When Ms. Kaminski asks, “Where is he? Did you find Pete?” I shake my head.

“This is serious,” she says. “We need to know where he is.” But it’s almost one o’clock so Laura and I have to find our seats again, because the test is about to begin.

Afterward, on the bus ride back to school, Mabley and Pete sit in front together with all the teachers. I can tell they’re in trouble. Mabley doesn’t look happy—when I walk past them in the bus, she doesn’t even look at me, but she’s not looking at Pete either. She’s sitting next to the window and staring out. They’re not talking to each other, Pete is playing with his phone. By that point I already know that I’m not going to sectionals. Nor is Laura—only the top four get through, and she came fifth. I came seventh. Because only two of us competed, we can’t go as a team either. In a funny way, I’m almost glad: it makes things easier with Pete because now I have a reason not to like him.

Twelve

FOR A FEW DAYS AFTERWARD, kids are talking about Pete and what happened at LBJ. There’s a rumor going around that he might be suspended from the basketball team. It’s a big deal—it’s one of those things that kids get angry about, where they get mad at the principal. Some people want to start a petition. I hear them discussing it as I wait in the lunch line for my carton of milk. Mabley doesn’t say anything to me—we haven’t really hung out since the tournament. I don’t know if she blames me, if she thinks I told on them.

Finally, on Friday morning, I manage to sit next to her on the bus. She makes me nervous now, but I say, “I didn’t tell on you. I don’t know what you guys did or who . . . found out or whatever, but it wasn’t me.”

“Tell on me about what?”

“At LBJ. When you guys . . .”

“That was my fault. I wanted to do something stupid, to see what it’s like. Now I know. It’s no big deal. If you do this kind of thing,” she says, “you have to face the consequences.”

“What about Pete?”

“What about Pete?” she asks.

“Nothing, I don’t know.”

When Mabley doesn’t want to talk about something, there’s nothing you can do—she just looks at you like everything’s great.

“How’s Laura?” she asks, changing the subject.

We’re pulling into the parking lot. But parents are dropping off kids in cars—there’s always a traffic jam coming into school. Kids on the bus are getting their backpacks ready, but we have to wait, even though the stop is just a few yards away. When the driver turns off the engine, the whole bus shakes and sighs.

“What do you mean?”

“Laura Kirkup. I thought she was your math buddy. I thought you liked her.”