“I just want to make sure there are no more . . . misunderstandings. Like with what happened on the basketball court.”

Misunderstandings. So that’s what the cool kids are calling it.

“Who you like now?” A girl’s high-pitched accusation rises above the chatter of the hallway. My ears perk up at the familiar voice. Kids shove their way to the rear of the school, where the buses line up like goldfish waiting to be fed. I match a face to the voice and find the twins. I uptick my chin to Mr. Blackmon and head toward them.

“Nobody,” Tafrica protests with a little too much strength.

“Lies and deceit!” Wisdom yells. “Then why you walking like that?”

“Like what?” Tafrica stops midstep.

“Like you trying to mop the floor with your behind. Look at you, swinging that thing.”

“Girl, you fried.” Tafrica begins walking again, her butt having a modest twitch with each step. It’s hard to not notice once that level of attention has been drawn to it.

“I didn’t say it. I’m just repeating what I heard,” Wisdom says.

“Who said it?”

“Deja.” Wisdom mutters half under her breath like she doesn’t want to give up her source. Thing is, she’s compelled to tell you how she knows things so that you know her information is solid.

“Which Deja? Tall Deja? Skinny Deja? Deja the Queen? Cockeyed Deja . . .”

“That’s mean. No one calls her cockeyed Deja.”

“But you knew exactly who I was talking about, didn’t you?” Tafrica says.

Pausing on the bus steps, I glimpse Kutter. The boy forms a gun with his fingers to shoot at me. Careful not to meet anyone else’s eyes, I slip into the bus and skulk behind the twins. No one joins me on the bench. The twins continue chatting away. A folded piece of paper colored with hearts and stuff sticks out of Wisdom’s planner. They’ve been passing notes. Wisdom’s a little paranoid: she never throws notes in the trash. From what I hear she either takes them home to throw away or stores them in a keepsake box. I dip my head forward as if trying to hear better, but stumble into them. They don’t notice me palming the note.

“Why you in our mouths?” Tafrica rears up on me. Wisdom mirrors her neck swivel.

“I’m not. I’m just listening,” I say, withdrawing before my exposed head makes too much of a tempting target for hungry lionesses.

“Like we your personal show or something.” Tafrica’s voice rises with a hint of disdain. Not directed at me, only enough to mount a fake protest.

“You’re everyone’s personal show. That’s the way you like it,” I say tentatively, hoping to navigate this minefield.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.” Tafrica relaxes in her seat, satisfied.

“We need to be up on YouTube. Have our own channel,” Wisdom says.

“Mm-hmm. We’d be famous.”

“Million hits easy. Go viral.”

“Triple OG low-key to the max,” they say and slap hands.