On the walk to school the next day, I’m dying to tell Halle what happened at the supermarket, but her mind is elsewhere. “Did you know that Michael is a Scorpio?” she asks, bending down to pick up a fallen leaf. “It’s the most misunderstood of all the zodiac signs.” She inspects her find and places it in her backpack. “They’re also very emotional.”

“I didn’t know that,” I say. “I’m a Leo, but I’m not sure what it means in terms of my personality. I’m supposed to be lucky with money, though.” I dig in my pocket and produce a crumpled dollar. “See? I found it yesterday outside my building.”

“It’s true,” Halle says, back on the move and clearly not listening to a word I’m saying. “Look at Michael. He seems cool on the outside, but there’s a lot going on under the surface. Deep stuff.”

I’m not sure how Halle came to this conclusion, but I decide to take her word for it. If she wants to think her crush is deep, that’s fine with me. I have other things to worry about—namely Mom.

When she came home from the supermarket last night, she knocked on my door and begged me to open up. She even pushed my crinkled-up French quiz under the door with a yellow sticky note on it.

Nice job, Kit-Kat! I’m so proud of you! Xox, Mom

This was a really big deal, because she dug it out of the trash. But still, I wouldn’t let her in. I put in my ear-buds and turned up the music. I didn’t speak to her at breakfast this morning, and I haven’t decided whether I’ll talk to her later, when I get home. It all depends on my mood, and how long I can hold a grudge.

At school, Jane is already banging the gong for attention when Halle and I walk in. We quickly take our seats.

“Simmer down, people!” Jane says, waving the mallet over her head. “I need all eyes on me.” She waits until the room is quiet before putting down the mallet. “I have a treat for you,” she tells us. “Olympia Rabinowitz is coming to our classroom for a rap session. She’ll be here any minute.”

Halle and I exchange looks. Olympia is the school psychologist, and it’s safe to say that a rap session—some kind of hippie-dippie share-a-thon, I’m guessing—doesn’t count as a “treat.”

Michael puts up his hand. “I have a problem.”

“Yes?” Jane crosses her arms over her corduroy jumper.

“I haven’t done my Christmas shopping yet.”

Jane frowns. “What does Christmas shopping have to do with Olympia’s visit to our classroom, Michael? Besides, it’s the middle of September.”

Michael takes off his Yankees cap and puts it on backward. “You said we were having a wrap session, but I have nothing to wrap.”

Jane’s eyes shoot up to the ceiling. “We’re not wrapping presents, Michael. The fifth grade will be having a rap session. Rap, as in R-A-P. You know, a discussion. A chance to share our feelings.”

Madeline, who’s been checking her hair for split ends, raises her hand. “We won’t be talking about anything personal, will we? Like periods? Because if we are, I’m not saying anything with the boys around.”

Wilson looks up from the book he’s reading, Human Anatomy and Physiology. “Menstruation is nothing to be embarrassed about,” he says. “It’s a perfectly normal bodily function.”

“I’m not embarrassed,” Madeline says huffily, “but some of the boys in this class are too immature to handle it.” She turns around to give Kevin a pointed stare.

“Immature?” Kevin lets out a snort. “The men don’t care about that stuff anyway.”

“Men?” Madeline looks around the room. “I don’t see any men.”

Jane’s had enough. “We will discuss all subjects as they arise. Now, if there are no more questions—”

“Hello, hello…?” It’s Olympia Rabinowitz, here for our first rap session. Her hair is the color of orange Kool-Aid and styled in lots of skinny braids. “Thank you for allowing me into your learning space,” Olympia says, extending her arms wide. “This will be a groovy experience…for all of us.”

Groovy? I wait for someone to laugh, but the room is as quiet as a library. Even Kevin has his mouth shut.

Olympia strides to the front of the room and sits down on the edge of Jane’s desk. “Sharing our thoughts and feelings in a safe, judgment-free space is vitally important for any group—whether that group is a family at home, or a family in the classroom.” She pushes up the sleeves of her oversize ski sweater and beams at the class. “That’s why confidentiality is key.”

