This morning I hit my snooze button three times and I don’t have time to shower. I lean under the faucet and wet my hair.

When I come downstairs, Mom has a piece of toast in her mouth as she rushes around the kitchen. Dad says he’ll drop me off at school on his way to work.

When he pulls up to the school, he scribbles an absence-excuse note using the console as a table. He hands me the note, and I bail out of the car and run up the steps of the school. My plan is to drop off the note, run to my locker, then hightail it to class. But as soon as I’m through the doors, the last bell rings. Now I need a tardy slip too.

Mr. Amondo, the principal, has already started the morning announcements when I stop by the office. I add my absence excuse to the tray and wait for Mrs. Grady, the lady at the front desk, to write me a tardy slip.

Before she hands it to me though, Mr. Amondo steps away from the microphone during the moment of silence and looks at the note I just put in the tray. “Ah, you’re Mr. Moss. Stay here and we’ll go to my office for a little chat.” Before I can respond, he’s back on the school-wide intercom reminding us about “displaying proper lunchroom behavior.”

“Follow me,” Mr. Amondo says once the announcements are finished.

I follow him through the hallway and into his office. He points to a chair in front of his desk. I sit and put my backpack at my feet.

The principal takes his time straightening the pencil holder, the stapler, and a Principal of the Year plaque from 2016. He clears his throat and adjusts the stapler one more time.

“So,” he finally says, putting his elbows on the desk and leaning forward. “How’s seventh grade so far? I know it can be a lot. You kids go from being the big man on campus to the youngest in the span of a summer. Plus, there’s more responsibility, the stakes are higher, and there’s a lot of new people.”

“I think it’s good so far.”

Mr. Amondo smiles like I’ve answered correctly. I relax a little.

“And do you find that the work, the concepts are more… difficult?”

This question feels like a trick. Like it will end with either tutoring or more work. Playing it safe, I go with “Sometimes.”

Mr. Amondo opens a folder on his desk and slowly drags his finger down the page inside. I wonder if there is anything he’s looking for, or if it is just a prop to make students nervous. If so, it works.

“I wanted to talk to you because your name has recently come across my desk in one of the attendance reports. Are you aware that you’ve already missed six days this year?” He raises his eyebrows. “And we’ve only been back in school for a month.”

I swallow. “Um, yes, sir?”

Mr. Amondo frowns. “Milo, do you know what ‘at risk’ means?”

Ummm. I know those words. So I say, “Sort of?”

“It’s a term we use to describe students who are at risk”—he uses air quotes—“of having trouble in school.”

“Okay,” I say because there’s not really a good response. I mean, Cool or Stinks for them doesn’t feel appropriate.

“And did you know”—he leans forward again—“that missing school can put kids at risk?”

“No, sir,” I say.

He consults the paper again. “You’re in middle school now. What you do matters. Your actions and decisions will have lasting consequences.”

“Um. Yes, sir. But I’ve done all the makeup work.”

Mr. Amondo sighs and leans back in his chair. “That many absences can turn into a problem. Do you get me?”

No. “Yes, sir.” My leg wants to shake so badly. I press my hand to my knee to hold it down.

Mr. Amondo smiles—or maybe grimaces—I can’t tell. “So from now I’ll count on you not to miss any more school. Okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Perfect.” He straightens the already-straight papers on his desk. He glances at his watch, sighs, and then scribbles something on a pink pad of paper. “Here. Give this to your teacher. And hurry. You don’t want to miss anything. Don’t forget what we talked about. It’s important we do well, that we prove ourselves.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you. I understand.”

I stand up and yank my too-heavy backpack onto my shoulder.