Twenty-Three

I poked my fork at the edge of my chicken patty. Or, as Noah called it, my alleged chicken patty. We’d found very little evidence that the squishy gray slab was actual chicken.

I sneaked a quick glance across the lunchroom.

At Sam. Sitting under the EXIT sign. By herself. For the third day in a row.

Which was not my problem. Except, well, it kind of was.

I tore my mayonnaise packet open with my teeth, squirted it on the bun, and skooshed it around to coat the alleged patty.

Noah tapped his finger on my lunch tray. “You going to eat your fruit cup? You should. It’s probably the only thing on your whole tray that contains a single nutrient. But if not . . .”

I pushed my tray toward him. “Go for it.”

Noah scooped up the plastic cup of questionable fruit.

I shot another glance at Sam. Here was my problem: Her brother was suspended for stealing milk. Except he didn’t steal it. And I was the only person who knew that.

So I should probably tell the truth. That’s what H2O would do. Heck, that’s what Beanboy would do (the real Beanboy, not me). He wouldn’t even think about it. He’d go to the office, ask to see Mr. Petrucelli, and tell him exactly what happened on grilled cheese day in FACS.

It would be the right thing to do.

But I’d tried doing the right thing with the dance ticket. That hadn’t worked out so hot for anybody.

Plus, if I told Mr. Petrucelli that Dillon didn’t take the milk, I’m pretty sure I’d have to tell him who did. And even though I’m not a huge fan of Kaley C.—or either of the Kaleys—it would feel weird to be the person who got her kicked out of school instead of Dillon.

Especially if she found out who told on her.

Which she would.

And so would everyone else.

Including Emma.

And then the whole school would hate me.

First they’d find out I existed.

Then they’d hate me.

Including Emma.

Plus, if we’re being honest, did anyone really want Dillon Zawicki tearing through the halls of Earhart Middle again any time soon?

Well, yeah. I could think of one person: his grandpa.

A picture flashed in my head of a really nice white-haired guy, crouched beside Beech, admiring his sorry pumpkin, giving him a rusty wagon to haul it around in. Sam said he already had enough to worry about. And he probably did, growing all those apples and beets and stuff.

Actually, I could think of two people: his grandpa and Sam. Eating with Dillon had to be better than eating by yourself.

If I thought about it hard enough (which I sincerely did not want to do but somehow couldn’t stop myself), I could think of three, if you counted Beecher, because he didn’t want Sam to be sad.

And I don’t know what was wrong with me, but for some reason, I didn’t, either.

So that made four.