I didn’t wear a costume, but Marcus showed up as Captain America, and I overheard Audrey claim to be Joan of Arc, which was fitting. Ms. Faraci was supposed to be an oxygen molecule, but her outfit—pieced together with coat hangers, duct tape, and cardboard—carried the unfortunate whiff of homemade desperation. It’s both cool and mortifying to have a teacher so passionate.
Marcus, Jay, and Adrian spent the entire period whispering to one another, cutting up like they didn’t think anyone could hear them. I did my best to ignore the name-calling and laughter, and between the impending end of the world and Diego, I hadn’t spent much time worrying about what fiendish plans Marcus and his boys were cooking up.
Before the bell rang, I noticed Diego waiting outside the door. He grinned at me and waved. We were only friends, but I hoped Marcus saw him. It was tough to tell whether Diego had dressed up like a surfer for Halloween—wearing board shorts and a tank top—or if he was just trying on another style. Anyway, it never seemed to matter what Diego wore; he always looked like he belonged. I envied that about him, since I never belonged anywhere.
The classroom became bedlam when Ms. Faraci dismissed us for lunch. I’d started hanging back, waiting for Marcus and the others to leave first. Adrian especially enjoyed shoving me into the edge of my desk, leaving me with bruises across my thighs, so I’d learned it was best to remain seated until they were gone. Diego stood at the threshold of the door, leaning from one foot to the other.
“Ah, my nude model has returned.” Ms. Faraci waddled around her desk and lifted the oxygen molecule over her head, setting it on the floor. She looked strange and lumpy in her faded unitard.
Diego blushed. “Yeah. Sorry about that. First-day jitters.”
I shouldered my bag and hurried for the door. “Have a good weekend, Ms. Faraci.”
“Henry, wait.” I flinched, knowing what she wanted. “About your extra credit.”
My chemistry grade was the last thing I wanted to discuss in front of Diego. And I had a perfectly horrible BLT waiting in my locker. Of course, the B was actually butter and the T was probably tuna—I really needed to stop letting Nana pack my lunches. “Can we talk about it later?”
“Your last quiz was an improvement, but you still need to do the extra credit project to pull your grade up. You need at least a B to get into physics next year.”
“I’ll think about it.” I inched closer to the door with every word.
“It can be anything, Henry. Essay, experiment, song and dance. Just give me something I can slap a grade on.” She was practically begging.
The last time a teacher cared so much about my academic welfare was in first grade. All the standardized tests said I was a below-average reader, but Mrs. Stancil kept me after school every day to tutor me. I don’t remember when the blocks of words began to make sense, but by the end of that school year I’d gone from book hater to bookworm. But this was different, and I wanted to tell Ms. Faraci not to waste her time. None of this would matter in ninety--one days.
“You should write a story, Henry,” Diego said, stepping into the classroom. “Henry likes to write, you know.”
Ms. Faraci’s eyes widened with delight. “I did not know that.”
I prayed for the sluggers to take me away, but they didn’t answer. They were probably using their alien technology to spy on me, laughing their eyestalks off. “Don’t listen to Diego. He lies. Pathologically. He can’t help himself.”
“Did I ever tell you that I was almost an English teacher? I spent a year studying medieval literature.” Ms. Faraci’s molecules were jittery with excitement. “I would love it if you wrote a story.”
With Diego and Faraci both gaping at me, hope and optimism relentlessly beaming from them, my resolve began to fizzle. “What would I write about?”
“Write what you know,” Diego said.
“But I don’t know anything.”
Ms. Faraci shook her head. “Oh, Henry, don’t you understand? You know everything.”
? ? ?
It was a stupid idea to schedule PE immediately after lunch.
Coach Raskin informed us after we’d dressed that we were going to be running four miles—mandatory -participation—-with him jogging behind us screaming inspiration in the form of personal insults, as if that were actually going to work. Yes, I did want to go home and cry to my mommy. No, I did not care that a one-legged octogenarian could outrun me.