“I’m going to get what I deserve. That’s what I’m going to do,” said Rashid.

Gerald and Josh both nodded without saying anything. The room smelled of sweat and sleep, close and a little dank. Rashid’s breath came hard in his throat. His hands were tight around the grips of his crutches.

It was like a checklist in his mind, what he needed to do now. He talked to his mother first, then his father. He even told them about his fall—they surprised him by not being mad, just sad that he was feeling so awful. They were shocked, disbelieving at first when he told them about Washington; but the more he talked the more he convinced them.

“You know,” his father said after a while, “that brother didn’t seem to like you much.”

“He doesn’t, Dad.”

“Well, can’t everybody like you. Can’t everybody do what’s right, either.” He sighed. “Lord knows we’ve learned about that, the last couple of years.” Rashid was silent. His father went on, his voice ragged across the miles. “You and your brother, you’re both strong. Got a lot of spirit. You’ve gotta be strong now. You do what’s right.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Your mama and I love you very much. We always have.”

“I know.”

“All right, then.” He paused. “Call us after you’ve talked to the people you need to talk to up there. We’ll find some way to come up if you need us. Okay?”

“Okay, Daddy.” Rashid clutched the phone. He felt as though he’d been saved from drowning.

He stayed after English class to talk to Ms. Hansen. His stomach was gurgling and leaping the way it did before a meet. He was afraid he’d have to run out and go use the bathroom like some baby before he spoke to her, but once he got up to the desk, her eyes were clear and calm, and he felt better just to look at her. She had big dark circles under her eyes, and her hair looked kind of messed up, like she’d been running her hands through it a lot. “Ms. Hansen?”

“Yes, Rashid?”

“You said … you said I should tell you if I needed help with … with anything.”

“That’s right.”

He wasn’t sure, for a moment, if he’d be able to say the next words he needed to say. “Well, I do. I … Mr. Washington he …” All his assurance suddenly seemed to vanish. He lifted a hand from his crutch, stroked quickly at one of his eyes with the heel of his hand. He swallowed. “I need you to look at these Latin midterms. I think Mr. Washington is trying to flunk me out of here.” There. It was out. Now he would know where she stood. He laid the papers on the desk before her.