Dallas was so not feeling school. But Bobby was home, and she didn’t know if she could trust him yet. She’d hardly seen Bobby because they wouldn’t let her visit juvie. So he felt like a stranger. The fact that they could incarcerate a juvenile but not let one visit was contradictory to Dallas. Whatever, Dallas didn’t care to take some wack-ass bus to the Bronx anyway, when she could have the house to herself for like a minute.

She didn’t want to go to school, but she knew she had to. There were only two months left and school would be over. She had already cut school on Friday, and if she cut a class back to back it most definitely would get a letter sent home, and what if she missed pulling out the letter before her mother got to it, like it almost happened the other day. Her mother was hemming a new pair of pants. She had asked Dallas to read her the mail.

Dallas divided the mail between junk, important, and unidentifiable.

Important. To Mr. and Mrs. Colón. Re: Dallas Colón.

—Speak up, I can’t read your mind, Esperanza said, threading a needle under poor light conditions. —We need brighter bulbs in here. Maybe I’ll put fluorescent lights in all the rooms.

—They want you to donate money, Dallas lied, slipping the letter on the junk pile with the other paper she intended to throw away.

—Me donate? What they think, I’m rich? I should be a charity. Forget them. Read me the other stuff. I don’t have time for all this.

Dallas tried not to cut the same class two days in a row and always showed up for the tests. If it was a Thursday and she had missed Wednesday, then she tried not to miss Friday. If she had gone too far—which she sometimes did—Monday was a good day to start fresh and make a strong appearance in class, which meant she would have to ask a lot of questions and take notes. Teachers liked that. On the days she didn’t go to school, she sometimes went back home and watched TV in her room. Don Chan couldn’t remember when she was home or not. But now Bobby could. Most times, she’d chill with friends in Central Park or at someone’s house. Or go shopping for things she didn’t have the money to buy.

Anything was better than going to class. It was not like she needed a lot to entertain her, but the teachers were killing her with the monotony of their voices. She struggled to keep her eyes open. To not yawn. To follow an idea. No one around her was paying any mind to the teachers either. They passed notes, they flirted, they fell asleep or were lulled by medication. Lots of kids at school had dead eyes from the meds. Their skin puffed up, making them look fragile, doll-like. Even if the teachers were nice and Dallas tried to learn, the announcements from the office went off on the intercom every few minutes. Reminder that all seniors are expected to assemble in the auditorium, eighth period. Loud, piercing sounds. Crash, boom, scratch on the mike. For students attending Sunday’s field trip, you will not be allowed to ride on the buses without a signed permission form from your parents. Quiet for about ten minutes, until the intercom interrupted the lesson again. Kids loafing out in the hallways, banging on the door, starting fights. Dallas couldn’t deal. She held her head with her hands, glancing periodically at the windows, praying for time to move faster so she could get on with her day.