I know I said Keenan doesn't look coordinated, and that sounds mean, but it's true.

He's really skinny for our age and taller than me by a foot. During dodgeball yesterday, he impressed me and the coach by being the third person, instead of the first on our team of five, to get hit or have their throw caught.

So, when we laced our shoes and made our way to the floor, it didn't shock me when he wobbled like a baby giraffe on wheels before he could get to where we needed to go. I was, and I still am having a good laugh about it, though.

"I guess Aunt LaToya was right, huh." I glide at the pace that he's walking, watching him practically hug the wall.

He narrows his eyes at me and sarcastically says, "Haha, Leila, so funny."

The flashing purple strobes and silver stars glow on all of us as we circle the disco ball hanging from the middle of the arena.

I look around the room and notice a few familiar faces. Troy Anderson, Janet Morrison, and a pale scrawny kid named Henry-something with hair as red as red velvet cupcakes.

Troy glides in our direction from behind, his arms relaxed at his sides, and he has a blank expression that quickly changes when he sees us.

"Well, well, well," he drags his words and speaks in his usual soft tone, but it doesn't stop Keenan from flinching and fumbling on his skates. We watch him struggle to stay on his feet—kicking and rolling forward and back—and as a smile returns to my face, I notice the opposite is happening to Troy. "You need help?"

Keenan looks at me. I guess he thinks he's talking to me, but after glancing at us both, he makes a confused expression. "What? Need help with what?"

"I know how to skate," Troy says, and when Keenan shrugs, Troy chuckles, then says, "I can carry you." That, of course, makes Keenan blink back in surprise. Now, I'm smiling with my top row of teeth, not caring about the one-sided tension growing between them. Troy sighs and says, "I was only kidding, man."

I bounce my attention from one to the other, waiting for one of them to speak, and when they stay quiet, I half-jokingly say, "Well, if you're still offering, I will gladly accept!" But to my and Keenan's surprise, he leans down like he's going to tie his or my shoes, only to swoop me up over his shoulder. I stare wide-eyed at Keenan, and he squeezes the rail in both hands while staring at me with a worried look.

I position myself upright and hold onto the top of his beige and white striped shirt. Keenan starts to speak, but Troy quickly says, "I'll be sure to bring her back."

"Oh, my God, I wasn't serious," I try to tell him, but he skates forward, leaving Keenan standing near the exit. A stinging feeling shoots through my belly button from pressing against his sharp shoulder. With a forced laugh, I say, "Wait, seriously, you're hurting my stomach."

I look around again and see Janet eyeing us from the other end of the arena. She has an undefined afro now instead of the cornrows from yesterday and high-rise jorts.

Just as I notice Henry skate up to Keenan, Troy drags me into his arms like a bride. My right hand grips the back of his shirt, and the other sits on his chest.

I take a breath to tell him to put me down, but when I smell his cologne, I lose my words.

Never Gonna Give You Up begins playing over the loudspeaker, and I chuckle.

"What?" I look up at him. His smile almost makes me want to blow the lid off this whole time-travel thing, just to share a laugh at being rick-rolled.

"It's—nothing." I take a deep breath, inhaling more of his cologne. He smells like a fruit basket, but I notice an orange and lemon scent more.

I lay my head against his chest to subtly sniff him and notice his heart is racing too. Obviously.

When we reach the opposite end of where we left Keenan, I peek in that direction, only for him to not be there.

I sit up in his arms with wide eyes and a dropped chin, my eyes scanning the area like the purple strobe lights.

"Keenan's missing," I say, but it comes out almost meshed together because of how fast I said it.

I point in that direction, and Troy follows my finger with his eyes. He turns to cut across the arena, and we pass under the disco ball. When we reach the exit, he sets me on the carpet, and we look around.

"I see him," Troy says, and I look behind me to see where he's looking. He points to the food court, where, sure enough, Keenan is sitting at a small table with Henry.

"Thank you. I'll see you later," I tell him before shuffling toward them. Keenan isn't smiling. I mean, he hardly does, but today his mood seems more—grumpy. He looks at me as I stand behind Henry, who also turns his attention to me.

"Oh, hey, Leila!" I push my eyebrows together when Henry says my name. I'd never spoken to him before today.

"Hi," I say, but it sounds like a question. I look at Keenan. "Um, I just came over here to check on you because you weren't skating anymore." With a forced chuckle, I say, "I was afraid you ditched me and went home."

He sniggers too and says, "Well, I'm still here." When he looks at Henry, I follow his eyes. They have two trays of hotdogs—one plain and one with chili cheese—and two giant cups of what looks like slushes: one red and one blue. "This is Henry. He's in our homeroom."

"I know who he is." I put my hands in the back pockets of my jorts and purse my lips. I want him to leave so I can sit and talk to Keenan, but it's like neither of them are picking that up.

We stand and sit in silence, staring at each other like we're waiting for someone to speak. Henry finally says, while taking his plain hotdog and blue slushy, "Well, it was nice talking to you." He stands up and turns to me with a forced smile. "And you too, Leila. See you both in class."

I take his seat when he walks away, and when Keenan looks down at his food, I sigh. "Okay, what's wrong?"

He shrugs, then lifts his cup to drink from the straw. He's staring at the other kids and teenagers doing laps around the arena with that same empty expression.

