“That’s awful,” I said, and looked from jock to jock. “And none of you had anything to do with it, I suppose?”

“What a truly terrible accusation,” Sheffield said, and his smile implied we were complicit, him and me—that we were in on a secret. “Clever prank, though, don’t you think? Most vandals use spray-paint, or feces, if they’re especially juvenile. Easy to wash off, or paint over. But this prankster used tar. The only way to fix it is to scrape it all off and paint the whole thing over. Job like that could cost thousands.”

I scanned his face. There was something there, but I couldn’t tell if he was genuinely just impressed with the vandal’s ingenuity. This was doubtless part of Sheffield’s appeal to the other boys: the lack of fear; his utter absence of morality. He could half confess this crime to me—whether or not he actually had anything to do with it—because he knew I couldn’t prove he was involved, so I couldn’t do anything about it.

Solomon’s words echoed in my head. Something is coming. Something that will change everything.

I stepped back. “This is probably connected with what happened to Judy Saperstein’s house, don’t you think?”

“I doubt it,” he said, all innocence. “What makes you say that?”

“You don’t think it’s weird that all this vandalism is happening? All of a sudden?”

Sheffield shrugged, and walked away. He didn’t hurry, just sauntered down the hall. I wanted to punch him right in his button nose.

I could feel it: darkness, bubbling up inside me. Felt the way the ground beneath me did not seem so solid anymore. The sea was there, and the ice I stood on was getting thin again.

I shut my eyes, took ten deep breaths. I was stronger than them, these goons that surrounded me, and I would not let them push me into a full depressive episode.

The bell rang, and I was grateful for it. On my way to homeroom, I passed by Solomon’s room. He wasn’t there, but maybe that didn’t mean anything. After all, I wasn’t in mine either.

At lunch, I went to the guidance counselor’s office.

“Ash!” Mr. Taglia said, gesturing for me to take a seat. He was young, as school employees went. Thirty at the oldest. Thin, bearded, wearing suspenders that I think were ironic.

“It’s about Solomon.”

“Yes,” he said. “You’re worried about him.” I didn’t like Mr. Taglia, but I trusted him. If that makes any sense.

I nodded. “You said you thought he was schizophrenic.”

“That’s one possibility.”

“But you’re not a psychiatrist. So you’re not qualified to make that diagnosis.”