It’s only once in a while that her face gets all tight and she breathes out sharp, like it’s the last thing she needs that day, and says something like “I’m trying my best here.” Even though you didn’t say anything about whether she was trying her best. You were just asking if you could go to somebody’s house after school.

“Austin?” Ms. G. whispered. At first I thought it was because I wasn’t turning pages. But she motioned for me to come to her desk.

I didn’t understand. It’s not like I had enough vocabulary points for a prize. I didn’t have any points at all. But I couldn’t not go over.

I put my bookmark into my spot and tried to stand up from the squishy pillow without looking too ridiculous. When everybody else is moving, you can do it real quick and not be noticed, but now I was the only one.

When I got to her desk, Ms. G. reached into the top drawer and pulled out an envelope. It was big, like the kind you can put papers right into, without having to fold them. And it was yellow, but not sunglow or canary or banana mania, even. This was more like old mustard that got left too long in a fridge that was never cleaned. It had a sticker with my name on it.

It was the perfect kind of envelope for forms my mom needed to fill out and return to the office as soon as possible so we could set up meetings and really get the ball rolling. Most schools take a while to get you the big yellow envelope. Man, this place was quick.

“Share that with your mom, okay?” Ms. G. said. She smiled.

I smiled back, but it was definitely a fake one.

I went to my cubby and stuck the envelope into my backpack. I didn’t think it was worth going back to the pillows, so I went to my desk.

After independent reading, Ms. G. did some math at the board, but I didn’t really pay attention. It was something we’d already done at my last school anyway.

Mostly I thought about the envelope. I wondered what was inside—free-lunch form, family-support services form, resource-room evaluation form. Maybe all of them at once. I thought about the papers with their letters and words and questions that might make my mom think this wasn’t a better place to be after all.

It was okay. I could “forget” the envelope every day for a week or two. Then I could lose it a few times, or—if worse came to worst—drop it in a mud puddle and step on it accidentally on purpose, and new copies would have to get printed and signed and stapled. I could probably keep that going until everybody decided it was easier to deal with it next year.