text: I don't know, I still feel very Hunger Games nominated.
  
  But who knows, maybe I am being overly pessimistic, even perhaps ...wrong. I know, shocking. However, let us not forget, I was recently diagnosed as suffering from a severe case of the PAPEs.
  
  And, you know, maybe robotics actually won't be so bad. Vikram cut a deal with Marcus saying if he got me to agree to code for them and Jimmy to agree to drive (because he does happen to have the best hand-eye coordination in the school) Marcus will keep the Lau twins on his roster through the first section. Then, we'd most likely be on different committees anyway.
  
  So bad might even turn ever so slightly good as, more importantly, Vikram turned out to be right. Well, not about isolating the Lau twins. That jury is still out.
  
  But yes. He was right that the logjam, the stalemate— the utter torture that comes from jailers and jailees knowing they have maxed their punishment and amends quotients but not knowing how to graciously acknowledge this and move forward— is finally broken.
  
  Vikram's class project allows all parental units to feel virtuous as our reins are relinquished, our tethers gathered in, and we are freed. We have been chastised, they are vindicated, and we all move along.
  
  Happy dance time!
  
  Or not.
  
  It all starts innocently enough. Imani and I are feeling pretty darn good, two-stepping our way down to Perk This. Down the school steps we fly, out the front gates. Breathing deeply. Old familiar smells. Swerving right, dancing left. Old familiar sights. Dodge the never-ending scaffolding two blocks down. Old familiar sewer grates. This is our hood and it is perfect.
  
  Rounding the final corner, four stores down, we arrive and pause for just a minute, standing in front, looking at the signage, drinking it all in (pun intended), just grinning.
  
  I step up, swing the door open, bow, and with a flourish, "After you m'lady." Imani curtsies and with a backward sweep of her hand and a "why thank you" she disappears inside. I follow directly behind and, whoa, body-slam right into her. Which, if this was a different story, might have been a very interesting portent of cheap thrills. But there is no playfulness in this tale. Only woefulness.
  
  You see, Imani and I have had dibs on the same couches forever. I mean for four years of high school we've been spending more or less every day here after classes, except for the days she has play rehearsals, or a show, or the odd moment when I actually have a life. So, that corner setup, it's kind of ours.
  
  At least it was. Until today.
  
  Today there is a group of six kids of the unknown variety using our couch-table-side chair setup. And there's nothing we can do. I mean, I can think of ten things I want to do, starting with going over and saying, "save-ies" like I'm four years old, but I can't. Not that it would have done me any good even when I was four, but this is just wrong.
  
  That is our space.
  
  Or at least, it was. Our space.
  
  So instead of rushing to order our lattés and muffins, we're kind of just standing here, maybe two feet inside the door, staring, completely lost about what comes next. And it's a weird sensation. Maybe we're experiencing what people call a sobering moment. And it sucks.
  
  I suddenly realize, staring at this group of usurpers, between getting grounded and Imani and Jimmy's busy dating schedule (which because we are grounded and it's still football season is incredibly erratic), how long it has been since we, me and Imani, just sat and hung out for a latté or two.
  
  Once we would have laughed and done something really obnoxious like sitting on the back edge of the couch, laughing and singing annoying show tunes until the interlopers finally got it and gave up "our table."
  
  I remember one time there were some would-be interlopers and it took us, I think, until the third chorus of "It's the Hard-Knock Life" from Annie for us to finally get to them. (For the record, I do believe Imani has played every orphan up to, and including, Annie. I will be hearing "the sun will come out tomorrow" forever and ever and ever ...and ever. Yes, I am a very good friend.) Hard to say. Good times.
  
  But standing here, we see them laughing, computer wires everywhere fighting over the one lonely, precious outlet, and I realize we have kind of grown too distant to own that space. And I don't mean too distant from each other. That won't ever happen. It's just too distant like too long gone. From here. And I feel my eyes tear up. We are standing here, bearing witness to our own petite mort, small death. It hurts.
  
