The next letter was an r, like the growling coyote from the story the other day. There was an f, like someone blowing air out of their lips. I skipped another e. There was a c, and everybody knows that c is for cookie. And then there was a t standing guard at the end with a rat-a-tat-tat.

Perfect. Chapter ten was called The Perfect Day. It made me think about the fair last summer. It made me think about Bertie coming over yesterday.

Ms. G. dinged her bell. “Books away, please,” she said.

I had gotten the title, but I hadn’t read about the actual day. At least I knew it was perfect. At least I knew it was something to look forward to.

“Please clear your desks and take out a pencil,” Ms. G. said. She walked around and passed out the Safety tests.

“When you’re finished, you may pack up and head outside for recess. But take as much time as you need.”

She handed me my test. “Good luck, Austin,” she said.

I curled over my desk like a fiddlehead fern.

I put my name at the top, nice and neat and tiny.

I looked at the page.

The letters weren’t completely black, like maybe the copy machine was having a bad day. The first page was all crowded up with sepia words, and when I blurred my eyes, it looked like a brick wall. A line of bricks, a line of white, a line of bricks, a line of white.

I tried to remember what you call the stuff that holds bricks together. I thought about the rough feeling when you scrape your knuckles on them. I thought about the spot on the brick wall where Dee had written his name and someone had erased him.

I turned the page. The copier was working better for this one. These letters looked more like angry ants marching across one line and down to the next. I watched them marching and fighting until they stopped moving and started turning into dried leaves, with their edges all roughed up and curling.

The yellow jackets were getting really excited. They hadn’t had many chances to buzz around at this school, but now they were zipping and flying. Even my throat was getting scratched up with all the spikiness and the stickiness and the sting.

I put my pencil down. I closed my eyes.

I kept waiting for Ms. G. to say “Everything okay, Austin?”

And I would maybe just tell her the real truth. I would say “No. No, it’s not.”

But Ms. G. was busy taking stuff down off the bulletin board. She took apart the whole calendar, like the days didn’t even matter anymore.