I turned away from her and noticed a splotch on the wall that was different from the rest, more burnt sienna than brick red. I traced it with my finger. The spot looked like someone had scrubbed it so hard, they’d taken most of the color away.

“That’s where Dee wrote his name last year,” Bertie said. “Word of advice. If you’re planning on doing some graffiti, don’t write your name. If David A. or David C. had done it, there might have been more of a mystery, but there’s only one Dee. Where’d you move from?”

Most kids would have given up and skipped away by now, but not Bertie. She looked straight at me and waited.

“Not far,” I finally said. “Far enough to change schools.” That was true.

“Oh,” Bertie said, like it wasn’t the right answer. “I was hoping you came from someplace different. My cousins live in Colorado, and once I climbed this humongous tree in their backyard. I could see so far.”

I looked across the schoolyard. I could see the dusty kickball field and the wood-chippy playground and one corner of the parking lot. But there were barely any trees, just a line of scraggly new ones separating the sidewalk from the road. They had puffy sacks around their trunks, like they were wearing matching skirts.

“So why did you move?” Bertie asked next.

I tried to remember if anyone had asked me that today, and what I’d said. You can’t tell one person that your father got a new job and another person that your aunt is quite ill. But Bertie was probably the only person who would’ve asked me, and she was just asking me now.

I was going to go with the “father’s new job” story, but I changed my mind. Ill aunts are easier to hide.

“My aunt is quite ill,” I said.

“Sorry,” Bertie said. “My grandma is, too.”

“Sorry,” I said. I tried to make it sound as real as hers, since her person was real.

Bertie didn’t ask me any more questions. She leaned against the wall and stood next to me until somebody blew a whistle.

All the kids came running to get their stuff from the stuff pile. The walkers went one way, and the bus riders went another. My mom always tries to find an apartment close enough so I can walk. Bertie rode the bus.

“Bye, Austin!” She waved. “See you tomorrow.”

I followed a group around the side of the school. When we got to the front-of-the-school sidewalk, there was a kid even bigger than me blocking the way. Over his T-shirt, he wore a vest that was the same yellow as the greater-than girl’s sash in the cafeteria. In the sunlight, it was like laser lemon.