A WEEK LATER, I get in a fight at school.

But probably not in the way you think.

First, let me tell you about the Sugar Shack. If it’s coated or loaded with sugar, they’ve got it. That’s what they call the cafeteria, because that’s pretty much what everyone eats there. But it’s not all sugar. No indeed. Everything else is deep-fried or comes from a box, or a lab, or something. Nothing meant for people to be eating, that’s for sure. Apple slices and broccoli bites? Nahhh… you’re on your own, kid.

The Sugar Shack has everything that’s wrong with UMS, all in one giant room. It’s totally run-down, it’s crazy crowded, and it can be dangerous, if you’re not careful. There’s mad noise bouncing off every wall. A kid named Reverb is the resident lunch DJ. He hooks his smartphone up to two of those Beats by Dre Pill portable speakers. Every lyric being shot from those speakers is uncensored, and none of the teachers seem to mind. They just want to make it through the day without getting into it with any of the students. I don’t really blame them. I’d compare the vibe of the room to…y’know, I don’t even know what to compare it to. Maybe Lagos. That’s in Nigeria. It’s one of those megacities, with eight zillion people and the worst traffic jams in the world.

Yeah, that seems about right.

Most of the kids at UMS get free lunch, including me, which is cool. But that means the food line is always a mile long. By the time I get my lunch, there’s usually about fifteen seconds left to eat it before the period’s over.

And today, I don’t even get that far.

I’m waiting in line with Arthur and our other friends, Dele and Vashon. We’re just standing there, minding our own business and talking about if you had to choose, would you rather be Batman or Iron Man. (Iron Man, no doubt. I’m all about the flying.) Then someone yells out—

“INCOMING!”

 

I don’t know what’s coming in, but I duck anyway. Then I hear this splat sound. When I look up, Quaashie Williams has a mess of mashed potatoes running down his front.

I look behind me, and Quaashie Richter’s standing there looking guilty as sin. Something tells me those potatoes were meant for me, Arthur, Dele, and Vashon.

“Oh, man,” Vashon says. “Let’s get out of here!”

See, we’ve got two Quaashies in our class, and the funny thing is—they can’t stand each other. The whole thing’s about to go nuclear, you can tell.

On the other hand, I’m finally near the head of the line. And I’m starving.

Arthur, Dele, and Vashon don’t wait for me to make up my mind. They scatter. Quaashie W. comes after Quaashie R., and the next thing you know, I’m stuck—BAM!—right in the middle.

This is what I was talking about before. I may not be fighting, but I am most definitely in a fight.

Some kids start yelling. Other kids start throwing more food. It’s getting out of control, fast. I can even taste blood in my mouth.

Wait—no. That’s raspberry Jell-O. At least, I hope it is.

Then all of a sudden, our vice principal, Mrs. Freeman, breaks the whole thing up.

“That’s enough of that!” she says. She pulls the Quaashies apart like a big grilled cheese sandwich—and I’m the cheese. Man, am I glad to see her! I think she just saved my life.

“Thanks, Mrs. F—” I start to say, but she grabs me by the arm.

“Let’s go. All of you, to the office. Right now!”

“Huh?” I say.

“You heard me. MOVE!”

Before you can blink twice, she’s dragging me, Quaashie, and Quaashie out of the cafeteria and up the hall.

The Quaashies are still yelling at each other. Mrs. Freeman’s yelling, too. I’m trying to explain what happened, but it’s like shooting a water pistol at a hurricane. Nobody really notices.

Mrs. Freeman drops us outside the principal’s office, goes in, and shuts the door. And just like that, I’m in trouble. For something I didn’t do.

Something I’ve never done in my life.

How did I get here?