“Cove?” says Mom at dinner. “You there?”

“Yeah,” I say, turning my head away from the window. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“Learning to sew. I can’t wait any longer.”

“Have you decided on an after-school activity?” she asks. “I know you’ve been trying things, but you need to commit.”

“Not yet. But I will. I promise.”

Mom puts down her fork and knife. “I believe you, Cove. And you have to remember that sewing’s not like soccer or ballet. We’ll find lessons; it just might take some time.”

“How much time?”

“However much it takes. Why? What’s going on with you, Cove? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Yes! There’s so much I’m not telling you! More than you could ever imagine! Instead of the truth, I shake my head.

“So it’s not about the shirts?”

“What shirts?”

“The matching shirts that girls are wearing at school. Some of the moms were talking about them at yoga this morning. I couldn’t believe it when I heard what was printed on the front. ‘Stay away from us’? I mean, to think that anyone would want to broadcast such negativity. It’s awful.”

“What does that have to do with sewing?” I ask.

“Well, clearly kids at school are using clothing as a way to express themselves. I thought maybe that’s why you were suddenly so interested in learning to sew. As a form of expression.” Mom sounds so much like Benjamin Boyd and Martina Velez, the way they talk about fashion as a way to show the world who you are on the inside, that I don’t know what to say. I feel like someone’s taken a giant black Sharpie and drawn a line down the center of my body. One half wants to be the old me who told Mom everything. The other half wants to keep all my secrets tucked safe inside.

I go with the easier half. “Not everything is such a major deal, Mom,” I say. “Sometimes people just want to learn something new. Can I be excused? I’ve got homework.”

The teachers and staff still don’t know what to do about the STAY AWAY FROM US shirts. Principal Finnery used to be really cheerful and give everyone high fives in the hallway. Now she walks around staring at clothes, like she’s on the lookout for another student wearing one of the shirts. More kids have them now, even the ones who don’t sit at Sophie and Amelia’s lunch table. At morning assembly Principal Finnery starts her speech the same way she always does, but I can tell by her voice that she’s not happy.

“Good morning, students and staff,” she says.

“Good morning, Principal Finnery,” everyone responds.

“As you all know, this is not a time of great pride for our school,” says Principal Finnery. “The teachers and staff have been trying to find a way to address what’s going on with the current, shall we say, situation. Until we come up with a permanent solution, we’ve decided that the entire school community needs a shift of focus. A positive shift of focus. So even though it’s the beginning of the school year, we’ve decided that tomorrow we will be having a school-wide day of community service.”

There are a few groans, but most people are excited. Community service means leaving school. Leaving school means no classes. And no classes means no homework. The sound of creaking seats and voices spreads through the auditorium as everyone takes in the news.

“Settle down, settle down,” says Principal Finnery. When no one listens, she puts two fingers to her mouth and raises her other hand in a peace sign, the way preschool teachers do when they’re trying to quiet a class of four-year-olds. For a second I can pretend that I’m sitting on a colorful circle rug with the alphabet printed in primary colors, not a big middle school auditorium. I can pretend that everyone is excited because we’re taking the class hermit crab out of its tank or someone’s parents are bringing in cupcakes for a birthday snack.

For a second I can pretend that Nina is still here, sitting next to me.

When the noise doesn’t stop, Principal Finnery claps her hands into the microphone. The spell is broken.

“That is quite enough, students,” she says. “Quite enough. Now, your homeroom teachers will be emailing the necessary information to your families. But before we part, I want to leave you with a reminder.” She pauses and pushes her hair behind her ears. “Even though you will not be on school property, you will be representing our school. You will be in the community to help others and to learn from that experience. And I ask, along with my fellow teachers and staff, that you consider what that representation means and that you make an intelligent decision regarding your attire.”

I’m sitting a few rows behind Sophie, Amelia, Caroline, and Molly. Amelia swishes her ponytail to her other shoulder. Sophie and Caroline look at each other. Molly looks down at her lap. Then someone behind me whispers, “Not a chance.”

I turn. Sitting all alone is the boy I first saw at the picnic, the one who was fiddling with something in his pockets. I’ve seen him in the hallway a few times and he always nods at me, like we’ve just finished some long conversation and come to an agreement, even though we haven’t said a single word. He’s wearing a faded black T-shirt, like always. His arms are resting on the backs of the seats next to him. He whispers, “Never. Gonna. Happen.”

“What?” I whisper back, even though I know what he’s talking about. Something about him, maybe the way he’s leaning back in his seat, makes me think that if I don’t keep him talking, I’ll blink and he’ll be gone. Like he’s someone I’m imagining. Like Nina.

“Come on,” he says. “I can tell you know.”

Before I can answer, the assembly is over. Backpack buckles bang against armrests, the floor vibrates with shuffling feet. I reach down to get my own backpack. When I look back up, he’s already walking away.

I can tell you know.

Five words.

Not even particularly nice words.

But they are some of the nicest words anyone has said to me at school in a long time.

“Wait up,” I call.

He shrugs, like he could easily walk out the door and keep going until he hits the ocean, or stand right there waiting until the end of the day. He looks like nothing in the world could ever bother him. Like anything bad would roll off his shoulders and land on the tiled floor by his boots.

“Why did you say that?” I ask.

“Say what?”

“I can tell you know.”

“Well, don’t you know?”

“I do. But I still want to know why you said it.”

He shrugs again. “I had something to say and you looked like the kind of person to say it to.”

We are standing outside the doors to the auditorium. Everyone’s moving in different directions, heading toward different classrooms at the ends of different hallways. I get bumped by a random elbow. But the boy doesn’t seem to mind the jostling crowd. It’s like his boots are glued to the ground.

“I’m Jack, by the way.”

“Cove.”

“Cool,” he says. “See you around.”

He turns to walk away, and I notice a group of chains that hang from a loop on the waist of his jeans to his front pocket. They’re silver, shiny and uneven, but I can’t tell what they’re made of. They remind me of something Paris would add to one of her Create You designs for texture. “Wait,” I say, nodding toward the chain. “What’s that?”

“One of my creations,” says Jack. He lifts the chains. They’re attached at both ends, so they don’t move that much. But now I can tell that they’re some combination of paper clips and metal tabs, the kind that come from a can of soda.

“You made that?” I ask.

“Yup.”

“How?”

“You ever heard of dumpster diving?” asks Jack.

“No,” I say.

“Well, then, you’re missing out.”