  But then my ear tickles and I hear very quietly, "We are so much cooler than they can even dream of being." Imani reaches back, takes my hand, and gives it a squeeze.
  
  And with that, the personal pity party spell is broken.
  
  It takes me a minute to get the eye-welling to recede, but I squeeze back. And then, then I've got it. I shift, grab my phone, text and hit send. I clamp onto Imani's hand, pulling her out the door.
  
  "Where are we going?"
  
  I pause mid-tug so I can focus on her. "Our place."
  
  It takes a moment for her to get it. Her smile becomes huge, and I wait for it, and she doesn't disappoint as her full-throated laugh comes flying out. And as if on cue, a sweep of wind lifts her amazing curls so they can provide a perfect snapshot. And god, she, Imani Cruz, is so freaking beautiful. And she's my friend.
  
  And all of a sudden I realize I'm happy she's dating Jimmy. That I'm really happy Imani's happy, and that I love her and I've missed her so much.
  
  Imani is right. I had let the Post Adrenaline-Post Emma syndrome consume me. So I inhale deep and release the PAPE to the atmosphere. I busticate it so bad, it is in smithereens!
  
  PAPE BE GONE.
  
  I lean over, kiss her cheek, grab her hand and we take off laughing, running down the street. And it is so cheesy, so totally cornball, but suddenly the two of us are singing, "if you're happy and you know it clap your hands."
  
  And mind you, not that I actually remember, but I'm pretty sure it's Imani who completely starts this inanity.
  
  It's absurd and silly and we nearly run over this one lady, who must be at least one hundred and ninety years old, pushing one of those wire carts people use to go to the market. And you know, she is seriously tiny. Like, barely bigger than her cart tiny. All shriveled and wrinkled and we must have been laughing so hard at each other, because by the time we see her, it is too late to stop.
  
  But she had seen us. And she huddles there frozen, terrified, as we come towering, thrusting down upon her.
  
  I don't know how, but we somehow manage to get our hands up and over, making way for her hunched body to pass safely "under London Bridge." Immediately we twirl back to her and just stand there. It takes a minute, even though it feels like forever, but then looking at the two of us stopped with our chagrined, scrunched faces, she slowly turns her fear into a tentative smile until she, too, manages a small laugh.
  
  Released from our fear and shame, Imani blows the lady a kiss, grabs my hand, and once again we take off. Quietly advancing up to the corner, turning right and losing it. We're now both laughing and weeping, the insane laughter of those who have cheated certain death.
  
  "Oh my god, Sid," says Imani, who finally chokes out a couple of words. "This is so" gasp "not funny." Gasp. Gasp. "We could have killed her."
  
  And just as I am trying to take this in and sober up, she finishes her thought.
  
  "I mean, did you see her face?" And actress that she is, Imani strikes a ridiculous pose, and that's all it takes for us both to lose it again.
  
  Which means, fifteen minutes later we are still here, because every time one of us starts to get it under control, we look at the other one and another fit of hyperventilation begins.
  
  And by now, we can't stop and it hurts. Really bad. The stitch in my side is now a stab. Doubled over. Can't breathe. Sucking wind. I slump against the brick wall and lower myself to the ground. Heaving. Panting. Imani has her back to me and is using her arms to brace against the wall and has crossed her very tense, very straight legs. Ooh. I'm thinking that's, wow, not good.
  
  But somehow we do finally run out of gas and slowly head back out, still avoiding direct eye contact while gingerly rebuilding a bit of our mojo over the last few blocks.
  
  Until right on our very late cue, we happily stomp our feet at the front door of Platitudes, push it open and see our grumpy waitress whose name I never did find out. She honestly doesn't seem as happy to see me as I am to see her, but I wave and we continue on, playfully making our way to the back, where we are apparently the first to arrive.
  
  In anticipation, we get waters all the way around. And here, my friends, is where we began. Jimmy saunters in, begins Sherlock-taunting me, when our phones ping. It's Ari. Vikram is freaking out, and we are on the move. Racing back out the door, I do actually think this isn't going to help make our waitress happy to see us.