If I or any other nerd-like student was in Sarah’s position? How fast do you think the other students would have rushed to help me/us? If I, or someone like me, got suspended, we’d rot. The Sarahs land on their feet—I land on my ass.

But here was my question: Was I supposed to boycott, too? Would that erase some of my guilt?

Guilt? Was I suffering from guilt?

Well, every now and then I let a corner of my mind toy with the idea of going to the principal’s office and turning myself in as the missing link. The mystery man. The one Sarah Collier was protecting. But then what? I’d be suspended. Half the guys in love with Sarah would probably jump me and beat me to a pulp in an attempt to impress her. And who would object? No one. No one would defend me. No one was going to boycott in my name.

And so much time had passed that now I wouldn’t get credit for coming forth—only blame for having waited so long! I couldn’t win. There was no way.

I wished my uncle were around. I’d ask him.

Meanwhile, what would I do tomorrow? Would it be hypocritical of me to boycott? And what did they mean by “boycott”? Marching around in front of the building carrying signs and yelling slogans through megaphones? Or just skipping school and staying home watching game shows?

This was making my head spin. I wished I’d never given Sarah that stupid test. I wished she hadn’t sat next to me in the library. I wished I’d never even met her.

Actually, I wished I’d never been born. Death was always an option. No. No, it wasn’t. I had to believe my uncle, that if I got through these years, I’d be fine. I’d get my turn. My day would come.

I reminded myself that someday I’d return for my reunion and there would be Sarah, fat, wrinkled, worn out, with too much makeup and a sloppy, has-been, loser husband. She would look at my custom-made suit, my expensive shoes, my private-yacht tan, my successful face, my amazing car, my gorgeous blond wife, and she’d think…

Hey, Mr. Chen was probably going to suspend everyone who boycotted tomorrow. He pretty much had to. It was a power thing. I was positive he’d think he had to act tough so we don’t start boycotting left and right, demanding things like edible lunches or better computer access, or teachers who actually know something about the subjects they teach.

I got the phone book down to look up his home number. Kevin B. Chen. It was ridiculously easy. I wondered if he got hounded at home by students all the time. I’d have an unlisted number if I was him.