Fuck.

Jamari had known he couldn't keep it a secret forever. Timing himself so he got back before his dad did so he could act like he'd been home the whole time was a band aid solution, for sure.

But he'd expected to be able to keep it up for a little longer than this.

“Uhh,” He mentally scrambled for an excuse. “I was hanging with Reyes. Y’know. Team bonding.”

“Mmhmm.” His dad arched a brow. “I’ll give you one more chance to tell the truth.”

Jamari wouldn't let himself falter. He was taller than his father by a long shot, and he pulled himself up to his full height, hoping he looked confident and honest.

“I’m telling the truth.”

His dad's face hardened, thunder rippling across his demeanor.

Edwin LaBeau wasn't the type of man to tolerate what he thought was disrespect, and the grit of his jaw told Jamari that he'd really, really fucked up.

Shit.

If his dad knew he wasn't with Reyes, he'd have to make up a reason why he had to lie. But if his dad knew he was being tutored, he was in for far, far worse than a few extra deceptions.

He could lose everything.

“If that was true, Jamari Edwin LaBeau, why didn't Eduardo say so when I asked him where you were?” His father's voice was raised, and Jamari had to hold his whole body still and hope— “Why did he say you were at tutoring?

Reyes, you fucking dumbass.

“Why the fuck is the Hawks future star player being tutored?”

Edwin LaBeau didn't often yell. Or cuss. But this seemed to be an exception.

All the years of hiding his grades, and saying the wrong dates of parent-teacher conferences, and dodging every time a teacher brought up the subject of meeting with his dad, had just gone up in smoke.

And he had nobody to blame but himself.

And Reyes.

But mostly himself.

Tears prickled behind his eyes, and suddenly he was nine again, begging his dad to put away the belt, blubbering apologies between heaving sobs, staring into the eyes of a man who’d never terrified him as much as in that moment.

In the present, he balled his shaking hands into fists and grit his teeth. If he didn't say anything, his dad couldn't do anything.

“That weren't a motherfucking rhetorical question, Jamari. Answer me!”

Jamari swallowed. He knew that whatever came out of his mouth at this moment would decide what direction this conversation went in.

He took a breath.

His father stretched to his real height, cocking his head.

His mouth dried up.

Blink.

He was nine and he couldn't see through the haze of his tears.

He was nine and he was throwing up on his father's lap to the rhythm of leather on skin.

He was nine and praying to a god his father believed in.

He was nine, crying into his mother's shoulder as she screamed at his father that he'd gone too far.

Blink.

He was sixteen, he was failing English, and he was stupid.

“I-”

“Spit it out, boy!”

“Ms. Elliot was worried about me.”

Fuck.

Wrong answer.

His father's face was a storm, lightning crackling across his furrowed brows.

“Why is your English teacher worried about you?! You failing English?! Boy, I should—” His dad cut himself off, looking up to the sky like he was Elijah, calling fire from Heaven.

And that fire would incinerate Jamari.

His life.

Up in smoke.

His head dropped, but he resisted the urge to wrap his arms around himself.

He wasn't tryna get yelled at for being a punk too.

“You lose your place on that goddamn team? Trust me when I say that you'll lose your place in this mothafuckin’ house. You understand me, boy? No son of mine—”

Jamari let himself think about something else, tuning out his father's lecturing.

Had he been even a year younger, a few inches shorter, he'd probably have been beaten so hard he'd struggle to walk. Nothing compared to what would happen if his dad found out that he’d orchestrated everything just-so, so that nobody knew about his grades.

He wondered where his sister was. Was she with Marcus? Was he here?

Marcus was a cool dude. It would be embarrassing as fuck for him to hear Jamari get yelled at.

Man.

“—You understand me, li’l boy? You lucky I ain't belt you where you stand.”

“Yes, sir,” He responded dutifully.

“Until you pull your grades up, you ain't going nowhere, you hear me? School, home, tutoring, practice. That's it. Your li’l friends ask you to go out? You tell ’em exactly why.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go to your room. Don't let me regret not beating your ass.”

His dad wasn't nearly as harsh about this as he could've been. Jamari had to resist a sigh of relief. 

His room was a safe place, but it didn't feel like his. 

He had to hide his Spiderman memorabilia in his wardrobe, and though Lamar Jackson was his favorite player, blue wasn’t his favorite color the way he told his father it was. The plain black bed sheets and dark blue walls were nothing like him, and the way that he had to shove his Kuromi plushie — a birthday gift from Apollo — under his pillow every morning…

That room belonged to the image of him that his dad loved. The image he'd promised himself not to shatter.

But, fuck.

The day he’d gotten that plushie was probably the best day of his life.

Him, Jazaiah, Reyes and Apollo at the KFC on 49th, just messing around. Him, the oldest in their little group, on his birthday in December, Jazaiah calling him “Uncle Mari,” in the voice he used to mimic Apollo’s dad. Apollo, slamming a box on the table, saying nothing but “Here.” 

Jamari tearing open the box with his bare hands, and unearthing the plushie he'd been secretly wanting. 

“How did you know?” he'd asked, clearing his throat to hide the tears clouding his vision.

“Man, you're my best friend. And Zai says I have the memory of an elephant.”

He'd laughed so hard that Sprite had dribbled out of his nose.

And now, Jamari held Kuromi close, pressing his teary eyes into the soft gap between her weird ear things. He was sixteen, and here he was, crying into a plushie about his dad grounding him like a fucking baby.

