“You think I’m happy about this?” Avery asked.
I didn’t say anything back.
We were by the entrance to the playground, near where Red and I leave our bags when we run the obstacle course on the way to school.
When we arrived this morning, Mr. Acevedo told us we needed to interview our partners. He handed out a sheet with a list of suggested questions.
“I got these questions from a creative writing class I took in college,” he explained. “By answering these questions, we were able to get to know our characters better. I’m hoping these same questions will help you get to know your partners better.”
Then he took us out to the playground and went into this whole thing about how he chose our partners and why it was important for us to work with other people.
I scanned the handout on top of my journal:
• What’s on your bed?
• Where did you go on your favorite vacation?
• If you could have a superpower, what would it be?
• What is your favorite genre/type of book?
• Who is your favorite singer?
• What would your parents say is your most annoying habit?
I checked Avery. Her open notebook was blank.
“You didn’t write anything,” I said.
“What?”
“When you climbed the ladder the other day.” I motioned to her journal. “You didn’t write anything.”
She slammed it shut. “Why are you looking in my notebook?”
I turned away. Hunter and Attie stood on the balance beam, talking and laughing. Danny and Diego leaned against the climbing wall, talking and laughing. Lana and Noah, Trinity and Melissa, Gavin and Mariam—all sat on the steps in the amphitheater, talking and laughing.
I checked Red. He and Xander were on a bench diagonally down the walkway. Ms. Yvonne was between them with an open folder in her lap. It was the first time Ms. Yvonne had pushed in to ELA this year. Red and Xander were writing on notecards.
All three were smiling.
I shook out my hair. “Did your wheelchair come with those?” I asked.
“Come with what?”
I pointed to the front of her chair. “Those small tires.”
“Dude, they’re called casters.”
One caster was bright blue, the other bright red. Both had three spokes.
“So did it come with those casters?” I asked.
“No.”
I let out a puff. “We’re supposed to answer these questions.” I held up the sheet. “We need—”
“I heard the assignment. I’m not deaf.”
“No one said you were.”
“Dude, I know what I need to know about you.” She curled her lip. “You’re the black kid with the twists who lives and breathes basketball.”
“Shut up.”
“No. It’s the truth.”
“I don’t live and breathe basketball,” I said. “And just because I’m black—”
“Whatever, dude.”
“No, not whatever, Avery.” I pointed to my head. “These are not called twists. They’re called locks, dude.”
“Like I care.”
“I care.”
“You want something to write down?” She motioned to the handout. “Write this: I’m a wheeler.”
I didn’t.
“I’m a wheeler,” she said again.
“I heard you the first time. I’m not deaf.”
“But don’t you call me that.”
“Call you what?”
“A wheeler.”
“Why not?”
“Because you don’t.” She squeezed her brakes. “Dude, face reality. Around here, you’re the black kid who plays basketball, Lana and Ana are the Russian twins, X is the Beatles freak, Red is the autistic kid—”
“Don’t say anything about Red.”
“Whatever.” She rolled her eyes. “He’s autistic, right?”
I glared. Yeah, Red was on the spectrum, not that I really knew what that meant. Both my mom and Suzanne have tried explaining it to me a gazillion times, but to be perfectly honest, I don’t think Lesley, Suzanne, or any other grown-up gets Red like I do.
“Trinity is the girl who runs track,” Avery went on, “Noah is the kid who still drools, and Diego is the only kid in the whole friggin’ school who gets to wear a hat. Around here, that’s who we are.”
“You’re wrong,” I said.
She pointed to her palm. “Mr. Hipster Know-It-All has got you right here.”
“No, he doesn’t.”
“Dude, you breathe his words.”
“No.”
She imitated the way Mr. Acevedo played with his hair and earrings. “‘We read every day in Room 208,’” she said, mockingly. “‘I read to you every day, I challenge you to write in your journals, I hate testing, we are—’”
“You’re wrong, Avery,” I said.
“Dude, you’re wrong. Mr. Hipster Know-It-All thinks he knows kids better than anyone, but he doesn’t. He gives kids way too much credit.” She curled her lip. “You’re the black kid who lives and breathes basketball. I’m the wheeler. That’s who we are. Deal with it.”