I wouldn’t exactly say I’m about to be sick as we approach the front steps of the school, but I can’t rule out the possibility that I will lose that stack of Ms. Birdie’s pancakes, either. I leave Camille and Julian standing on the front steps as I enter the building, barely able to mumble a goodbye as I turn and pull open the door. Camille waves and practically shouts that she’ll see me later, but Julian simply stares after me.

I stand just inside the front entrance, throngs of kids passing by. A few of them bump into me like I’m not even there, but I can’t move yet. I concentrate on breathing and try to remember how to get to the guidance counselor’s office from here. Pointing my feet in the right direction, I join the fray and keep my head down.

“You new?” a boy with scruffy facial hair says to me right outside the guidance office.

“Not exactly,” I say, searching my head for the right words to explain exactly what I am.

“Oh, jeez. Vance?” The kid sticks out his hand for me to shake. “Connors!” He points to his chest.

“Nate? Hey, man… it’s good to see you,” I smile. Nate Connors and Julian and I started playing football together when we were seven years old.

“I didn’t know you were coming back. What are you doing here?”

I shrug. “Shit, I don’t know.”

Connors laughs. “You find me if you need anything, all right? Hey, you coming back to the team?”

“I’ve got an unofficial tryout with Coach Marcus this afternoon,” I tell him as the bell overhead rings, and he backs away from the office toward his first-period class.

“Excellent!” He pumps his fist above his head and takes off jogging the rest of the way down the long hall.

Excellent. Let’s hope I get the same reception from Julian when he finds out I’ll be at football practice this afternoon.

I get a pretty good schedule from my guidance counselor, Ms. Woods, plus a ton of unsolicited advice about keeping my head on straight and staying out of trouble. She throws in a few jabs about the football team, too. I remember she was always in the front row of the bleachers for every single game, face paint on her cheeks and her bright blue pom-poms in her lap.

“See if you can help them out on that left-side defense.” Ms. Woods scowls at me as I leave her office.

“Yes, ma’am,” I answer, holding my paper schedule in my hand and trying to remember which way to turn to get to the English classrooms.