesting same-sex marriage. Dad said, “Gay couples should be allowed the right to the same dumb arguments about which way the toilet paper roll should go as straight couples.”

Mom said, “The correct way is under. Anyone who says over is a monster.”

The point of all that: “Okay.”

Jameer said, “Okay?”

“Okay.”

“That’s it?” His body sagged, abandoning the fighter’s stance.

“I’m good if you are.”

Relief came off him like a breeze; he wasn’t used to that reaction. Everything around us felt better. The tense energy from before . . . gone.

For a little bit.

Gathering my bike, I got us walking side by side again. “That’s why your parents are so hard on you. No door, no mirrors. It’s why you kind of hate Pastor Newsome. They don’t like your boyfriend and they’re punishing you for it.”

His eyes got wide. “They don’t know about my boyfriend. They can’t know.”

“I’m confused.”

“They’re fixing me, Del.”

That phrase, the way he said it, made the day about ten degrees cooler. I wasn’t going to pretend I knew much about being gay. I knew it wasn’t something that you fixed.

His voice got fake deep, maybe mocking his dad. Or Newsome. “You’re confused. You have too much freedom. You’ve been corrrrupted!”