Andy Hubbard, one of the Ice Kings, reached out for a high five as I passed. “Doughnut Boy!”

I tried to slap his hand on the move but ended up giving more of a high two. “Gotta go!” I called over my shoulder. “Have a good break!”

Since we’d moved upstate midyear, I’d been at Waydin for only three months, but those school days had been the longest of my life. I swear each second of a Waydin day was equal to five minutes of a P.S. 111 day.

It wasn’t as if the teachers were any more boring than teachers at my school back in New York City had been. If anything, the teachers at Waydin were better—some were even funny, like Mr. Dodd, who began each class with a Joey Bundano story. Joey was this kid Mr. Dodd grew up with who was always getting into trouble. I’m pretty sure a bunch of the stories were made up—I mean, I don’t think one kid could fill his entire apartment with crumpled newspaper in a single night, and definitely not without waking his parents—but who cares? If Mr. Dodd liked to make up stories just to make us laugh, that was fine by me.

The teachers at Waydin weren’t the problem. The problem was the kids. There weren’t enough of them.

If I’m being honest, this wasn’t a problem for everyone. It definitely wasn’t a problem for Jeanine, my brainiac, nine-year-old sister. But if you’re the kid who has spent every year hiding in the back row, waiting until you got home to figure out in peace and quiet when to use “less” instead of “fewer” or how to find the area of a cylinder, this is a big problem. If you’re the kid whose brain turns off when there’s an audience, Waydin is your nightmare, because when there are only twelve kids in your whole seventh-grade class, there is no place to hide. There aren’t even rows. There’s just a circle. And you can see everyone in a circle.

As you’ve probably guessed, that kid who likes to hide in the back row is me, Tris Levin—or at least it is for another six years until I can legally change my name to Jax. Do you know what it’s like to go around every day with a name that just doesn’t fit? If you do, the good news is that you can change it. The bad news: you have to wait until you turn eighteen.

Outside, the sky was gray, but kids were lying on the grass using backpacks as pillows like they were at the beach and the sun was shining. Someone was playing music on a phone. It looked like fun, but I didn’t have time to lounge around. I had to get to work. And the truth is, I wanted to. Working’s different when the whole thing is your idea, especially when that idea is doughnuts—mind-blowing, life-changing, cream-filled doughnuts.

I waited for Jeanine and Zoe in our spot by the side of the building, then together, we walked around back to the parking lot.