No other teacher said things like that. No one did. She could have listened to him for hours. But class was over. The other students were already packing up. Shy put her books into her backpack slowly. She planned to follow Mr. Streko and see what he did at lunchtime, if she could find a way to do it inconspicuously. She also wanted to get the hell out of the building while her mom was there.

The meeting with the principal and Shy’s teachers wasn’t for another fifteen minutes, but Shy could already hear her mother’s voice echoing down the hallway, repeating the same diatribe she’d overheard last night while she was brushing her teeth.

“What do you think she does all afternoon? Other girls play on teams or go to dance classes. She isn’t interested in anything. And she doesn’t ‘hang out’ with anyone. I’m not sure what that means, but isn’t this the age when you’re supposed to want to ‘hang out’? She only eats bread and Coke. I tried to eat like her for a day and I had to lie down. She’s so thin. I just wish she had interests.”

Shy didn’t hate her mother exactly. She hated this side of her—the meddling, judging, overinvested, insecure side that thought her daughter’s grades, looks, behavior, and number of friends somehow reflected her capability as a mother. Why did she care so much? It was impossibly irritating.

Mr. Streko strode down the hall and disappeared into the Latin office. Shy was about to rethink her plan when he emerged again, wearing a green down vest and round, mirrored sunglasses. He was going out.

Walking down Court Street, it was easy to pretend she wasn’t following him. He paused outside of Starbucks, but there was a line, so he moved on. He seemed to consider going into the pizzeria, where there was also a line, then looked at his watch and carried on. He walked all the way to Atlantic Avenue and waited to cross at the light. Juniors and seniors were allowed out at lunchtime, but Shy never went this far, preferring to nurse a Coke alone on a random stoop. He was walking in the direction of Cobble Hill and home.

Just past the Trader Joe’s, he turned in and pulled open a door. It was Chipotle, the Mexican fast-food place. Shy had never been inside. Should she go in and risk a face-to-face exchange? Would he address her in Latin, the way he sometimes did in class?“Salve, Shy Clarke.”

And what would they talk about? Poetry? Emotional logic?