Ms. G. had pulled her teacher chair up to the new kid’s desk in the front of the room. She was pointing to a spot in his notebook. But he was drumming his pencil against his desk and making that weird snorting noise again.

“He shouldn’t do that,” I said.

“Oh, you can ignore Dee,” Bertie said. “Now, what should we put for number three?” She chewed on the end of her pencil.

I watched as the new kid stood up and went to the calendar next to the whiteboard. He picked up a marker and crossed out today’s square with a big black X. I wondered if that was his job or if he was the kind of kid who got to do whatever he felt like.

I looked down the rest of the week on the calendar. Friday’s square had two words in all capital letters. The second word was definitely TEST.

I wondered if it was some kind of state test or end-of-the-year test. Then I’d have to remember to tell my mom I wasn’t feeling well Thursday night. But it was only Tuesday. I had time to figure it out.

“What’s the test?” I asked Bertie. I pointed to the calendar.

“Oh, that’s the Safety test,” she said. “If you want to be a Safety next year.”

“I thought there was just a form or whatever,” I said.

“There’s the test to make sure you know the rules, and the parent form to make sure your parents are on board. It’s also your permission slip for the two summer training days. Or technically they’re half days, but you still need to fulfill the requirements.”

She said the last word real loud. Ms. G. pulled a pencil out of her hair and raised it in our direction. I thought Bertie must have about a million points already.

“Do you have to write the test?” I asked.

“Of course!” Bertie said, but she didn’t say it mean. It was more like she was real excited to talk about it. “Ms. G. can give you a packet. I mean, if you want to be a Safety next year.”

I thought about getting a sash and a vest and a whistle. Maybe I could help the little kids on the bus and off the bus with their huge backpacks and their shoebox projects and their birthday party treats. They would give me high fives and say “Thanks, Austin,” or “See you tomorrow, Austin.”

Or maybe I could be the kid in charge of the sidewalk. “Hold up,” I would say. “Go ahead,” I would say. “Take it easy.” And one day, my mom would come to pick me up from school and see me. Nobody could not see you with all that laser lemon across yourself. And she would be smiling.

I shrugged, but it must have been the kind of shrug that looked like a yes.