Like a fucking punk.

What the fuck was wrong with him? He should be happy.

His dad didn't do anything that Jamari’d thought he would, and that was a good thing. Right?

Kuromi didn't speak, she couldn't see, she couldn't even feel, but Jamari knew that she'd keep his secrets, that she wouldn’t hate him for being a punk. She would understand him.

If she could talk, she'd probably tell him to get it together. She'd probably explain why he was still shaking, when the best case scenario had happened.

He sighed.

“Man, fuck this,” he mumbled at his ceiling, sitting up and grabbing his phone. 

If Kuromi was still tucked under his chin as he scrolled, that was between him and God. 

The seconds ticked idly by as he watched stupid video after video, chuckling at comments on clips of the music video for some YouTuber’s terrible song, and making faces at his phone in response to some insane drama that was definitely rage bait.

A knock at the door startled him from his TikTok storytime induced reverie, snapping him to shove Kuromi under his pillows.

“Mari?” His sister's voice was soft as she pushed open his door. “You good?”

Kyrah was a few shades lighter than him, and sometimes the many similarities she shared with their mom made his chest squeeze. They were barely ever taken to be siblings, with the way they looked so different, but Jamari wouldn't trade her in for the world.

Maybe for a glass of chocolate milk, but definitely not for the world.

She was only two years younger, but he still saw her as a kid, with her curly pigtails and thousand yard stare, even though she was fourteen with a boyfriend and acrylic nails.

“Yeah, Kaykay. I’m a’ight.” He smiled at her, but he knew it didn't back up his statement.

She came into the room properly, curling up on the spinny chair at his desk, and swiveling it to face him. She cocked her head at him. “You got yelled at by Dad.”

It wasn't a question, but he still answered, looking away. “Yeah.”

“How long, this time?”

“He ain't say.”

“Shit. Stipulations?”

“Look at you, Ky! Big words.”

“Just tell me, bugface.”

Jamari sighed, but his sister's eyes didn't shift from his face. “Them eyelashes long as fuck! How you even seeing through ’em?”

“Answer the damn question or I’mma start throwing shit at you.” She was already holding an eraser like she was gonna aim it, so he just shrugged.

“No friends except football stuff, and I can't leave the house except to go to school, practice, church, and tutoring.”

“Damn, Scoop. What’d you do?”

“Made Ms. Elliot find me a tutor.”

“That your English teacher?”

“Yeah.”

Kyrah put the eraser down, resting her cheek on her knee. She looked at him for a second, her long braids brushing against her leg, before jerking towards him.

He jumped, and she laughed.

And when he opened his eyes, there Kuromi was in her hands, her little paws pinched between his little sister's fingers.

“Man—! Get yo—!”

“I’m holding Kuromi hostage.”

“Why?!” He swiped for his plushie, but she jerked it out of the way, giggling.

“Cuz. I wanna. Plus, she the only character missing from my Sanrio collection!”

Kyrah didn't speak with an accent the way he did. When they’d moved here, she was only 11, and had dropped their Louisiana drawl quickly, the way their dad had wanted him to.

“You got Cinnamaroll?!” Jamari said, not unjealously. Cinnamaroll wasn't his favorite, but the white bunny came pretty close. 

“Yeah! Marcus got him for me.” Every time she said Marcus’ name, it sounded like it would have heart emojis around it if it were typed.

Marcus was a good kid and was a pretty good boyfriend for a fifteen-year-old, but he weren't worth that kinda treatment.

“Okay, then ask Marcus to get Kuromi for you! Gimme back my goddamn—” He mocked the way she said her boyfriend’s name, and then swiped it from her quickly, tucking the plushie under his arm.

He glared at her out of the corner of his eye.

“I would! But my birthday ain't until June! And I'm not tryna be nobody's sugar baby.”

“’Specially not no fifteen-year-old boy who ain't got no real money.” Jamari said decisively. Kyrah looked at him weirdly. “What? If you decided to make being a golddigger a career, I’d support you!”

“Okay, Weirdy McWeirdface. I’m gonna text my boyfriend and you are going to cuddle your plushie and act like you're cool.”

Jamari ignored the way his chest squeezed when she said boyfriend, and put his middle finger up at her as she left. “Have fun!”

She returned his gesture, slamming his door so that it rebounded off the doorjamb, flouncing out of the room.

“Shut my damn door!” He yelled after her.

She ignored him.

Of course.

He got up to shut it himself, then returned to his spot to self-pityingly watchTikTok, before being swiftly interrupted by a text flashing across his screen.

Jamari couldn't help the tiny flip in his stomach when he read who it was from. ‘Tutor Lucas [Korean flag emoji]’ — what Lucas had saved himself under — is what was emblazoned on his notifications, and Jamari let his eyebrows furrow.

It was probably the link to the Romeo and Juliet book Lucas had spoken about him getting, but the preview of text made him stop.

‘u okay?’ The message began, ‘jasiah mentioned that ur dad might be pretty pissed with you getting tutored’

A warmish feeling filled his chest as he read the message, even though it weirded him out a little. They'd only known each other for a week and a half — why was he doing a wellness check? — but still, it was nice to be thought about.

He typed out a quick ‘I’m good, dw’ and let himself smile at Lucas' concern.

Lucas Choi was looking to be a pretty interesting person. And Jamari was nothing if not curious.