We have breakfast together while Mom showers and puts on her “work clothes”—a skirt and tights and polished shoes. After that, she’s like a different person. She tries to act normal, but it’s a bit like a teacher trying to act normal: you can tell they’re pretending or thinking about something else.

Granma sees me carrying textbooks under my arm.

“Didn’t they give you a locker?” she asks.

“I didn’t have a lock.”

“That’s something we can fix right now,” she says, and goes to what she calls the “everything cupboard” in the hallway—it’s where she keeps nails and light bulbs and restaurant match books, stuff like that. “Aha,” she says, and holds up an old combination lock, the kind you use on a bicycle chain.

“I bet you don’t know the combination,” I tell her.

“Are you doubting me, Ben Michaels?” She smiles. “It’s here somewhere.”

But it’s true, she can’t find the number—usually she writes them on a yellow Post-it note, and she starts poking through an old coffee can full of scraps of paper.

“It’s fine, Granma. I don’t really mind carrying my books around.”

“Don’t be silly,” she says, still rummaging through the cupboard. “Kids’ll make fun of you otherwise. The lockers are where everybody hangs out—I remember that much.”

“Really, Granma.” I touch her on the shoulder, to make her turn around. “I don’t want a locker. It stresses me out, getting to class on time anyway. This way I can’t forget anything.”

Finally she stops and gives me the once-over—she looks at me for about half a minute. “At least take this,” she says, and hands me an old canvas satchel from the cupboard. It’s kind of a cool bag; it’s got pockets and flaps on the front, and little slots for pens, and a leather buckle. I put my math book inside.

Mom walks me to the bus stop. The sun is just coming up as we leave the house; there’s still a kind of mistiness or grayness in the air, but even while we wait for the bus to come, you can feel the day getting hot.

My stop is at the intersection of a big road with a lot of traffic and a quiet road shaded by tall trees. Kids start showing up, mostly too tired to talk. There’s a house on the corner, with a metal fence in front, a sprinkler in the grass, and a newspaper lying on the front path in a wet bag. I wonder who lives there and wander over to look at it. They’ve got an old refrigerator on the front porch, and a couple of armchairs and a wooden coffee table, like it’s an inside room—a kitchen or a living room. If I stare at the house, nobody will talk to me, which is what I want.

Somebody says, “Good morning, Mrs. Michaels,” and Mom says, “Morning, Mabley. Do you know my son?”

“We met already,” Mabley says. “He likes to carry his books around.”