RASHID WAS A LITTLE surprised at how easy it was to keep quiet about what had really happened to his leg. Everyone—his parents, his teachers, Mr. Sasser, everyone—accepted his story as he told it. The doctor even complimented him on his initiative at trying to get in a little extra practice, even as he told him, with a slight downturn of the mouth, that his running days were over for this year.

Rashid kept his face neutral at this news, but he found his breath coming easier almost immediately. No more hanging out with Washington. No more anxious eyes fixed on him, waiting for him to break the tape and carry them to victory. One less thing to do; to worry about failing at. He thought he liked running—he did like winning—but now that he was out of this particular race, there was no mistaking this feeling: it was relief.

He felt much the same relief as he heard Washington’s oblique, knifelike words to his parents on the day of their trip to New York. “Wish he would do all that he is capable of.” “He can be so angry.” “It gets in the way.” In that moment, despite the anger that made his hands clench, his breath come hard, things suddenly became very clear. He was hated, but it wasn’t his problem. Like that moment after he lost his grip on the rope and he could see everything so brittle and sharp, as though cut out and laid against a background of white paper. He felt Ms. Hansen’s hands on his shoulders, their gentle, encouraging warmth. He looked into his father’s eyes. And he wasn’t afraid anymore. There was nothing to be afraid of.

That night, he showed Gerald his Latin test after they got back to their rooms.

“Whoa,” said Gerald, his eyes widening as he looked at the crumpled paper. “My boy went wild with the red pen. D minus! Is this gonna flunk you out that class?”

“I don’t know,” Rashid said. “But it doesn’t feel right. You know how much I study for Latin. I can’t believe this midterm is that messed up.”

Gerald was silent for a minute, considering. “Why didn’t you tell me? We even talked about midterms.”

Rashid was suddenly ashamed. Why hadn’t he told? “I don’t know. Thought I could handle it on my own. I didn’t know what to do. I was so fucking mad.” He paused. “I got it back the day I fell.” His voice was quiet.

Gerald received this news in silence, then spoke. “I thought you didn’t seem right that day. I’m sorry, man.” He shook the paper again, briskly. “Now what are we gonna do about this?”

They talked late into the night.