I DON’T KNOW if I’m ready for another one of Ray-Ray’s “lessons” or not, but a few days later, I get one anyway.

We’re in the cafeteria at lunch, and Ray-Ray straight-up dares me to steal some chicken fingers off the steam table. I don’t even like chicken fingers. Since when do chickens have fingers? Something just ain’t right about that.

“Are you crazy?” I say.

“Yeah,” he says, grinning that Ray-Ray grin of his. “But this ain’t about me.”

This is about me, and we both know it. I didn’t exactly ace that car ride with Nicky. When you end up sweating like a pig and laughing like a goat, you’re not exactly a shining example of swag.

Still, you’re probably thinking, No way, right? Why would I take a stupid dare like that?

Good question. I just wish I had a good answer. Maybe it’s because Preemie, Quaashie W., and Vanessa are watching. (Especially Vanessa.)

Maybe it’s because I still have something to prove, and Ray-Ray’s never going to stop pestering me until I do.

Or maybe it’s because I’m a big fat idiot.

All of the above, I guess. Whatever the reason is, the next thing I know, I’m sneaking past the lunch line…

…checking to make sure no one’s looking…

…grabbing a tub of chicken fingers with a side of hot honey mustard…

…and getting out of there as fast as I can go.

Ray-Ray’s right there, and we book it out into the hall. I don’t stop running until we’re all the way around the corner and into the stairwell, where it’s quiet.

Then we get rid of the evidence faster than you can say GULP. It’s like those chicken fingers just disappear.

But not for long. My stomach’s already feeling kind of funky, and I’m starting to think there’s more than one reason why this was a bad idea.

“Good job,” Ray-Ray says with his mouth full. “To tell you the truth, I didn’t think you had it in you.”

And then, all at once, I don’t have it in me. Every bite of every chicken finger I just sucked down comes right back up. All over the stairs. All over the floor. And all over my shoes, too.

Ray-Ray thinks it’s hilarious. “Way to go, man,” he says. “You’re a regular gangsta now.” He’s loving this, I can tell.

I’m glad someone is. Because to tell you the truth, I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.