Mom gives me a look.

A few minutes later, she kisses me on top of my head, before walking back to Granma’s house. Her job is only part-time so she doesn’t have to drive in till third period.

“It’s not really fair,” she says to me quietly. “You have to work harder than I do.”

“I don’t mind.”

I want her to go so I can get on the bus next to Mabley and maybe sit next to her. If I stand in the right position on the sidewalk, we might end up in line together when the bus arrives. Then we can share one of the bench seats. But it’s embarrassing, trying to talk to her when Mom’s around.

After she’s gone, Mabley says, “You’re that kid I see in the bamboo bushes all the time. I can never tell what you’re doing in there.”

“Nothing much,” I say.

“Sometimes I think you’re watching me.”

“I just like it in there.” I can’t tell if I’m blushing. “Everybody leaves me alone.”

“Okay,” Mabley says. Maybe she thinks I’m being rude. When the bus arrives, she gets in after me and sits down a few rows behind me. I stare out the window at the road—it’s funny how you can get used to anything. Even another day of school.

Nine

IT’S RAINING at lunchtime. A kind of hot, heavy rain that goes straight down. Mom told me this morning that she couldn’t see me for lunch—she had a meeting—so I stare out the windows of the hall doors for a minute, wondering if I should eat outside anyway—there’s a picnic bench under part of the roof. But it looks pretty dreary outside. The rain is coming down hard enough that it splashes off the concrete when it lands.

Inside, the electric lights look different: they look too bright for some reason, like they have to work harder because there isn’t any sunshine coming in. In the end, there’s nothing I can do but face the cafeteria, hundreds of kids sitting around and eating, talking at the same time. At least I don’t have to wait in line, I’ve got my lunch in Granma’s satchel. Mabley sees me just kind of standing there in all the noise, looking for an empty seat. One of the kids at her table gets up to bus his tray, and she calls over to me, “Hey, Ben. You can sit with us.”

The tables are these big round plastic tables and have room for about six or seven people; Mabley introduces me. There’s a boy named Pete Miller, who I recognize from one of my classes. When he sees me, he says, “It’s the bag man.”

Mabley frowns at him. “What are you talking about?”

“Look at him,” Pete says. “He’s got all these bags. Everybody has to watch out when he sits down; they kind of duck under their desks. He’s like swinging these bags left and right. He’s a menace.”