Atlanta laughs. It’s not funny, but she can’t help it. “You’re shitting me. Okay. Listen. Mrs. Lewis. I’m sorry. Maybe you didn’t know or realize it, but I . . . went through some stuff recently? It was in the news, as I hear it. I was gone. For three months. And we’ve only got two months left of school. The other teachers—”

“The other teachers what?”

“They’re giving me a straight B-plus. Across the board. Just to get me through.”

It’s the teacher’s turn to laugh, but Atlanta can tell she doesn’t think any of this is funny.

“Miss Burns, is that what you want? To just . . . ‘get through’?”

She thinks about it, then nods. “Well. Yeah.” She doesn’t add that she thinks school is basically poop on a stick. That whatever they learn here isn’t relevant to what’s going on outside these walls. That all they’re doing is teaching to the test and watching the stats. Case in point: the B-plus to shut her up and push her along with the rest of the mooing herd.

“That’s not going to happen, Miss Burns. Let me tell you something. All we are is the measure of our work. You don’t do the work, you’re not worth the measure. You’re a junior. You want to stay a junior, then keep treating my class like it’s a blow-off. A paper like this won’t fly with me. A paper like this gets an F. You fail this class, and I’ll probably see you again next year. Are we clear?”

Atlanta feels rage in her heart, tries to bring it up like a bucket full of bile, and spits out, “I went through some bad shit, Mrs. Lewis, a lot worse than you’ve ever seen or had done to you, so why don’t you wipe the sand out of your vagina and put on a nice smile and learn how to be a human being for once in your wretched life?”

For a moment, the teacher says nothing. Finally, she says:

“Tornadoes in the heartland. Child soldiers in Somalia. Homeless people on the streets worldwide. Everybody’s got problems. Everybody knows tragedy. Life is short and hard. Do the work. Don’t make me fail you. Have a good day, Miss Burns.”

And then she waves her student off like Atlanta is the fucking janitor.

Atlanta sees only one of the three thugs from yesterday. Chomp-Chomp. Spots him in the cafeteria picking at a plate of taco meat with a plastic fork. He sees her, too, and he gets up and almost knocks his chair over and hurries out of the room so fast you’d think he was being chased by a cloud of yellow jackets.