Judgment day has come.

Nehemiah passes me a note. Mrs. Horner’s in a particularly bad mood, probably because by the end of the day, Mrs. Fitzgerald is due to pronounce sentence on all of us, including her. So this class time has been designated a “silent working period.” It’s kind of like playing the quiet game except that the first person to talk gets sent to the principal’s office.

So what’s the plan?

Nehemiah writes in his barely legible scrawl.

We need to clear our name, but Jaron is one of us. Right?

We’re ride or die.

The only one who should go down for this is Kutter.

Not Marcel?!!?!!?

Nehemiah adds more exclamation points and question marks than necessary.

I’d love for her to go down for anything. Her breathing should be grounds for the Scream Room because she’s taking perfectly good air from someone else.

I hear that.

I’m working on something. But first things first: we have to get out of here.

Like any good prison story, sometimes there has to be a great escape. And sometimes the simplest route, right out the front door, is the easiest. Life is all about waiting for opportunities to present themselves. Or creating those opportunities with a nudge here and there.

Try as the system might, we don’t make good drones. Those “good” kids, the ones that fall immediately quiet when the teachers flick the lights off, the ones that line up perfectly when the teachers raise their hands and count backward, they’re always going to fit in. Nothing wrong with that. We just come at the world different because it comes at us different. It comes hard, we go hard. We don’t fit in with how the system wants to define us and sometimes we have to turn the system on itself for us to get by.

Pierce sits at a back table, away from the array of student desks arranged four by four in front of Mrs. Horner. His head ducked low, he focuses on his construction project. I should be the last person guilty of writing someone off, but I’ve never really taken the time or interest to watch him in action before. Granted, a dust mote floating by is usually enough to distract him, so most schoolwork is a struggle for him to get through. But give him some drawing pencils or paint and paper and he’s locked in like a laser. Along his desk are paper cranes, sharks, and butterflies, since origami is his latest fixation.

You could wind Pierce up. He can keep everyone distracted for days.

No, I need to do better. But I think you’re onto something.

I take out a new sheet of paper to begin a note to him, but think better of it, in case there’s a repeat of me sneaking someone something they want but shouldn’t have and getting low-key reported for it. Instead I wait until Pierce and his overly polite self asks to sharpen a pencil, and I linger at the cabinets searching for a book until he gets there.

“Hey, Pierce,” I whisper while my back is to Mrs. Horner.

Sheer panic covers his face. Pierce scans about, one, to make sure I was talking to him and, two, to make sure Mrs. Horner doesn’t see him talking. I’m under no illusions: Pierce is difficult to reach on his best days. Connecting with him is like journeying to another planet and you know your universal translator is on the fritz.

“No worries. I’ll chat. I was wondering if you ever had any bad dealings with Kutter.”

Pierce jumps at the name, a full body spasm like I’d just punched him. With his flinch I get another queasy feeling that, for better or worse, Pierce is part of our brotherhood. And we should take care of our own.

“It’s okay. He’s done it to me, too. To all of us. We want to stop him. Are you interested in helping us?”

A light flickers in Pierce’s eyes. It’s like watching part of him climb out of a deep hole he’d chosen to crawl into. He gives a barely perceptible nod.

“Good. We just need a small distraction. Something to get Mr. Blackmon out of the room for a little bit. Nothing that would get you in trouble.”

Pierce nods. I’m not a real big fan of the weird smile he wears on his face.

By the time I get back to my seat, Pierce reports to Mrs. Horner’s desk. My heart skips as he turns back to me. My gut lurches on visions of giving Twizzlers to Ahrion. But then Pierce scrunches his face at me. I think that’s what passes for a wink for him.

“Mrs. Horner, may I borrow the stapler?” he asks.

“What for?”

“To finish my origami project.”

“Sure.” Mrs. Horner hands him her stapler. “Be careful. It’s touchy.”

Pierce ambles back to his desk and proceeds to finish his latest figure. He’s constructed paper fingers, which he’s slipped onto his hand. When one hand is fitted, they look exactly like razor claws. Pierce takes the stapler and lowers his finger into it. Once I realize what he’s doing, I start to wave him off.

“Ow!” he yells.

Mr. Blackmon strolls into the room escorting Twon and Rodrigo. He directs the two to their seats and attends to Pierce without breaking his slow strut. “What happened?”

“I cut myself,” Pierce says in a weak voice. He runs his hand through his hair, leaving a streak through it and a red smear on his face. “I tried to get my claws on tight.”

“Let’s go to the nurse’s office.” Mr. Blackmon grabs a couple of blue forms. Medical reports. “I’ll be back, Mrs. Horner.”

Mrs. Horner nods from her desk without glancing up.

See? One down.

I pass the note back to Nehemiah.

This was your plan?

More or less. Pierce is always good for a distraction.

What about Mrs. Horner?

I motion back to Twon.

Do you think you can convince those two to cause a ruckus? They already have at least one infraction, though. I don’t know if they can afford any more without it leading to detention.

No worries. If I can get on Mr. Blackmon’s laptop, I can unflag them without any problem. The system won’t issue a detention.

How?

Please. I’ve had his password from the first week. Mrs. Horner’s, too. Memorized they keystrokes. Even if I didn’t, Mrs. Horner keeps hers in her middle drawer.

Remind me not to unlock my phone around you.

Too late.

Can you get word to them?

I got this.

Nehemiah is like a coach when it comes to ruckus. The squad looks to him to call a play, and with a hand signal or two, they line up in formation. I barely catch his gestures, much less a non-paying-attention Mrs. Horner.

“Why you got to always talk about my momma?” Twon jumps up.

“What? I didn’t say anything,” Rodrigo protests.

“You got to keep running your mouth.”

Rodrigo backs up. “I swear, Mrs. Horner, I didn’t do anything.”

Twon pounces on Rodrigo. Grabbing him in a headlock, he wrestles him to the middle of the floor. He holds Rodrigo for a minute, then whispers into his ear. With only a hint of a smile, Rodrigo begins to fight back, but none of the blows land with any real feeling. Like brothers, Twon and Rodrigo fight often, since no one can push Twon’s buttons like Rodrigo. Also like brothers, the two of them have each other’s back more times than not. Mrs. Horner resigns herself to leaving her seat to intervene.

“What is going on today? You two are going to Mrs. Fitzgerald’s office. Nehemiah and Thelonius, before you get it in your heads to act up, report to Ms. Erickson’s room.”

“But we didn’t do anything.” I almost sound like I mean it. I definitely deserve an award for this performance. Though Twon’s act might give me a run for it.

Mrs. Horner’s breath stinks and when she glides out from behind her desk, she talks too close to a person’s face. “You’re not in trouble, but I can’t leave you alone. Don’t ruin my trust in you to make it down there on your own.”

“We’ll be okay,” I say.

“Is Brionna in on it, too?” Nehemiah asks as soon as we’re out of earshot.

“Nah. She likes to run her mouth too much,” I say. “This was the easy part of my plan. Now comes the hard part. You up for it?”

“Can’t wait. What you need me to do?”