I grip the polished chains holding a tire in the air. Keenan's seen my double-jointed arms a few times, so while they're bent behind me, he paces like it's no big deal.

One arm is around his torso, and the other elbow rests on his wrist, that hand cupping his jaw. He'd told me to follow him to the backyard, but he hadn't said anything since we've been out here. He just walks back and forth like a drill sergeant analyzing his soldiers.

I bend my knees slightly, then leap upward. My fingers flex around the chain links and my hands shake as I lift my full eighty-nine pounds. Once I land on the edge of the tire, he stops and stares at the fence separating our houses.

The tire tilts, and I land on my sneakers. I jump again with the same result, then he huffs and turns to me.

Keenan throws his arms around my waist and interlocks his fingers. He hoists me into the air and sets me on the tire, then tucks his hands into his side pockets.

We stare into each other's eyes, neither having much to say, even though we both have a lot on our minds. I drop my head and watch my feet swing back and forth.

Finally, he asks, "Why'd you throw Troy's parents' divorce in his face," and I roll my eyes onto his.

"I didn't throw his parents' divorce in his face." He takes his hands out of his pockets as his eyebrows draw in.

"Yes, you did." I narrow my eyes toward the sky like I'm thinking. After a few moments of humming, I pout and shake my head.

"No, I didn't," I argue back. His face relaxes, and so does mine. There are two giant trees in his backyard: one has a treehouse that looks like it's been hit by plenty of storms over the years, and the other has a tire swing. The wind shakes their branches and leaves sway to the ground.

"Leila, you literally told him his parents divorced," he reminds me in a calmer tone.

"Okay," I say, but it sounds like a question. I bring a hand toward my face and grip my nose bridge. I sigh as my fingers smooth out an eyebrow. "Was it a lie?"

"I don't know." I look at him through the gaps between my fingers when he slightly raises his voice. I take a breath to say exactly, but he cuts me off, "Leila, that's not the point."

We lock eyes, his lips apart and mine pressed into a line. An acorn thwacks my head and I flinch into myself. I watch it tumble off my shortalls and land in the patch of dirt beneath me, then gaze upward at the squirrel crawling around the tree. I look at him, his eyes never leaving mine.

I run my fingers over my cornrows, caressing where the acorn hit me, and then my hand returns to the chain.

I dig the tips of my sneakers into the patch of dirt and step backward. I lift my legs and swing forward, staring at his face, which hasn't softened yet.

He slams his hands onto mine and I gasp as he yanks me still. His eyes are dark and serious, like my dad's. The way that they stare into mine makes me feel uneasy, and I wanna fidget, but I can't move.

"Are you serious right now?" His dragon breath hits my face, and I purse my lips to avoid making him angrier by telling him to back up. The wind blows louder, whistling in my ears and ruffling our shirts.

"Keenan, what do you want me to say," I ask, outstretching my fingers while my thumbs grip the chains. "Do you want me to call him and apologize? Do you want an apology?"

"I want you to show some freaking respect." I furrow my eyebrows. Respect? I'm not disrespectful. "I've never met anyone in my life who's so — callous," he says while dropping his hands at his sides. He shakes his head at me, and I narrow my eyes at that word.

"What does callous mean?" He stares at me for a few seconds, his look of disgust fading to nothing I can understand. "What," I question his mood. When he turns his back to me and walks away, I hop off the tire swing. I stumble on my feet, my hands out to break my fall.

He stops feet away from me, pulling his shoulders up and down with deep breaths.

"You know, I brought you with me because I thought you were mature," he says, then turns to face me. There's a wide space between us, filled with grass and the occasional dandelions and sunflowers.

"I am mature," I argue, my fingers curling into my hands. My voice cracks, and the corners of my mouth twitch like they did when we tried to convince Regina to come home.

"You're literally whining right now," he emotionlessly points out, lifting his hand to gesture to me.

"No, I'm not." He tilts his head and blinks once, his eyes staying closed for a short while before staring at me, unconvinced. "Okay!" My shoulders slump forward and my back slouches. I toss my head back and huff. "Well, maybe if you weren't being mean, I wouldn't be upset." When he stands up straight, I lick my lips and gulp. I raise my palm, my index finger lazily pointing at him, before I ask, "Is this what you called me back here for — to make me feel bad?"

