I plan ways to explain about my dad’s temper—nothing sounds right. Chen probably won’t believe it anyway.

The minute hand lurches like it’s barefoot on hot tar. If it makes it to 3:00 before Mr. Chen reaches my parents, I’ll never cheat again, I swear.

But he calls me back into his cell at 2:48.

“Your essay on cheating is due Monday,” he says.

“Sure thing, sir,” I say. “No problem.”

Then he writes “CHEATED” across the top of my exam paper. Red ink. Says, “I want you to explain to your parents what happened here today.” Shakes the test at me. “Show this to them and have one or both of them sign on this line.” He draws an ugly red gash across the bottom of the page. “Return it to me first thing Monday morning.”

Inside I go, Yes! I can forge their signatures, easy!

Vow to myself to be good as gold, a model student, ideal son, perfect upstanding American citizen for the rest of the year—the rest of my life.

But then he adds, “And have them call me Monday, or I’ll be calling them. Got it, Robert?”

Crash.

I should plead, beg, cry. Do whatever it takes. But I say, “Yes, sir.” Take the paper and leave.

Now what?

Ruby

Not that I care, but Danny isn’t anywhere after school. Bren and Ashley are all, like, “You don’t need him anyway. A guy like that.” Meaning, I guess, a cheater.

I say nothing about how Brenda, like, constantly copies off me in history. But I guess that’s different because she says she’s, like, totally missing the brain cells that can memorize, like, facts and numbers and all.

Not me. Not only do I remember the dates of all the, like, battles and treaties and wars and whatever in class, but I’m all, like, wall-to-wall memory. Want me to recite dates and times? I met Danny last year on, like, Tuesday, November 20, at 4:30 (maybe 4:45) p.m., in front of the library when Ashley and I were waiting for a ride home. And I can absolutely tell you that he, like, walked me home from school for the first time, on Monday, the seventh of January. It was drizzling.

Quiz me. When did he ask me to be his, you know, girlfriend?

January 14, at the rink.

When did he hold my hand for the very first time? (I feel like I’m gonna puke.) Or call me on the phone? Or wave to me from the ball field?

I’ve got all the, like, dates, times, places, and whatever, plus what I was wearing, what he was wearing, who else was there…all right here in my head.

Whether I like it or not.

Rob

Bell rings. Classrooms bang open, kids explode out of everywhere. Bursting free, weekend.

No one touches me. Not bashed with a shoulder, rammed by a backpack, elbowed. Invisible shield.