Mars probably registers that someone else is in the room, but he doesn’t look over, so he doesn’t realize it’s me. He stands in front of the metal mirror, adjusting his sling, getting it ready for show-time. I step in front of the door and lean back against it. Mars is crazier than me, but I’m bigger.

“Take that stupid thing off,” I say, and he jumps about three feet straight up.

“Oh, hey, man,” he says once he lands. He’s trying to look calm, and he actually gives the mirror a quick sideways glance to see how he’s doing.

“Take it off, man,” I say.

“You say that in here a lot?” he says.

I take a step forward.

“I need it!” he says, taking a step back.

“For what?” I say.

A small smile flashes across his face. He licks his lips and it’s gone. “To get out of gym,” he says.

“Yeah, and for court,” I say. “This isn’t some joke, man. This is serious. This could be really bad.”

“Should’ve thought of that before,” he says. “I’ve got nerve damage.”

“You’ve got brain damage.”

Someone starts to push the door. I wait for it to get about a foot open, then mule-kick it closed.

“Ow!” I hear as it slams behind me. “What the —”

“Occupied!” I shout without turning around.

I wait a few beats, but the door stays closed. The timing is actually pretty good; Mars looks a little freaked. I’ve got his attention now. For a few seconds, we just stare at each other. He has a red scab under his left eye from a pimple he must’ve tried to pop too soon. I wonder which hand he used. Then, kind of pathetically, he says, “I’ve gotta get to gym.”

“Not with that —” I start, but I reconsider. I’d dearly love to pound some sense into Mars right now, but it wouldn’t solve anything: He’s sense-proof and would just show up tomorrow in a fake body cast. I take a breath and my nose fills with the rank smell of the boys’ room. I remind myself: strategy, not hostility. I start again.

“Listen, man,” I say.

This is the second time I’ve tried this sort of changeup on Mars and he recognizes it immediately. His shoulders relax and his mouth turns up in half a smirk. He remembers that, cornered or not, he’s in the driver’s seat here.

“Yeah?” he says.

“You gotta let this drop,” I say.

“Not my call,” he says. “They haven’t asked me once.”

An honest answer is the last thing I expect from Mars right now, and I have no idea how to respond. He goes on.

“My whole thing is just to be injured,” he says. “It’s, like, my job. Mom’s job is doing the law stuff, the lawyer.”

It’s funny how, no matter what is going on, your brain can’t help identifying a potential joke. Seriously, you could be at a funeral and the priest could set one up, and everyone would be standing there, dressed in black and thinking it. I go ahead and say it.

“Your mom is doing the lawyer?”

“Phhh,” he says.

“I’m serious, man,” I say. “My mom doesn’t make that much money. Just keeping the house is killing her. And the judge, he could have JR put to sleep. Which is lame.”

“Yeah, what has he ever done for me except bite me?” he says. “Maybe he is dangerous?”

It comes out as a question. He’s hoping it’s true.

“He’s not. He just doesn’t like to be cornered.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t, either,” says Mars. He has a point.

The door starts to open behind me again. I think Mars will use the opportunity to push past me, but he just stands there. We both turn to see who it is. I don’t recognize him, and he’s really scrawny. Put those two things together and he’s a freshman, a nobody. He stands there, just inside the door. He can tell something’s going on.

“Hey,” he says.

Neither of us answers. He turns around and leaves. It’s the first day of school, and we’re the guys his mother warned him about.

I turn back toward Mars. We’re both going to be late now. We’ll both end up using the same excuse: new schedule, got confused.

“But you can talk to your mom,” I say. “Or talk to your dad.”

“Yeah, right,” he says.

“You don’t have to go along with, you know, the ‘nerve damage,’” I say.

I stop there. I saw him put on the sling at lunch; I saw him without it all day. I know he’s lying, just like I know he’s lying about how it happened. I’m just not sure it’ll help to say so. We’re alone here in this little room that smells like piss, but Mars is being way more honest than I expected.

“I suppose I could make a dramatic recovery,” he says.

“Yeah!” I say, a little too fast.

Mars looks to both sides, as if he has to double-check that no one else is in here.

“But why should I?” he says.

“Because,” I start. I really should’ve had an answer ready for that one. “Because you should. It’s, you know.”

I can’t stand here and say, “It’s the right thing to do,” to Mars. Who am I, Captain America?

“If we get all that money, I’ll get at least some,” he says. “Which is more than I’ve got now.”

“All what money?” I say. “We don’t have —”

“You give me something,” he says, cutting me off.

“What?”

“Something.”

“I don’t have,” I say. “I have, like, nothing. Basically.”

Out in the hall, the bell goes off.

“You have information,” he says.

“About what?” I say. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” he says. “You’re finally going to tell me.”

I don’t bother with any of my standard denials, just like he didn’t bother with any of his. I breathe in. The truth — it really does smell like crap sometimes.

“You really want to know that bad?”

“Sure,” he says. “I mean, we’ve known each other for forever, man. This is, like, the first thing I don’t really know about you, and that kind of bothers me. And we’re friends, right? We’re supposed to be, and so maybe I don’t feel too good about this, either. But you’ve got to give me something. Even if I don’t really want to go through with all this anyway, I still need something for it.”

It sounds almost reasonable when he puts it that way, like a favor between friends or, what do they call that, a good-faith gesture? I want to believe him.

“But you can’t tell anyone,” I say.

“Aaron,” he says.

“Other than that,” I say. “And then you’ll, like, drop it?”

“Then I’ll see what I can do,” he says, spreading his hands in front of him like a movie mobster, cutting a deal.

Dammit. I might have to do this.

“But no more bull,” he says. “The truth, all of it, for real.”

“Course,” I say.

“So?” he says.

“Not now,” I say, just stalling. “You’ve got to get to gym.”

“Yeah, right,” he says. “When, then?”

I look at him. I have to do this. But there’s something else I have to do first.

“Tomorrow morning, before homeroom.”