I slump back in my seat as he sets his cup down. I want to press him for an answer, but I don't want to make him feel worse, and I don't even know how he would react to being interrogated.

"I just don't like you hanging out with Troy," he says with the same monotonous voice, still staring at the others. I raise an eyebrow.

"What's goin' on with you?" He shrugs again, but this time I persist. "Keenan, look at me." My stern tone makes him do as I say, though he huffs like a pouty child. "Why're you so worked up over nothing? It's like you like me or something."

"It's not nothing, Leila, and I don't like you." I purse my lips and tilt my head. "Stop, I'm serious." I straighten my posture and roll my eyes toward Troy as he skates past us from behind me. Troy sits at the juice bar with the girl from yesterday, and we watch them for a few seconds before looking at each other. In a voice that's low enough to not be heard by Troy, but high enough to overpower the music, he says, "I just don't want you to get caught up in some temporary relationship when we both know we won't be here forever."

"And the same can be said as to why you should look for a boyfriend." He lowers his eyebrows and narrows his eyes at my joke. "But either way, like I said a gajillion times, I'm not doing any of that."

"Yeah, you say that, and before we know it, it's time to leave, and you're pulling some Romeo and Juliet," he starts to give me another lecture, but I immediately cut him off.

"I'm not doing anything," I say louder, with pauses between each word. He lifts his drink to take another swig.

He sets his cup down again and mumbles without looking at me, "I'm only looking out for you."

"I don't need anyone looking out for me." Neither of us spoke after that. We instead spent the rest of our time there apart.

He sat there until it was time to go. Meanwhile, I skated, ate a churro, skated some more, and then threw up on a red-haired girl from another school. I'd like to forget that happened, but I know someone will bring it up in class.

***

They decided to throw a tailgating event outside of the football stadium along with a few other families of different ethnicities and sizes. There were grills of food from three people, including us: Elote and Fajitas from the Rodriguez's, Yakitori Negima from the Ishii's, and chicken and hotdogs from ours.

"Regina, take this to your uncle." My dad hands a case of Modelo to my oldest sister. From what little I know of her, I can tell she wants to be Janet Jackson in Poetic Justice, but the movie is three years away.

From the braids to her jeans and tied-up shirt—which our parents scorn her for so often—and you can say it's a stretch, but to me, the amount of posters and vinyls she has of Janet Jackson, makes her seem like a stan.

I watch her walk across the parking lot to Uncle Wallace, flipping wings on his grill.

The stadium has a huge TV mounted up high with tall speakers like the ones in Teletubbies in each quad, and because we're parked next to one of the poles, the announcer's voice sounds and feels like it's literally in my head.

I look at Keenan. He's standing next to his dad, watching him brush barbeque sauce on each wing and drum. I want to walk to him and apologize for earlier. Maybe what I said was mean, I don't know.

"Mm-Mm." I turn to my mom's sound of disapproval and disgust. She has one hand on her hip and the other under a bowl of potato salad, her narrowed eyes locked on something or someone in the parking lot. My dad flips one hotdog before he and I follow her gaze. "Now, she knows better than to show up wearing that."

The only person I see, besides my sister, is Keenan's brother's fiancé. She's wearing a neon green jumpsuit that makes her look like a ball of slime. And I say that with respect.

LaToya walks toward us, her eyes locked on Corey's fiancé. "That girl won't be satisfied until all of Minnesota sees how tacky she is." She shakes her head before taking a swig of Modelo. "I'm glad I have boys because if my girls dressed like that, I wouldn't let them leave the house."

"You'd be doing everyone a favor. That suit is so bright, I can't even see the game." She gestures toward the TV with her head, and LaToya smiles at her while shaking her head. She brings the bottle to her lips again and sips it like sweet tea.

I'll admit, she looks weird, but one thing I see that's been happening for years is the need to judge. I ignored their lectures for Regina because her outfit was fine before she realized there were boys at the event, so it makes sense for them to make her untie her shirt, but to mock an adult for wearing what they want feels unnecessary.

I watch my dad focus on the grill, flipping hotdogs and chicken, then wiping the sweat from his brows with his gloved hands. He lifts his brown sun hat with a heavy sigh, and I see pools of sweat gathered under his short afro before he sits the hat back on his head.

He reminds me of my real dad, who I hoped I wouldn't think of, but seeing him cook in cargo shorts, a grey shirt, and beige slides reminds me of home. I feel a sharp pain in my gut like a dagger stabbing my belly button, and all I can do is lower my head. I also hoped that I wouldn't get close to these people for the same reasons Keenan wants me to avoid Troy like the plague.

I peek over at Keenan and see his dad at their foldable table. Keenan is plating food off their grill with his back to me.

"Joseph, you still ain't done," Mr. Harris yells out with an ear-to-ear smile. LaToya and my parents look at him. "We done finished everything already; my boy's just getting the rest off the grill."

The breeze sweeps the smell of each family's food to their neighbors until it resembles a melting pot of different cultures fighting to see whose dish is better cooked.

"Yeah, and I'm sure them hotdogs are still barking," he says without thinking, and sure enough, LaToya turns to him with playfully narrowed eyes.

"So you did say my food wasn't cooked right." My dad pulls his lips in. With the beer bottle in hand, she points that finger between him and Mom and says with a smile, "I'll be sure to draw a line with chalk so you two Martha-Stewart-wannabes don't waste your appetite on my cooking."