5

THEY DRAG ME backstage onto a metal folding chair that’s stuck in the folds of a giant, dusty black curtain. I immediately start sneezing.

Principal Coffin and a firefighter are bent over me. Their voices buzz and catch in the curtain folds. What are they saying?

They help me stand, slowly. “Easy, now, kiddo,” someone says. Then they help me totter out the stage door and into the brightness of the main hall, where a custodian is waiting with a walkie-talkie; he keeps hold of my arm as we walk to the main office. I keep my head down, staring at floor tiles in total humiliation. At least I didn’t have to do a walk of shame past the kids in the auditorium.

It’s starting to sink in, what just happened. I fainted in front of the entire population of Peavey Middle School.

I’m doomed.

In the office, a tall lady with dark brown skin smiles kindly down at me. She’s wearing a purple Peavey tracksuit with a name badge that reads Mrs. Ngozo, Guidance Counselor. “Thank you, Doc,” she says to the custodian. “You may go.” She ushers me into the health room, and forces me to lie down on this disgusting pink leather sickbed they’ve got in there.

She puts a cold cloth on my head and shoves a thermometer in my ear. I’m so nervous, from the stage, the fainting, and now the couch, that I’m still kind of panting. So she gets this paper bag and puts it in front of my face. It smells like someone’s tuna fish sandwich and banana just got dumped out of it. “Breathe, Stanley, breathe!” she urges.

Then Mrs. Ngozo does something even worse: she calls my mom. I can hear them talking in the next room. “I see. The poor boy,” I hear Mrs. Ngozo say. “Tsk tsk. Uh-huh. I do agree . . . anxiety . . . sensory issues . . . need to support . . . suppose we could consider . . . yes.”

When she comes back in, I’m sitting up. I’ve pushed down all the stress, all the worry, everything I’ve been feeling. I’ve swallowed it, and I’ve put a fake smile on my face instead. I’ve got to get out of here.

“I’m great now, Mrs. Ngozo,” I whisper in a small, dry voice. My heart’s still pounding, and I’m sweating in all kinds of new places. But I just want the day to go back to normal. I want to be like those ice-skaters you see on TV who fall, then get up so fast and continue on, so you barely register that they even fell. Maybe if I get back to class quick, kids will think it was no big deal.

Mrs. Ngozo perches on the edge of a chair near me. Her perfume is so strong I have to inch back toward the wall and hold my breath. I distract myself from the aroma-onslaught by staring at the tiny brown braids that loop and twist like a crown on the top of her head.

“You’re shaking, young man. I can practically see the stress coming off you in waves. Okay, put away that paper bag; I will teach you a better self-calming technique. Think of a color you like. A soothing color.”

I sigh. For some reason, Aquaman pops into my mind. “Aqua?” I whisper, to humor her.

“And what’s a color that you hate, Stanley?”

I once found this Crayola crayon the exact color of chicken poop. “Ochre.”

“I want you to do a little exercise. Breathe in good thoughts and good air, thinking about aqua. Then slowly expel your bad thoughts and bad air, thinking ochre.”

Aquaman. Chicken poop. Strangely, it works.

“Excellent,” she says. “See? Now you’re breathing calmly. And so, let’s talk. Your mother is wondering if our Peavey safety assemblies might be rather too, er, intense for you.” She gives me a deep, solemn look.

I shrug. The lump in my throat gets bigger.

“Your mother informed me, confidentially, that you have sensory processing challenges. Things seem too loud, too strong, too bright, too tight, too much . . . Too much noise, too many crowds, these types of things are hard for you, yes?”

Why would Mom tell her about that? I don’t like anyone to know.

“Don’t worry. I won’t mention it to anyone. But here’s the thing . . . your mother thought perhaps we could find a quiet zone for you here at school, somewhere safe, for when things get to be too much. What do you think?”

I shrug again. My brain is still buzzing, so the thought of no noise or trouble for a while is nice. I feel sapped, like if Superman had been lounging around green Kryptonite.

Mrs. Ngozo smiles, and leads me out to a beige-carpeted back hallway. Just past an office with her name, there’s an unmarked door. She turns the knob, and clicks on the switch.

A desk, a chair, empty gray bookshelves, and one of those big meeting-presentation-type easels with a giant sketchpad on it. That’s all that’s in there.

“What if you were able to come here whenever you’re feeling overwhelmed? It’s quiet. You can bring your schoolwork. It’s safe. And if you feel as if you want to talk to me, my office is right here. We don’t want to cause you to feel faint again! Do you think this could be helpful to you, Stanley?”

I feel like an idiot. But I nod.

“Then I’ll fill your teachers in. And remember: aqua and ochre!” She closes the door gently.

I slump into the desk chair and put my head in my arms. I’m not going to cry or anything. I’m just sick and tired of being in this stupid new school. Why can’t I be homeschooled, like that neighbor kid? Why can’t I just be home, right now, where it’s safe?

I can still faintly hear the chaos of that assembly through the open intercom channel down the hall. There’s music blaring—burn baby burn, disco inferno!—and kids are clapping and screaming as Principal Coffin’s voice booms out like a commando of doom: “Stop, drop, and roll! Stop, drop, and roll!”

I sigh. So what do I do? I could review my homework that’s due today, but I already know I got everything right. I always get everything right. I never make a big deal about it, but it’s another reason why Kyle Keefner hates me.

I poke around in the desk drawers. They’re pretty empty—except for half a pink eraser, a bunch of old staples, and in the big bottom drawer, some big boxes of markers. I take a black one out, uncap it, and inhale the sharp tang of the wedged felt-tip. Then I look over at that giant sketchpad, standing on the easel in the corner.

It’s open to a new white page. Funny. I could have sworn that pad was closed a few seconds ago. I bring a box of markers over to the easel, and touch the black marker tip to the blank page, and do what I always do when I can’t think straight or when my heart feels weird and heavy.

I draw.

I draw me wearing that heavy fire coat, curled up in Albert Einstein’s dog crate, while flames surround me, closer and closer, under a big sign that says Peavey Middle School of Panic, and I write in the speech bubble, “HELP! GET ME OUT OF HERE!”

At lunch a few hours later, I sit in a free spot by Joon. Across from us is Dylan Bustamante, Keefner, and some kids from 6-G and 6-S I’ve never talked to. Actually, most of the kids from 6-G and 6-S are kids I’ve never talked to.

“You were late to math this morning. What happened on stage?” Joon asks.

“You were all slumped over,” says Dylan Bustamante. “Did you faint for real?”

“I bet it was an act,” Joon says, shrugging. “But, hey, hey, do you guys think we’re really going to dissect worms in science today?”

Is Joon trying to change the subject for me? I flash him a look of relief, but he’s only looking at the other guys.

They start talking worms and what the inside of a worm looks like, and everything’s okay. I’m off the hook, and the worm’s on.

When lunch is over, I try to walk out with Joon, saying, “Hey, thanks—”

But he skips ahead with the others, like all of a sudden he’s mad at me or something.

See, this is why I don’t talk to people. I have no idea what’s going on with them half the time.