He's quiet for a few seconds, and my heart begins to pound. The longer he stares at me, the clearer I can hear it in my ears. The wind whistles and sways the windchimes hanging on the back porch, which is surrounded by a dark grey mesh net.

In a soft, knowing tone, he asks, "Do you like him," and my heart skips a beat. I open my mouth, but all that comes out is air. "Well?" I slowly shake my head, but it's a lie. Honestly, I've liked Troy for a while, but I never knew what to say or do to get him to ask me out. I hardly let myself think too much about it since Keenan was always breathing down my neck. "Leila," he sternly drags my name.

"Fine, yes, I like him." I place my palms together and press my pointer fingers against my lips. My forehead wrinkles above my nose as he widens his eyes. He says my name again, but, this time, it's either in disappointment or shock, so I groan with my mouth shut, and it sounds like a heavy sigh. "You wanted me to be honest," I remind him while dropping my arms, but it doesn't change his expression.

"Does he know," he asks, and I shrug truthfully this time. Troy and I never spoke long enough for me to know.

"You act like he and I kissed or something. It's not that serious." The wind stops blowing, and everything it shook stands still.

"Not that serious? Didn't I tell you we're supposed to detach from everyone?" I roll my eyes onto the net around the porch. "How're you supposed to do that now?"

"Can you calm down? Just because I said I like him doesn't mean anything." He pulls his lips into a straight line and squints.

"Really?" I stare at him with my lips apart. Usually, him assuming things about me would make me angry. It would be this volcanic rage that starts at my belly button and tickles my throat before spilling out in loud words I can never take back, words I can't control but feel wholeheartedly.

"You know what," I begin, slowly closing the gap between us. "I don't need this right now." I continue past him, and he turns his body to watch me. When he asks where I'm going, I say, "Home. Call me when you're ready to stop acting like someone's dad."

***

Me and Regina are at her vanity, the little bulbs shining even though it's afternoon.

She presses the final digit on her brick phone, then places it to her ear. As it drones, she and I lock eyes in the mirror.

"Hey," she says, and my heart sinks into my stomach. I lift my hand to my mouth, my teeth gnawing at a hangnail on my thumb. "Hey, um, I'm sorry to make this quicker than usual, but do you have Jamal's number, still?"

Khadijah responds, but her voice is low. Regina is quiet aside from the occasional hum to let her friend know she's listening.

"Wait, what?" Regina leans forward in her chair, and my finger pauses against my lips and teeth. She rests her other forearm on the vanity and bows her head, her hazel eyes flicking around as she listens with furrowed eyebrows.

"What's wrong? What'd she say? What's she saying now?" I flood her with questions. She lifts her right hand to swat mine off her shoulder, her left hand tight around the phone. "Put it on speaker."

"What?" She turns her face to me with confusion still there. I repeat myself as I drop my arm, thinking she couldn't understand me with my fingers against my lips. "What the hell are you talking about," she asks, and I match her expression. She darts her eyes on the door and says, "Not you, Khadijah; I'm talking to my sister." My heart continues to hammer. It doesn't even calm down when she chuckles. "No, the little one. For real though, give me a second."

She holds the eggshell-colored device to her chest and stares at me with narrowed eyes and parted lips.

"Did she give you his number," I ask. Regina licks her lips, sets the phone to her ear, and lifts a finger.

"'Dijah, actually, I gotta jet. What's his number?" She snaps at me and frantically points to her bookbag on the door hook. I glance at it, then at her before sprinting toward it. "Hold on, I gotta get a pencil." I bring her the bag, and she huffs, her eyelids relaxing.

"What?" She ignores me and unzips it with one hand. She slaps a spiral notebook on her vanity along with a short wooden pencil. She flips past algebraic equations, sketches, and English essays until she reaches two blank sheets.

When prompted, Khadijah calls out the numbers, and Regina writes them down with her attention on her handwriting. She signs his name—Jamal Smith—under the phone number, and instead of a dot for the I, she draws a little circle.

"Alright, thanks. I'll call you right back from my mom's phone," she tells Khadijah, then takes the phone away from her ear to end the call. Once she hits the button, she turns at the hips to stare at me. "Leila, what were you talking about?"

