“Come with me to the lab,” I say to Sasha. “Please?”

“That bibliography was due ages ago,” says Linnie. We’re at the lunch table, and I’m trying to figure out how I’m going to get my bibliography printed and in my hands before social studies.

I ignore Linnie and continue to wheedle Sasha. “Please,” I repeat. “It’s my only option.”

“Without a pass?” She’s staring at me the same way her mother does anytime she thinks I’m luring Sasha into mischief.

“If we ask for a pass, the monitor will just say that Ms. Finch isn’t there during lunch period. And that’s the whole point.”

Sasha sighs. I have never asked her to break the rules before. “Let’s go,” she says.

“Chandler will have your heads if you’re caught,” Linnie says.

I ignore her and wait for the monitor to walk over to one of the noisier tables. When he does, Sasha and I slip out of the lunchroom.

“Just act confident,” I say to Sasha. “Like we have been asked to run an important errand.”

“I’m pretty sure teachers aren’t fooled that easily,” Sasha says.

But when we pass Mr. Granger, our fourth-grade teacher, in front of the teachers’ lounge, he says, “Hello, ladies,” without stopping us — probably ’cause we used to be his best-behaved students. For a moment I wish I were still a fourth-grader.

Mademoiselle Barbary does stop us, but I say, “Computer lab,” in such a strong, sure voice that she just nods and says, “Vite, vite!”

“See?” I say.

“Just go,” Sasha says, nodding to the lab, up ahead.

Dim light behind the narrow window tells us the room is not being used, but Sasha stops cold when I open the door to go in. The computer lab, with all the laptops and MP3 players, is probably the worst place in the whole school to be caught without permission. And we both have a lot to lose. I risk never getting a leadership role. Sasha risks losing the points she’s made by being patrol leader. We could both end up with detentions, which stay on your permanent record. So much for Carter Middle School then.

I slowly open the door.

“I’m going back,” Sasha says. Her face is a splotchy red, the way it always is when she gets nervous.

For a moment I consider going back with her, but I’m so close to being able to hand something in to Mr. O. . . . I nod OK and then slip into the lab. I wait for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, then I slide over to the laptop smack in the middle of the row ahead of me. I’m pretty sure it’s the one I used. I hope it hasn’t been powered down; Ms. Finch is the only one with the passwords for signing on to the computers again.

I tap the keypad and it wakes. I’m logged on, thank goodness, but I can’t find my bibliography. I didn’t get the chance to save it before Daniel minimized the window. But there are no open windows on my machine.

My heart sinks. I click on the trash can. Maybe someone deleted it?

“Is this what you’re looking for, Arianna?”

It’s Ms. Finch, standing in the doorway with a sheet of paper in her hand. The light is dim, but I know she’s not smiling.

“I think so,” I say, guessing it’s my bibliography. My hands are shaking.

“You know,” she says, coming over and shutting the laptop, “I wasn’t born yesterday. A blank desktop tells me that a student has been perusing the Internet, that she’s been doing something she wasn’t supposed to be doing.”

“I wasn’t on a restricted site —”

“No, you were doing your homework for Mr. O’Neil during my class time. You felt his assignment merited your attention more than mine.”

When she says this, it sounds worse. Worse than goofing off, worse than looking at stuff we’re not supposed to. It sounds like I don’t think she matters.

“I must say, I’m very disappointed in you, Arianna,” she says before I can figure out what to say.

Suddenly I feel the urge to tell her everything — about leaving Janna’s and hopping from place to place. About leaving the books at Chloe’s and struggling to find the time to do my homework. But I can’t betray Gage. Besides, Mr. Chandler instituted a “no excuses” policy this year, and I don’t want to break that rule, too. So I just stay silent, wishing I actually were invisible.

“Get yourself back to the cafeteria now,” she says, dismissing me, “before someone catches you without a pass.”

I nod and hurry to the door before she sees my tears. Ever since we left Janna’s, nothing has gone right. It’s starting to feel like the year when Mama died all over again.

We have a substitute teacher in science class, which is almost like having a snow day. No one bothers to pay attention, to do any real work. Lots of kids are talking, passing notes, even reading, in class. The sub doesn’t seem to care. She just draws a cell diagram on the board and explains what she’s drawing as if every single one of us found the structure of cells more interesting than juicy gossip.

I put my head down on the desk. The wood feels cool on my cheek.

“Do you feel all right?” the sub asks as she hands me a sheet of paper.

I sit up again and shrug. I can’t stop thinking about my next class: social studies. What am I going to tell Mr. O.?

Maybe I don’t feel OK. Maybe I’m sick. Maybe I should head down to the nurse’s office. I think of lying on the green cot, the white cotton blanket draped over me. In the nurse’s office, there’s nothing more to do than watch the hands on the clock tick around.

Yes, I’m definitely feeling sick. I gather my courage to say so, but just then, the bell rings and kids swarm like bees out the door and into the hall.

I let the crowd carry me — all the way to social studies. Mr. O. is standing at his desk.

“Mr. O’Neil,” I whisper as I approach him. What can I even say? I’m not allowed to make excuses, but if I just tell him I don’t have my assignment — again — he’ll think it’s because I didn’t even try to get it done.

Mr. O. picks up a piece of paper and waves it at me. “I was very glad to see this on my desk today, Arianna.”

I look down. He’s holding my bibliography. My bibliography, with my name at the top and the spacing corrected.

“Now that you have your sources, let’s see if you can’t get the outline to me, too,” he says.

I keep staring at my bibliography.

“Ari?”

“Oh, I have my outline,” I say, reaching into my backpack. “It’s not typed —”

Mr. O. looks down at my outline and to my amazement nods in approval. “Looks like an interesting paper, Arianna, especially this section on activism. Do you think I might see an introduction soon?”

“Soon!” I say.

“Promise?” he asks, a little too loudly.

“Promise!”

How did this happen? I wonder, but I think I know.

I recall the word cloud we made in computer lab. What were some of the most prominent words? Togetherness and help and support. I decide that I’d also add kindness. And another word, which I’d type in ten times to make it stand out bigger and bolder than the rest:

Daniel.