“No, ma’am. I came over to apologize. To you and to him.”

“Oh?” She moves toward the kitchen to get a glass, wandering about, deciding what to fill it with.

“Yeah. I haven’t been a good friend. Haven’t stood up for him like I should. I already spoke to Mr. Blackmon about how the fight on the basketball court was my fault, not Nehemiah’s. And I brought his schoolwork so he won’t be behind.”

“You want something to eat, baby?” Rhianna riffles through their cabinets. “Nothing fancy like what you and your moms have all the time. At least to hear the way Nehemiah tells it. Probably why he’s always staying up by you all so much. We do have them microwave pizzas and fries.”

“I love pizza.” It never occurred to me that anyone thinks we live high and fancy. Or that we believe we are better than anyone, especially Nehemiah. I wonder if we are seen as putting on airs. I don’t know. I’ll leave that one for everyone else around me to figure out. All I care about is my friend.

I slump down on the couch next to the chair Nehemiah’s curled up in. A series of fine lines, where the glaze no longer held up, stress the mismatched lamps stationed on either side of the couch. I grab a cushion and hold it in my lap. Frayed at the edges, they have been turned backward to hide the tears in their fabric. Nehemiah has already changed into a pair of shorts, showing off his ashy knees. He works a screwdriver into his toenails, to pick them clean.

“You hear all that?” I ask.

“I guess.” Nehemiah doesn’t glance up from his toe-jam operation. “You ain’t falling in love with me or no mess like that, are you?”

I hadn’t realized how tense I had been. Every muscle tight, braced for a punch. With that single comment I could breathe again. A smile fills my voice and I slowly begin to relax. “You need to shut it.”

The two of us enjoy a brief silence, as much as there is to be had with the clanging of the microwave door and the banging of dishes. What I like most about me and Nehemiah is that we don’t have to talk. We just understand each other.

Under the glare of the forty-two-inch flat-screen, bought with their tax-refund check, Rhianna’s boyfriend shifts on the other couch. Sprawled out, and too tall for the sofa, he tries to make himself comfortable.

“What’s up with that?” I whisper.

“Man, I don’t even know. I don’t bother to learn their names anymore. You know what he had me do?”

“What?”

“Pee in a cup for him.”

My eyes widen in disbelief. “For real?”

“Yeah. Talking about how he was up for a job and didn’t want them to bounce him if they did a drop on him and he came up dirty.”

“You do it?”

“Charged him twenty dollars.”

“Won’t the tests show that he ain’t been through puberty yet?”