"I was just asking you to, like, make it loud enough so I could hear it too." When her eyebrows dip inward, I purse my lips and slide the notebook into my hands. "Okay, can I have the phone? I wanna call Troy," I say to change the subject.

"Whatever. Just don't kill my battery." She sets the pencil in her makeup basket while holding the phone in the air between us. I take it from her, and she stands up. "And Dad's already pissed off, so don't be in here cupcakin' for a whole hour and run up the bill."

I nod even though I barely understand a word she's saying. When she leaves the room and shuts the door, I frantically take her seat and lay the notebook in front of me. I mash the buttons three at a time between glances at her writing, a string of red digits appearing on the dark screen below the speaker.

I stare at the cell phone as thick as the computers at school. The black numbers are on white buttons, and all but the number one are paired with three letters each.

Below the number zero, the pound and the star keys are a set of functions—Rcl, Clr, Snd, Sto, Lock, End, Pwr, Vol—all on black buttons except for Snd, which has a red one.

I place the phone to my ear as it hums and stare at my reflection in the mirror. My braids pass my shoulders with coils where the missing colorful beads were. 

"Yo," an older boy answers the phone, his voice deep and dragging like he just woke up. My ears twitch like an animal being called, and I straighten my posture.

"Um, can I speak to Troy, please," I ask as clearly as possible, but it comes out in a mumble. My lips tingle, so I bite the lower one to relax them.

"Who's this?" His tone raises a notch. I lick my lips and swallow my nerves.

"Um, he goes to my school," I say, stuttering through a few words. "My name's Leila."

He calls for Troy at the top of his voice, and I jerk back while yanking the speaker away from my ear. Someone speaks, so I return it to my ear.

"Hello," the older boy calls for me, dragging the end of the word like he was repeating it.

"Hey, yeah, sorry." I start to ask for Troy until I hear his voice in the background.

"Can you step out the room," Troy asks him. His voice grows quieter the farther he walks from Troy and the phone, but I hear him say something about Troy tryin' to mack. "What do you want, Leila?"

I bring my finger back to my lips and resume gnawing at the hangnail.

"I'm sorry about what I said yesterday." I trail off midway through my apology until the last few words are slurred. My lips drag against my skin and nail like a weird kiss. When he asks me to repeat myself, I drop my hand and sigh loudly. "I said I'm sorry for what I said yesterday, like, about your parents divorcing." He doesn't respond, so I continue, "I was — upset with you for snitching."

"Snitching," he repeats in a higher tone. "I thought your sister was missing. I thought I was helping you find her."

"Well, you were, but," I say, starting to tell him that Regina doesn't care about good intentions, but he interrupts me.

"Then what do you mean snitching?" I pull my lips into a straight line and lean back in the chair. The bulbs shine orange lights that mesh into one, making me look like a singer in her dressing room before she's called on stage.

I drape my left arm across my bloated stomach and rest my right elbow on my wrist. I tell him, "Okay, if you're just gonna be rude, I can hang up."

"Leila, I really don't care whether you do or don't," Troy says, and it sounds like he means every word. My eyebrows raise to my hairline, and my mouth flies open. "You're the most insufferable girl I've ever met."

I didn't expect him to match my attitude or to sound uncaring. I lick my lips as a smirk forms, and say, "I'm guessing Keenan taught you that word."

He doesn't say anything, and for once, I smile with all of my teeth at the thought of leaving him speechless. The feeling is short-lived because he mumbles, "Goodbye, Leila," and the corners of my mouth drop like I was given the worst news imaginable. I frantically call for him to wait before he hangs up, then he sighs. "What?"

"Look, can you just meet me somewhere so we can talk," I ask, whining with my head lowered. I run my fingertips along the shortalls' folded hems, touching the stitches and creases. Knowing he'll tell me to say it over the phone, I say, "In private. I wanna apologize and explain what's been going on. If you know the truth, maybe then you'd understand and not be so upset." He's silent again. My eyes flick off my fingers and onto my reflection. "Hello?"

Troy takes a deep breath and says, "Sure, whatever. Where do you wanna meet?"