Weed had free period and lunch between 11:40 and 12:31 and he needed to hide. He did not want to run into Smoke somewhere. Weed was desperate and had come up with a secret, brazen, bizarre plan. At 11:39 he walked into Mrs. Grannis’s classroom. His self-esteem was low. He was frightened about what lay ahead and could tell by the way Mrs. Grannis looked at him that she sensed he wasn’t himself.

“How are you today, Weed?” she asked with an uncertain smile.

“I was wondering if it would be all right if I worked in here through free period,” he said.

“Certainly. What would you like to work on?”

Weed stared at the computers on a back counter.

“Graphic art,” he said. “I’m working on a project.”

“I’m delighted to hear it. There are many, many job opportunities in that field. You know where the CDs are,” she said. “And I’ll see you back here fifth period.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Weed said as he pulled out a chair and sat in front of a computer.

He opened a drawer where graphic software was neatly arranged in stacks, and picked out what he wanted. He inserted CorelDRAW into the CD drive and waited until Mrs. Grannis left the room before logging onto America Online.

Lunch followed free period and Weed had no intention of eating. He hurried down the hallway to the band room, which was empty except for Jimbo “Sticks” Sleeth, who was doing his thing on the red Pearl drums.

“Hey, Sticks,” Weed said.

Sticks was rolling on the snare, his feet keeping rhythm on the high hat and kick. He had his eyes squeezed shut, sweat running down his temples. Weed went over to a cabinet and retrieved the hard plastic Sabian case. He opened it and lovingly lifted out the heavy bronze crash cymbals. He checked the leather straps to make sure the knots were holding tight. He gripped the straps, index fingers and thumbs touching. He held the cymbals at an angle, the edge of the right one lower than the left.

Sticks opened his eyes and gave Weed the nod. Weed struck the left cymbal, glancing it off the right, punctuating toms and snare with his euphoric bright sound.

“Do it, baby!” Sticks yelled, and he started in.

It sounded like a musical war going on as Sticks beat and throbbed and boomed in a rhythm that made the blood wild, and Weed was march-dancing around the room, crashing and flipping up, flashing and spinning.

“Go! Go! Oh yeah!” Sticks was frenzied.

Weed was moonwalking, his bright sound rolling out from the edges, then crashing staccato, then crashing long. He didn’t hear the bell ring but he finally noticed the clock on the wall. He packed up the cymbals and made it back to Mrs. Grannis’s art room with two minutes to spare. He was the first one there. She was writing on a white board and turned around to see who had come in.