“Certainly, Mr. Bryson. What’s on your mind?” His eyes were guileless as he looked up. He seemed to think nothing was amiss.

“Well, I was just wondering. I was just wondering if you can see me all right from where I sit.”

Washington furrowed his brow. “Obviously, Mr. Bryson, I wear glasses, but they correct any problems I have with my vision. I can see you. What would make you ask something like that?”

Rashid took a deep breath. He felt his hands curl lightly into fists. “Sir, it seems as though you never see me to call on me. I raise my hand to give the answer, and you don’t seem to see me.” He struggled to keep the rage from making his voice ragged, his hands from rising to sweep the papers off the desk.

Washington spoke evenly. “I assure you, Mr. Bryson, that you register quite well in my sight. I’m sorry if I’ve given you another impression.”

“I just wanted to make sure. I want to participate in this class.”

“That’s good to know, Mr. Bryson. Thank you for bringing this to my attention.”

Rashid walked out, a roaring in his ears. He went into the bathroom, his breath starting to rasp. Miraculously, the room was empty. Rashid went quickly to a stall, and after double-checking to make sure no one else was around, started slamming his fist into the door. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck you, motherfucker. He didn’t know how long he was in there, only that his breath was ragged and his hand sore before he was done. It was almost time for cross-country practice. Washington didn’t have any trouble seeing him there. Was he visible only when he was running?

Rashid was usually nervous before practice, but not today. His confrontation with Washington had left him both drained and focused. He stretched, and, with no particular feeling at all, strode around the edge of the soccer field where the cross-country team warmed up. He did not, however, speak to Washington, only to Mr. Sasser. They had to do wind sprints first—ten of them. Rashid won every time, enjoying it, not having to think: the moment of tension before the start, the suddenness of beginning, feeling that his heart was going to pop out of his chest before he was finished, his legs about to burst, and then one final push—he’d won again. Washington and Mr. Sasser always told them that they weren’t racing during the sprints, but the boys knew different. Max Harrison, who was in Rashid’s English class and had been the undisputed king of the cross-country team before Rashid’s arrival, looked more annoyed after each sprint. Rashid pretended that he didn’t notice. Once they were finished with sprints and the coaches sent them on the day’s long run, each boy was too preoccupied with just getting through it.