After Sam explains to Michael that confidentiality is a fancy word for “Don’t blab other people’s secrets,” Olympia nods. “That’s right, Sam. Whatever you say in this room stays in this room.”

“Like Vegas!” Hector reaches over to bump fists with Kevin.

“Huh?” Michael doesn’t get it.

“It’s an expression, butt-brain,” Kevin tells him. “Whatever happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”

“Las Vegas,” Sam corrects him, “in the state of Nevada, the thirty-sixth state admitted to the Union on October 31, 1864.”

“My grandma went to Las Vegas once,” Michael says, leaning back in his chair. “She won four hundred dollars and a free steak dinner.”

“Red meat is disgusting!” Liberty scrunches up her nose.

“And very unhealthy,” Wilson adds, tapping his medical book. “It clogs the arteries and causes hypertension.”

“I hope your grandma chose the vegetarian option,” Liberty says to Michael. “Did she?”

Michael frowns. “I’m not sure. Can I borrow your phone?”

Jane clears her throat. “While the importance of a vegetarian diet can’t be underestimated, Olympia is waiting to begin.”

Olympia hops off the desk and starts arranging our chairs in a “trust circle.” Once we’re all seated, she reaches into her Free Tibet tote and pulls out a long wooden stick. “This is an aboriginal talking stick,” Olympia tells the class, dropping her voice to a hush. “A symbol of tolerance and democracy. Whoever holds the stick has the right to speak. Others may not interrupt without the speaker’s permission. Now, who would like to kick things off?”

Michael flings up his arm. “Me!”

Olympia gets up from the trust circle and hands him the stick. “Speak your truth, Michael. Loud and proud.” Michael clears his throat. “Well, there’s someone in this room I really like. She’s nice, and cool, and funny. But I don’t think she likes me. It sucks, you know?”

I hold my breath, waiting for Olympia to get mad at Michael for using the word “sucks.” She doesn’t. “This must be very hard for you,” Olympia says, returning to her seat. “Have you told this girl how you feel?” I like that Olympia asked Michael a question rather than telling him what to do. Grown-ups hardly ever do that.

“No,” Michael says, shaking his head. “That would be weird.”

Olympia leans forward. “Weird in what way?”

“I dunno. Just weird.”

Halle pokes me in the arm. “He’s talking about me.”

“How do you know?” I whisper.

“Look.” Halle makes a pecking motion with her head. I follow her eyeballs and see that she’s right: Michael is staring straight at her. And all this time I thought he liked Madeline! Which goes to show: diamond earrings and a bra can only get you so far.

Then again, what if I’m wrong and Michael really does prefer Madeline? Halle will be crushed, like she was in third grade when her mom wouldn’t let her get her ears pierced. But this is more serious. This is boy stuff.

“Kat?” It’s Olympia, squatting in front of me with the talking stick. “Would you like a turn? I heard you whispering to Halle.”

“No, thanks,” I say quickly. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

I have to think twice before answering. The truth is, I’m not fine. I’m so mad at Mom I could scream. Why is she so focused on cleaning and germs these days? Why did she have to embarrass me at the supermarket in front of Madeline and Coco? And why did she let me walk home by myself? Sure, Greenwich Village is safe, safer than when Mom was a girl and she had to carry mugger money in her Care Bears lunch box. But that doesn’t mean I liked walking home by myself. It’s only fun when you want to walk home alone. Not when you have to.

“Kat?” Olympia is looking up at me now. Her eyes are the color of faded Levi’s, with lashes so pale they’re almost white.

“I don’t have anything to say,” I tell her, shrugging off the talking stick. “Sorry.”

Olympia gives me a warm, crinkly-eyed smile. “Maybe next time,” she says, getting to her feet.

Yeah, I think. Next time.

Or maybe not.