The next morning, the boys were in front of Josh Bernstein’s door by seven A.M. Josh came to the door still wearing the T-shirt and shorts that he slept in, his hair sticking up. He looked owlish, about ten years old. “What the hell do you guys want?” he said grumpily, running his hand through his hair.

“We need to see your Latin midterm,” said Rashid, shoving into the room.

“Why, for God’s sake?”

“You did all right on it, right? You usually do,” said Rashid.

“Yeah, I got a B. But what’s that got to do—”

“I just need to check something out. Come on, man, you said you were in my corner just the other day.”

Josh rubbed his face sleepily, smiled. “I am. But I wasn’t expecting any surprise visits at the crack of dawn.”

Rashid laughed a little and said, “Sorry, man. It’s important.”

Josh went to his desk, an eerie haven of order in his chaotic room, rummaged through some papers, and found it. Gerald and Rashid took it from him and, without a word, flopped onto Josh’s unmade bed, looking anxiously from his test paper to Rashid’s crumpled one.

Josh looked at them, puzzled. “What are you guys doing?”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh. That’s right,” said Gerald, not answering him but looking intently at the two papers and circling something on Rashid’s with a pen he had jammed in his back pocket. “That’s right, too. And that. Damn, R. You deserved at least a C on this—maybe better.”

“Are you sure?”

“Hell, yes. Bernstein has the same answers as you on at least three of these, and a couple of the translations are, you know, not exactly the same but close enough he could have given them to you. I’m sure.”

Josh looked from one boy to the other again and finally near yelled, “What are you talking about?”

“I got a D minus on the midterm. But it turns out …” Rashid took a deep breath. “It turns out that maybe Mr. Washington don’t see so good. Or don’t translate so good. At least when it comes to me.”

“Let me see those.” Josh snatched the papers from Gerald, stood looking at them for a few minutes. “Shit. You’re right. Shit.” He looked at Rashid. “What are you going to do?”

What was he going to do? Run screaming from this place, never to return? At least at home, the enemy was straight with you. Or was he going to go to Washington’s office and wait there for him, and when he came in, catch him over the head with one of his crutches? The satisfying crunch of metal against bone, the sweet feeling of liberation. Or was he going to stand his ground? He thought of Kofi’s face, his voice telling him, “It’s no joke going to this school. It’s no joke.”