Ma comes in with a basket of laundry. Sets it down on the third chair. Starts folding, looking nervous.

Asks me where my backpack is.

My uniform comes home for her to wash on weekends. It’s usually in my backpack stinking up my books on Fridays.

“Left it somewhere,” I say, remembering that I’d ditched it behind some bush. “I’ll get it later.”

Ma nods, folding, trusting me still.

Is anyone going to say anything about my being gone all night? About cheating on the exam? This is torture. Starved as I am, the cereal turns to clay in my mouth. Can barely squeeze it down my throat.

Ma’s done folding, takes the clothes to the other room. Old man still hasn’t said a word since “Morning.”

Keep eating but my neck feels creepy. Like he’s watching me and waiting. Wish he’d get it over with, but no. Nothing to do but wait. Chew, swallow, and wait.

Finish gagging down breakfast. Rinse bowl and spoon, put them in the dishwasher. Wipe the counter trying not to give him anything to start about. Even square the sponge with the edge of the sink.

Kid brother bangs through the front door. Feet stampeding this way. Bursts into the kitchen, yells, “Robby!”

Dad freezes him with a growl: “Not now.”

Brother says, “But—”

Dad stands.

I’m already standing, I move between them. Turn to the kid, say, “Hey, wazzup?” I put my hand out for skin.

Kid looks from our old man to me, back and forth, getting pale.

Dad sits back down. Turns away.

I un-puff my chest.

Kid nervously slaps me five, shoots panic looks at the old man. Then backs out of the kitchen, thumps down the hall, bangs out the door.

No one speaks till I say, “Guess I’ll go get my pack.”

And my father says, “Want a lift?”

I don’t get it. “A lift, sir?”

“I could take you to get your backpack.”

“Oh. Thanks. I mean, you don’t have to…” Stuttering.

Is he taking me out to murder me, dump my body somewhere? No, that’s stupid. But what’ll he do when he finds out I’m not sure where my pack is?

He’s sort of smiling at me. My gut sinks—the clay-cereal I’d shoved into it hardens to stone.

Jake

Technically, I didn’t cheat. I’m not in that class. I’m not even taking geography this semester. So why couldn’t I just forget the whole stupid psychodrama and get on with studying for my own midterms?

But I couldn’t concentrate. And I must have been acting strange, because my mom, who isn’t normally the most perceptive person on the planet, kept feeling my forehead for fever.

She pouted her overly-red lips and said, “You look funny.”