Then Tina’s eyes narrow. “My girls,” she says, “I believe we are under surveillance.”

Ale and I follow her gaze across the courtyard, where a few guys are messing with a basketball and sneaking glances our way. I haven’t given them much thought since school started—pretty much the same set of goofballs I remember from last year. Then Devontae Washington comes around the corner and joins them.

Devontae is definitely not the same. He’s shot up over the summer and looks even taller with those fancy-stitched cowboy boots he’s always wearing. A belt buckle glitters against his jeans, surely a prize from his latest win.

Devontae’s a rodeo prince. Boy’s been horse crazy since kindergarten, where the busted-up school playground had some battered metal animals on coiled springs. Every recess, Devontae would race to claim this chipped old aqua pony and ride that raggedy thing ’til the whistle blew. Hasn’t stopped since. Mutton busting, barrel racing, saddle bronc, boy does it all. Not bad to look at while he does it, not that I’d ever admit it. It’s probably my imagination, but seems like we’ve been trading looks here and there since the start of the year. Not that I’d ever admit that, either.

Ale and Tina swap glances with Markus and Zeke. Zeke fumbles the ball and pretends he wasn’t looking. Devontae catches my eye.

“What’s new, Hot Wheels?” he calls.

Hot Wheels. I was the one who gave myself that nickname back in second grade when I started following the WCMXers—they all give themselves high-flying names like that, and I wanted to be just like them. But Devontae’s never going to let me live down that time in third grade when I drove over his toes on the playground. Wasn’t my fault he and his buddies kept bulldozing right through our games—how else was I going to teach him some respect?

“You know how it goes, Boots.” I shrug. “Breaking toes all over the county. Hearts, too.”

Devontae’s laugh got lower, deep and smooth like Karo syrup. “Wouldn’t doubt it.”

The bell rings, and we scatter to afternoon classes. Today I have art last period in one of the portables—single-wide trailers converted into classrooms, out behind the main building and connected by wooden walkways. They had a few at the elementary, too, but I never had classes in them. Here at the junior high, you get to them through an open courtyard that’s broiling-hot when school starts in August and downright chilly come December.

The art portable has a long ramp with a tight 180-turn halfway up—a little tricky in the middle of a busy class change, but manageable. Like usual, I wait for the crowd to thin out first, then I get a fast rolling start and pop over the wooden lip at the bottom and onto the ramp.

Flying down ramps is more my thing, but scrambling up is a good challenge—all about finding that rhythm. Two hard shoves on my rims to get some speed, then grab the splintery wooden railings to keep it going. Shove, grab, yank. Shove, grab, yank. Like all untreated wooden railings in steamy-hot South Carolina, these leak gummy sap on sunny days, so my hands always end up sticky. I take a quick breather on the landing, work the 180, and start up the last half to the classroom door.