I’m standing in the grass at the edge of my lawn, waiting for Rudy to pick me up for the first day of school. The bus has already come and gone, and I’m starting to think that maybe Rudy has forgotten about me. The only thing that’s keeping me from being more upset about this is the fact that I’m half-asleep.

I stand perfectly still and listen. Rudy drives one of those cars that you can hear long before you can see it. It’s a complete beater, an ancient hand-me-down Ford Fiesta that is somehow still on the road, an automotive zombie, the rolling dead.

A minute later, I hear it coming. It makes an irregular chugging sound, like one or more of its cylinders just isn’t trying anymore. We tried to get it up to eighty on a flat, wide-open stretch outside town once and I thought it was literally going to explode. I turn and watch it round the corner and come into view. This is the official start of my junior year. Shoot me now.

Rudy is wearing his MUSTACHE RIDES 5 CENTS T-shirt. He doesn’t have a mustache, and may not be capable of one, but it’s one of the few T-shirts he has that won’t automatically land him in detention. A button-up shirt that probably covered it when he left his house is crumpled up next to him. We exchange greetings in a slurry of mumbles, but by the time we reach the parking lot, we’re both wide awake. It’s like a fight-or-flight thing, and our adrenaline has kicked in. He finds a spot and we climb out. Two rows up, I see Aaron’s Malibu. We hustle in, already borderline late.

Solomon T. Dahlimer High School. I recognize it by the smell. We mostly call it Dahlimer, but the thing to do at football games is chant, “S-T-D! S-T-D!” Anyway, the first few periods are a blur of little adjustments: new schedules and classes, repainted hallways, and students who are either new or significantly changed.

I see Mars a few times but it’s at a distance each time, and neither of us makes any effort to close it. He’s a level down and not in any of my classes. He’s not wearing his sling, but his hand is wrapped in so many layers of gauze and white tape, it looks like a polar bear paw. I see Aaron up close, but we don’t say more than a few words to each other the first time and mostly just nod after that. It’s early, and we’ve all got other things to think about.

It’s not until lunch that the day really slows down and comes into focus.

“I am not sitting with frickin’ Mars,” I say to Rudy as we head down the long back hallway that leads to the cafeteria.

“Aw, you’re kidding me,” he says.

“Dude, he’s suing my mom.”

“OK, OK,” he says.

We both start scoping out the hallway, because now we have to avoid sitting alone, or worse. We both know who we’re looking for, and we see a group of them in a side hallway outside the caf.

We call them the Goonies. They’re not exactly our friends but sometimes we hang out with them at school, sit with them at lunch, that sort of thing. It’s not that we don’t get along with them; it’s just that we don’t feel the need to do more than that. I’m pretty sure they feel the same way about us. It’s more like an alliance, I guess.

Randall, Jesse, and Tal — all Goonies — are talking to a kid I don’t know. He’s new and clearly a prospective Goonie. We head over to them.

“S’up, losers,” says Rudy.

“Ladies,” I say, gesturing toward the group.

I say it like I mean it, because our number one job is to keep the stink of desperation from settling on us. If they realize we need to sit with them, they’ll lord it over us and piss on us the whole time.

“Hey, what a coincidence,” says Jesse. “We were just telling Evan here that this school has a top-notch special ed program.”

Rudy and I flip him off with a synchronized precision that impresses even us. Then we settle in and listen as they return to their regularly scheduled conversation. When it’s over, we all head to the caf together. The conversation is easy after that. All we have to do is complain about the food and express profound disbelief that we’re back here again.

I scan the room as we find a spot. Mars is sitting with Aaron at a packed table near the windows. Mars sees me look over, checks who I’m with, and smirks. He raises his “injured” hand and waves. I raise my healthy one and flip him off. That particular muscle gets a lot of work on the first day of school. Really, you should start conditioning it the week before. Aaron watches us. I see the flash of blue as he flicks his eyes in this direction. You can always tell when he’s looking; you just can’t tell what he’s thinking. The Goonies watch, too.

“Heard your dog bit Mars,” says Tal.

“He’s full of crap,” I say.

“I didn’t say he tasted good,” says Tal. “But is it true?”

“Kind of,” I say, shrugging.

I can see them all processing the information, trying to figure out what it means for the social landscape of our class. Is this just a feud between Mars and me, or is it more than that? All except for the new kid, Evan, who doesn’t know any of the people involved and knows better than to try to play catch-up. That’s smart. It’s pretty clear that if he doesn’t end up a Goonie, it’ll be because he turns them down, not vice versa.

I keep tabs on Mars the whole time. I need to come up with some sort of strategy, something more productive than this low-boil hostility. Toward the end of lunch, I see him reach into his backpack and take out his sling. It’s still by far the cleanest, whitest thing he owns, and he starts putting it on right there. Why? I try to think along with him. It’s not that hard; he’s not that complicated. He must have gym next.

I ask myself, What will he do now? And then I know that, too. At the end of lunch, Rudy and I are dumping out our trays and I say, “Catch you later.”

“Sure,” he says, and I think he’s relieved to get a break from feud duty.

Then I head to the men’s room in between the caf and the gym and wait. It requires some pretend hand washing and pawing through my backpack, just to avoid any suspicion that I’m in there to check out the dudes. I don’t have to wait long, though. Even better, the place is empty when Mars arrives.