2

All right, everyone, let’s have some quiet.”

Ms. Kowalski sounds tired, or bored, or possibly both, which is how she always sounds first thing in the morning. Her monotone is several decibels too low for a high school teacher, so roll call is a prolonged undertaking.

“Mopsely.”

I grunt manfully in my best imitation of Brandon, but it just sounds like I’m shifting phlegm around in my throat.

“D’ya need the Heimlich?” Abby stage whispers. She grins contentedly, knowing it’s way too early in the day for me to summon a witty retort.

Ms. K concludes roll call and sighs. “I believe that Brandon has an announcement,” she says without enthusiasm.

Brandon doesn’t speak for a while, but he knows we won’t interrupt. Eventually he leans forward and feigns seriousness. “Graduation Rituals,” he says sharply. “Lunchtime. Here.”

His posse whoops and stamps their feet beneath the tables as Ms. Kowalski struggles unsuccessfully to restore order. Brandon affords them a moment to express their adulation, then raises his open palms as a call for silence; unlike Ms. Kowalski, he is met with utter compliance.

“Yes, well, you may complete your announcement now,” says Ms. K breathlessly.

Brandon smiles warmly and shakes his head. “Now, now, Ms. Kowalski. I think we both know there’s nothing to add. Everybody knows about the Graduation Rituals.”

This pronouncement induces more cheering from the posse and more futile arm flailing from Ms. K, who seems genuinely relieved when the bell rings and homeroom ends. School has barely begun, but she’s already leaning against her desk like a drooping leaf.

Brandon’s cronies pull out their cell phones and begin texting in unison. I peer over and notice that they’re forwarding his announcement to the rest of the senior class, like the Graduation Rituals are major news. Predictably, I’ve never heard of them.

On his way out, Brandon schmoozes like a seasoned pro. He compliments Morgan’s makeup and she coos. He applauds Paige’s revealing outfit and she beams. When Taylor asks if she can run her fingers over his new calfskin messenger bag, he obliges her with a broad smile. Even the ugliest of his loyal henchmen are greeted with hugs and kisses, accruing status points simply by trailing in his wake.

I look at my own book bag—a camouflaged Eddie Bauer special edition that Brandon popularized at the beginning of freshman year. Now mine is the only one in school, and I’m not entirely sure that’s a good thing. At least, I don’t recall Taylor ever asking to run her hand over my bag’s 100 percent nylon.

Brandon’s almost out the door when he signals for the entourage to back up. “Ms. Kowalski,” he exclaims, “I almost forgot to tell you how much I’m enjoying homeroom these days. I love that you keep things so relaxed, you know?”

“Oh.” Ms. K studies her hands as her mouth twitches involuntarily into a smile. “Thank you.”

“No, Ms. Kowalski. Thank you,” he insists, striding toward her and patting her arm gently.

She keeps her eyes averted as he turns away, and doesn’t see his bag swinging around. It knocks her against the whiteboard. When she collects herself, I notice that the diagrammed sentences from yesterday’s lessons have been transferred to her blouse.

I step forward. “Ms. Kow—”

“No, don’t,” Abby whispers. “What’s she going to do about it? I doubt she brings a spare blouse to work.”

“But the writing—”

“Might come out, or it might not. But letting her know it’s there is just going to make her feel self-conscious.” She clenches her fist. “Brandon’s such a jerk.”

“What? No way. It was an accident.”

“Sure. Everything’s an accident with Brandon.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Abby shakes her head. “It’s just … everything’s a game to him. He doesn’t believe half of what he says. It’s all for show.”

“That’s not true. Everyone likes Brandon.”

“Sure they do. He’s the most popular guy in school, but even that’s a game. All he cares about is winning the popularity contest.” She slings her bag onto her back angrily. “I guess the ends justify the means.”

“What are you talking about?”

She sighs, turns away. “Nothing. Just forget it.”

I really want to know what’s gotten into her, but Abby’s icy demeanor deters me. Intimidation is one of her gifts.

As we shuffle between the tables I glance at Ms. Kowalski’s blouse again, wondering how long it will take her to get the stain out. It’s a shame really, because the blouse looked new, like a gift to herself for making it through yet another school year. Maybe it was a way of bribing herself to keep working, even though she’s tired of her job. My dad did the same thing eight months ago—hated his job so much that he went out and got himself something new to make life seem interesting again. I’m glad for Ms. K that she settled on a blouse.

“Kevin, can I have a word?”

Ms. K beckons me away from the door as if she’s afraid my classmates might be lurking outside, eavesdropping. She needn’t worry—eavesdropping implies a level of celebrity I’ll never achieve.

Abby waggles her finger at me as she heads off to class. “I told you they’d find out you did it.”

“Find out you did what?” asks Ms. K, concerned.

“Nothing. Abby’s just teasing me.”

“Oh. That’s quite funny.”

“Yes. And I’m her favorite target.”

“Indeed.” For a moment, Ms. K’s eyebrows rise inquiringly, but then she clears her throat. “Kevin, I, um, just wondered if your mom is still teaching at Brookbank University?”

“Yes.”

“Good, good.”

“Why are you asking?”

“Hmmm? Oh, I just wondered.” She waves my question away with a flick of her hand and an open smile. “I trust that you won’t be going to Brandon’s meeting?”

Her question catches me off guard. Ever since parent-teacher night my freshman year she’s taken a personal interest in my studies, but never in my extracurricular activities. I’m about to say no, they’d probably kill me if I showed up, but then I realize what she’s really saying is that even the teachers know I’m not cool enough to belong to Brandon’s group.

Over the past four years I’ve become reconciled to belonging to what Abby calls a “select minority,” but hearing a teacher acknowledge my unpopularity marks a new low. I want to tell her she’s wrong, only I’m pretty sure she’s not, so instead I hover moodily while she tucks her hair behind her ears. But then I remember that the bell rang three minutes ago, so I take off—because I hate being late.

Which I guess is incontrovertible proof that Ms. K has me pegged.