“Jamal!” I cry out his name. “I’m sorry. I mean it.”

“You don’t wanna hang out with me anyway. Probably saw Mrs. Evans’s car at the store and turned around like a sucka.”

“For a second you had me feeling bad.”

“Please, you ain’t thinking about me. Dean’s mama has you shook, and you don’t know what to do about it.”

“It’s not my fault she acts the way she do. She don’t bother me, though. Dean’s my best friend. Not my boyfriend.”

“Good. Dean’s cool, but you know it’d never work out.”

Inside, I cringe.

“Not that I’m interested, but it doesn’t seem to stop you from messing with Angela.” I force a smirk.

“Not the same, but okay, playa’.”

“Stop.” I wave him off.

“Breaking hearts wherever she goes.” Jamal hits his fist playfully.

“I know what you’re trying to do.” I turn our conversation back. “I know you don’t believe it, but I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

The door opens; on the other side is Jamal’s best friend, Quincy. Jamal got him a part-time job helping in the mix room.

“What up, T?” Quincy runs his hand along his chin and touches his locs framed around his ears.

I can never tell if Quincy flirts with me only to anger Jamal. I give a shy smile back. We used to be cool before he was shot. Before his dad was killed. That was a long time ago.

“Watch out. Jamal’s on one today.” I pass Quincy.

Quincy follows after me, the hem of his jeans hanging over his shoes, so he drags his leg real smooth and slow. His limp came after the shooting, but it’s now all part of his swagger.

“Where we going?” Quincy asks.

“We are going nowhere.” I smile. “Unless you wanna go through Jamal first?”

“You don’t think I would?” He sidles up next to me. “I’m waiting for my chance.”

Quincy’s got so many girls, I can’t take him seriously.

“Q, I’m right here, dude.” Jamal puffs out, ready to pounce on Quincy from the studio.

He switches back and forth, looking at me, then Jamal.

“Bye, Quincy.” I nudge him gently.

“Tracy.” He touches my arm. “Forget Jamal. He knows you were badass in that interview.”

My cheeks turn hot as I fumble, passing Quincy, who’s holding open the audio room door.

“Hold up, Tracy,” Jamal says. “I’ll be right back, Quincy.”

“A’ight.” Quincy takes a seat in the studio.

Jamal catches up to me and follows me downstairs. When we reach the lobby, Jamal gets serious. He’s done with the jokes.

“How was Pops?” Jamal asks.

The tension building in my chest loosens.