“You snuck out,” she repeats. The corners of her mouth curl in a grin.

November and Ted have stopped chewing and they’re now looking at me like I’m today’s entertainment.

“You noticed?” They nod. “Did the teachers notice?”

Sunny shakes her head.

I measure the distance between here and the grove of trees. How will I get there? I’m going to need some help. “Can you guys keep a secret?”

They nod solemnly.

“Okay.” Here goes nothing. “My dad works here,” I say. This part is not technically a lie. “And I need to go meet him. So, I’m wondering if you can help me, um, sneak out.”

“Why doesn’t he just come pick you up? I’m sure it would be fine,” Ted says. “Since it’s your dad.”

“He, um, has a class and can’t get out in time.” This is a lie. “I’m supposed to meet him”—another lie—“and get a ride home with him, too.” More lies.

“Why don’t you just have your mom call Ms. Garcia?” Ted asks. He is too logical.

“Well, my parents are divorced.” This is not a lie.

“Oh, I get it. So are mine,” November says.

“You see, my dad forgot to write a note for the teachers. And I don’t want to get him in trouble with, um, my mom.”

“I hate when my parents get mad at each other over custody stuff.”

I nod like I know what he means, although my parents don’t fight and there is no custody stuff. Just my mom.

“We got your back, Mattie,” November assures me. “Don’t we?”

Ted shrugs and nods.

Sunny mumbles something.

“What?”

“Just make sure Ms. Garcia counts you after lunch. That’ll help.” Sunny may be the shyest girl I’ve ever met, but she’s also one of the nicest.

“Got it,” I say. I’m so relieved, I want to hug each of them. I feel my pulse slowing. Okay, I have a plan again. Get counted. Meet Mercedes.

“Poppy View seventh graders!” It’s Ms. Garcia shouting. “Seventh graders! Throw out your trash and line up!”

I haven’t even had time to take one bite of sandwich, but I join the line of kids dumping garbage into two cans next to the double doors to the science building. The grove is a couple dozen feet to the right. I have an idea. My hands are shaking by the time I get to Ms. Garcia. I drop my uneaten sandwich in the trash can. I feel Ms. Garcia tap me lightly on the shoulder and mutter, “Gómez. Fifty-two.”

That’s when I let the balled-up paper napkin in my hand go. The breeze grabs it and the napkin tumbles away. “Oops!” I say loudly, and step out of line, chasing the trash as it tumbles to the right. Ms. Garcia doesn’t look up.

CHAPTER 26 Mercedes