Ahmad’s voice broke on the last word, and he could feel his face flush. He tried to pretend he was good at this—the whole bad boy routine—because people seemed to expect it of him. His parents no longer hugged him about the shoulders and patted his back and told him tomorrow would be better. His aunt Zohra wouldn’t call and anxiously shuffle about with offers to help with his homework. (As if she knew as much about pre-algebra and auxiliary verbs as she did about Turkish puzzle rings and weird facts about Middle Eastern architecture.)

If anything, a suspension no longer meant one of his parents would take off in order to collect him. His weird, goofy uncle Vijay would—and that meant never leaving school without being more embarrassed than he ever felt before in his life.

He was the Mirza who came home with urgent notes at the bottom of his report card in red ink. The one who spent lunch with his stomach growling because the contents of his box had already been mopped off the cafeteria floor.

But he didn’t like being that Mirza.

Mr. Willis, as always, came to the rescue. He put a firm hand on Ahmad’s shoulder.

“Never mind that, Mrs. Evans. Look. Ahmad. We can address everything else with your parents. But I am terribly curious to know how the boy I left at the door of lunch detention managed to zip back down to the office, rummage through staff mail, and get back upstairs in time to get himself in a world of trouble.”

“You say that like it isn’t a normal thing,” Ahmad muttered, but he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Ahmad wished he could tell them. He wished he could spin out the whole yarn, with every snag and loose end, and assure them that for once it was entirely, one hundred percent true.

But they couldn’t believe him.

How could they, when he couldn’t believe himself?

“See, the thing is . . .”

He worked his lip between his teeth. How could he put it, without being accused of another tall tale dedicated to excusing whatever trouble his fidgety body and overactive brain had steered him into?

“Look. I really didn’t go into the office. Mr. Willis even said it! I didn’t have time to.”

“Okay,” Mrs. Evans said cautiously. Mr. Willis leaned closer.

“It was more of a . . . well, someone made sure I got the delivery, while I was still in the hallway.”

“You mean, another student?” Mr. Willis’s voice was full of doubt, and Ahmad’s heart sank. He could see it in his teacher’s eyes: Who in this school cares that much about you?

“I mean . . . well, um . . .”