Mrs. Sweat frowns. “Look, we all know Jamal’s . . . not had an easy go of it. But I’m afraid that despite our best intentions, this school’s been complicit in Jamal’s failure. We’ve let him slip for two years. But now, it’s clear to us that if we let him slip anymore, it’ll be through our fingers. Through the cracks.” She pauses, her voice the right percentage of firm. “We’re of the mind that Jamal needs more help than what’s available at our institution.”

“Wait, you’re kicking him out?” Whit asks.

I sit up in my chair. “Wait, what? You can’t kick me out.” I look from Mrs. Sweat to Whit back to Mrs. Sweat. “Can you?”

She opens her drawer, pulling out a glossy trifold pamphlet and handing it to Whit. “It’s my strong recommendation that Jamal transfer to Elytown Prep.”

“What? The school for problem kids? That’s not me!”

And I won’t lie, Mrs. Sweat seems genuinely sad. The face she’s giving me right now—I’ve seen that from a lot of adults these last couple of years.

I’ve seen it from Whit. From Autumn.

“So, he has a choice, though?” Whit asks. “He doesn’t have to leave Elytown High?”

Mrs. Sweat shakes her head. “Honestly, I don’t want to see Jamal go. I want Jamal to stay here and succeed the way we all know he’s capable of. But I don’t want to lose you entirely, Jamal.”

“Lose me? I’m skipping school, I’m not participating in organized crime.”

“No, Jamal. I don’t want to lose you to grief.” She frowns. “I can’t watch you get eaten whole. Not anymore. I have to do something. We have to do something.”

I sit back in my chair.

I’d never thought of it that way.

That I’m being swallowed by grief.

But maybe it’s true.

Except it’s not exactly like Mrs. Sweat thinks.

I wish I’d been swallowed whole. That would’ve been a mercy.

Because the way I feel? It’s like being eaten slowly. Like I’m being gnawed.

We spend another twenty minutes dialoguing about my academic future.

In short: I can stay at EHS. But I’m on probation. No more skipping school, or even a class. And my grades have to show improvement.

Which, ugh.

But fair.

And then we’re out of Mrs. Sweat’s office.

Out of the main office.

Out the school foyer.

Out onto the front lawn.

Nearly out into the visitor lot.

But then I’m running back toward the north end, Whit calling after me.

And was this the best post-probationary-meeting choice I could make?

From the outside, not even close. But it was something Mrs. Sweat had said—despite our best intentions. In the end, it doesn’t matter what you were trying to do.

Only what you did.