“Hey.” Patricia came out the back door and stood right behind him, casting a shadow in his face as he tried to eat his buttery potato wedges. Laurence kept chewing. “Hey,” Patricia said again, angrier this time.

“Hey.” Laurence didn’t turn around.

“What’s going on? Why are you ignoring me? Seriously, please talk to me. This is driving me nuts.” The shadow over Laurence flickered and changed shape, because Patricia was gesturing. “It was your idea. You suggested it. And then I did it, and you freaked out and bailed. Who treats their friends that way?”

“We shouldn’t talk about this at school,” Laurence said very quietly, using his fork as the opposite of a microphone.

“Okay,” Patricia said. “So when do you want to talk about this?”

“I just want to keep my head down,” Laurence said. “Until I can get out of this place. That’s all I want.” An ant stumbled hoisting Laurence’s bread crumb. Maybe Patricia could give it a pep talk in ant language.

“I thought you hated your parents because they just want to keep their heads down.”

Laurence felt a weird combination of shame and rage, as though he’d grown another new body part just in time to get punched in it. He seized his tray and pushed his way past Patricia, not caring if he got potato dregs on himself or on her, and hurried back inside. And of course, someone saw him rushing in the hallway with a half-laden tray and stuck out a leg to trip him up. He ended up face-down in his own muck. It never failed.

Later that day, Brad Chomner tried to cram Laurence’s entire body into a single-file urinal, and then both Brad and Laurence got hauled into Mr. Dibbs’s office for fighting, as if they were equal instigators. Mr. Dibbs called Laurence’s parents to come get him.

“That school is crushing the life out of me,” Laurence told his parents at dinner. “I need to get out of there. I’ve already filled out the application form to transfer to the math-and-science school, and I just need you guys to sign it.” He slid it onto the chipped formica table, where it sat amidst the faded place mats.

“We’re just not sure you’re mature enough to go to school in the city by yourself.” Laurence’s dad carved into his casserole with the edge of his fork, making little snuffling noises with his nose and mouth. “Mr. Dibbs is concerned that you’re a disruptive influence. Just because you get good grades”—snarf, snorf—“doesn’t mean you can be a bad element.”

“You haven’t proved you can handle the responsibility you already have,” said Laurence’s mother. “You can’t make trouble all the time.”

“Your mother and I don’t make trouble,” said Laurence’s father. “We make other things. Because we’re adults.”

“What?” Laurence shoved his casserole away and took a heavy swig of cola instead. “What do you make, exactly? Either of you guys.”

“Don’t talk back,” said Laurence’s father.

“This isn’t about us,” said Laurence’s mother.