I was thinking about all this as I got ready for my first class of the day, freshman English, the one that Rashid was in, on the Monday after his speech. I was still worried about him, how he’d respond to having gone public the way he had. Giving me that piece he wrote, that was one thing. But making that speech—that had to have cost him, throwing his story before the whole student body like that. He’d done okay on his English midterm—I gave him a slightly generous B, so he was in good shape in my class—but I didn’t know how he was doing otherwise. I shuffled through the papers, preparing to give them back to the boys. We didn’t meet on Fridays, so they’d had to wait out the weekend for their grades. They were suitably quiet and nervous in the few minutes before class. I was startled as the door banged open and Rashid swung through on crutches. I gasped. “Rashid, what happened?”

He looked away from me, his eyes a little hooded. “I fell while I was running by myself Friday. It’s not a big thing. I just twisted my ankle. School doctor said I should be all right in a couple of weeks.”

“That’s awful. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. Well.”

“Will you be able to finish out the cross-country season?”

“No. I can’t run again for a couple of months.” His expression was carefully neutral.

“Goodness. Well, sit down. Do you need to prop it up?”

“No, I’ll be okay. Thanks.” He struggled over to his seat.

Given that this was a classroom full of fourteen-year-old boys, crutches and limps and casts were frequent guests, but I felt uneasy with the way that Rashid described his fall. He looked out the window for the entire class, his expression flat and unreadable. When I passed back the midterms, he looked, well, terrified. He was visibly relieved after he saw the grade. When class was over, I called him up to my desk. “Rashid, come to my office with me. I need your help with something.” A look of annoyance came across his face quickly but just as quickly fled.

We walked slowly down the hallway together, not talking. The hall was filled with the sea-like rumble of boys’ voices and catcalls. Every now and then, the door would swing open as someone went in or out, and there would be a rush of cold air. I fought the impulse to just start talking—but I knew that Rashid might simply bolt if I approached him too soon or in the wrong way. When we got to the office, Rashid sat down gingerly and then finally looked me full in the face. “So, what do you need help with, Ms. Hansen?”